Good With His Hands (Good in Bed #1)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,15

a flat in the 6th Arrondissement. Then a sign that said, “Coffee is served. Now please leave, asshole.” Next a display of pillows. Grabbing one, she lifted it, declaring, “This is so perfect.”

She ran her hand down the gold sequins, revealing the other side of the words quilted onto the pillow.

Not today.

“So true.” Her eyes held mine. “Never be afraid to say not today, Ruby. Or no, for that matter.”

I smiled. “Wise words. Maybe you should say not today to the pillow. Don’t you have fifty already?”

She lifted her chin haughtily. “It’s not my fault they multiply when I’m not looking.”

I arched a brow. “Your pillows are banging each other?”

She tutted. “Obviously. When I have sleepovers, they have bangovers. They’re very frisky. But I’m sex-positive, so…”

She bought the pillow, I bought the lattes, and we toasted at Bertha’s Café to the mantra of “Not today.”

Two days later, the pillow was destroyed in the crash.

At least, that’s my best guess. No one salvaged it and brought it to the hospital when the doctors decided it was safe to bring me out of my coma. No tiptoeing into my room, gently offering me the reminder of my best friend. As far as I know, the “Not Today” pillow went to the junkyard with the car Jesse restored and gave her for her twenty-first birthday.

My throat tightens at the memory. I miss Claire, and even that goddamn pillow.

But I don’t miss yoga clothes, because when I check out my reflection in the dressing room half an hour later, I know I’ve found the perfect mushroom-tasting outfit.

When I open the door, Gigi’s eyes are squeezed shut and she waggles her fingers. “I know this is going to be it. I can feel your fabulous fashion energy.”

I glance in the mirror again and an entire skyscraper’s worth of butterflies swarms up my chest because, hell, I feel like I’m shopping for a date with a guy.

And not just any guy, but Jesse.

Except I’m not. This isn’t a date. It’s a . . .

What would I call it?

An experience.

Yes. That’s it. Any time it feels like a date, I’m going to remind myself that our time together truly is . . . an experience.

And it’s an experience I need, judging from how completely awesome List Item Number Five felt.

I step all the way out of the dressing room and Gigi opens her eyes.

I strike a pose in my filmy black top and satin kilt with a faded silver buckle. She whistles, like she’s catcalling me at a construction site. “Oh, mama. You are one hot cannoli, cuz.”

I give a little curtsy. “Why, thank you. You’re sure it’s not too much?”

She taps her chin. “Well, looks like the top is $36.88 and the skirt is $40.99. So that’s $77.87, plus a smattering of tax. That seems reasonable.”

I roll my eyes. “No, human calculator, I meant not too much for a . . .” Do I call it an experience? I already told Gigi about the list and Jesse’s departure date, so she knows what we’re up to.

But how do I refer to the great mushroom taste test?

She arches a questioning brow. “For having mushrooms with Jesse on a Saturday night?”

It comes out pointed, like she’s reminding me about the unspoken significance of Saturday nights. Saturday nights are for black, slinky clothes.

They’re for dates.

A flush spreads across my chest. “Yes.”

“No, it’s not too much.” She makes a circular motion with her finger, pointing at me. “This outfit is fantastic. Full stop. And after you buy it—because you simply must buy it—can I borrow? It’s just delish.”

“Of course.”

I buy the delish, Saturday night outfit, and we head out of the shop, soaking in the July sun as it warms up the afternoon.

“You’re going to have fun tonight. I can feel it.” She lets out a contented sigh. “But I also want you to be careful, okay?”

I nod seriously. “Mushrooms are awful. Don’t worry—I’m well aware. I don’t intend to eat more than one. Maybe two.”

She shoots me a narrow look. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that you’re going to be spending an awful lot of time with a very handsome man doing exciting, dreamy, yummy things. It would be like if I were engaged in a seven-day . . . I don’t know, a Rubik’s Cube-off with Henry Cavill or something.”

I snort. “I call BS.”

“What? What part do you call BS on?”

I wag a finger her way. “It would not take you seven days to jump Henry