Good With His Hands (Good in Bed #1)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,14

that kind of masterful begging, I fully intend to take pity on her.

But not immediately.

* * *

Ruby: Hmmm . . . well, that swimsuit sounds amazing. But borrowing it would mean I’d have to go swimming, and you know how I feel about bodies of water over two-feet deep. And I’m in the market for something slinkier than jeans.

* * *

Gigi: Then C is your only hope! Let’s go shopping.

* * *

She sends back approximately a million excited GIFs—the cast of Seinfeld dancing and screaming, Kermit the Frog cheering on a desk, and some random guy doing a happy punching dance in the cereal aisle in his tighty-whiteys.

And on and on . . .

As I wait for the explosion of GIFs to slow, I pop over to the text from my mom.

* * *

Mom: Dinner last night was so much fun! Here’s the pic the waiter took for us. Is it coming through? I can’t see it on my end. Do you see it? Is my phone broken? Will I ever learn to use this stupid thing before your dad makes me upgrade again next year?

* * *

Ruby: You ask a lot of REALLY good questions, LOL. And yes, I can see it. It’s so cute! Thanks, Mom. And thanks for dinner.

* * *

Mom: No problemo, baby. Maybe next time we’ll do just the two of us. Have some girl talk.

* * *

Ruby: I’d love that. What are you up to on your first day of vacation?

* * *

Mom: Oh! I’m working on a new crumble topping. I know I swore I tweaked the recipe perfectly last summer, but this year, I’m really bringing the thunder. This crumble is going to tear the house down when we ship out the caramel apple pies this fall!

* * *

Ruby: So, you’re working while not working? Sounds like you. Speaking of girl talk, gotta go. I think Gigi has finally stopped GIF-bombing me so I can read where I’m meeting her.

* * *

Mom: GIF-bombing? *groans* Is that another phone thing? Please tell me I don’t need to learn how to do it.

* * *

Ruby: You are excused from this knowledge, dear mother. Xoxo

* * *

Mom: Love you bunches. Give Gigi a hug for me when you see her!

* * *

I return to the Gigi thread, but my estimates were off. She sent so many GIFs that I scroll for a solid minute to get to the part where she tells me where we’re meeting.

Finally, just as my thumb wails and throws a text-thumb tantrum, I find the location and the time at the bottom of the thread.

A cute boutique a few blocks away, and we’re meeting in thirty minutes.

I grin, surprised to find I’m excited. Who would have thought?

I’m not a shopper by nature. I’m a run-into-Target-and-grab-ten-of-the-same-V-neck tees kind of girl. But I learned at a young age to tolerate it, mostly because of Claire.

Claire, with her effortlessly perfect wavy brown hair, freckled nose, and playful green eyes, wasn’t a clothes horse. She was a thing horse. Shiny bracelets, tiny ceramic animals, antique dance cards she framed with pressed flowers, retro clutch purses like Audrey Hepburn carried in Breakfast at Tiffany’s—they had Claire’s name written all over them.

She was a self-declared pretty shiny thing omnivore.

On our last road trip, we pulled off a winding country road into a picturesque town in Vermont with one main drag named, of course, Main Street. With a wink and a watch my prowess, Claire parallel-parked her red Ford Thunderbird between a beat-up blue pickup truck and a Prius like only a born New Yorker could.

Our goal was to replenish our dangerously low caffeine levels with iced vanilla lattes at Bertha’s Café, the top-rated coffee shop within a hundred-mile radius.

But before we made it halfway down the block, Claire spotted a tchotchke store. Her kryptonite. She thrust her arms out in front of her, take-me-to-your-leader style, and her voice turned hypnotic. “Must shop. Must. Shop. Am helpless to resist.”

Laughing, I grabbed her arm, dug my Chuck Taylors into the sidewalk, and pretended to hold her back. “No. Fight it. I’m not giving up on you, Hendrix. No soldier left behind!”

But it was already too late. She was trapped in the clutches of the store’s tractor beam. I let go of her and we stumbled through the door, laughing the way I only ever laughed with her.

Inside, she was first drawn to a teapot that looked like something a fancy Parisian woman would have on her tiny balcony in