Good With His Hands (Good in Bed #1)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,53

to receive your three barrels of peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels?” I ask dryly.

“You know it,” she says with a throaty laugh. “So good to see you, Jess. And you too, peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels,” she murmurs to the plastic tubs in the backseat. “And you, Ruby! We finally meet. Claire used to talk about you all summer long.”

Ruby and I get out of the car, and Rachel stretches out her arms to fold Ruby in a hug.

“Thank you so much for having me,” Ruby says, her eyes sliding closed as she smiles. “I always wanted to come here growing up. Thanks so much for making this happen.”

“Anything for a friend.” Rachel pulls back, beaming at Ruby before turning to look me up and down, her knowing brown eyes not missing a beat.

A Mona Lisa smile curves the older woman’s lips. “Though, I confess, I’m a little surprised. This is the first time Jesse’s brought a girlfriend up for a visit. You usually come with a few stinky guys, don’t you, Jess?”

I don’t cough. I don’t splutter. I don’t try to cover it up or deny it.

Maybe because it’s exactly the type of question I would expect from Rachel, who has always lived to tease me. Maybe it’s because a part of me really fucking likes the thought of Ruby as something more than my friend.

Something official, even though I know that’s not in the cards.

Still, it stings a little when Ruby jumps in immediately with a sweet laugh and a shake of her head. “Oh, no, we’re not together like that.” She nudges my side with her elbow. “We’re friends. We’ve been friends forever. Like Claire and me.”

The way Ruby asserts ownership over Claire, even years later, tugs at my heart, and lessens the we’re friends blow.

Rachel hums. “Our Claire. Loved that kid. She was like a sunburst. So fearless, always swinging off tree branches and jumping into the lake. Never afraid to play any game, even if she’d never played it before. And a natural leader. Anytime one of the other kids was nervous to try something new she’d be right there, leading the way and cheering them on.”

“Sounds like my sister,” I say, my chest full, warm with shared memories. Claire had one setting—full-speed ahead. That was how she was with everything. Determined. Headstrong.

“She was a great camp counselor too,” Rachel adds, her eyes a little lost in time. “Her campers were her full-fledged fan club by the end of the summer.”

Ruby flashes one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen. “That’s Claire. She made fans everywhere she went. And she loved that summer she came back as a counselor. She talked about it all the time.”

“Ah, that’s so good to hear.” Rachel peers across the lake at a group of young campers playing croquet not far from the dock. “Speaking of counselors, I’d love to chat more, but I have to get going. I’ve been roped into leading the afternoon art class. One of my counselors isn’t”—Rachel stops to sketch air quotes—“feeling so great.”

I laugh. “Code for hungover?”

Rachel taps her nose. “Bingo.”

Ruby rubs her palms together. “Ooo . . . scandalous. This really feels like summer camp now. Please tell me you caught them taking shots and making out in a treehouse or something juicy.”

Rachel covers her ears with her palms. “La la la la la. My counselors are always well-behaved, or so I choose to believe.” She drops her hands with a smile. “And now, I’m off to teach ten-year-olds how to draw cartoon versions of themselves. Since I’m not hungover.”

“That actually kind of sounds like fun. Both the not being hungover and the drawing part,” Ruby says, a twinkle in her dark eyes.

Rachel hooks her thumb across the lake. “Yeah? You wanna come join me?”

“Really? Can we?” Ruby’s voice pitches up like that’s the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever asked her.

Rachel laughs. “Well, you’re an artist, aren’t you? Claire always said you and Jesse were the artsy-fartsy ones.”

Ruby straightens her shoulders. A smile tugs the corners of her lips—a quiet, confident smile, then a bold one when she says, “Yes. I am an artist.”

It’s almost like it’s the first time she’s said it.

Maybe it’s the first time she’s said it and owned it.

Call me cocky, but I’m going to take a little bit of the credit for that.

21

Ruby

Birds chirp in the trees. The lake shimmers under the bright afternoon sun. More than a dozen nine- and ten-year-olds hoist poster boards into the air, showing me their cartoon self-portraits, which