All the Waters of the Earth (Giving You ... Book 3) Read online

  I responded by exploding as well. My hands rubbed up and down his torso, then made my way to his back. I ran my fingers through his thick, dark hair, under his jaw, behind his neck. My tongue explored his mouth as much as his tongue explored mine.

  And his hands went roaming, over my clothes, along the curve of my waist, down my ass, pressing me into him, feeling my breasts over my bra.

  We broke apart, breathing hard, staring at each other. I leaned in to kiss him.

  “We can’t take it farther right now,” he said against my mouth, “but I really want to.”

  “Me too. But you know Rob’s dad has him on Saturday night.”

  “Yes. I’m taking you out.” He kissed me again and I thought that he was being too much of a gentleman to complete the thought—that he looked forward to what came after taking me out even more.

  On Saturday morning, I arrived about fifteen minutes early to the art school, greeting the professor in the otherwise empty classroom. The first session of a new life drawing class began today, and the professor had booked me as a model for the whole eight weeks. I’d arranged for babysitting for Rob during the times that the class met when I had him on the weekends, but today I was free to do whatever I wanted because he was with his dad.

  The huge, airy room had an empty space located in the center of the room for the model to pose, circled by easels staggered all around. Every art student would have a different view and be drawing from a different angle. I’d been to this classroom before, so after I chatted with the professor, I headed to a small room off to the side to undress and wait until it was time for me to model. I always brought a white, waffle pattern robe to wear.

  Even though I’d done this before, I felt a familiar sense of nervousness and anticipation about the public nudity that this job required. In some ways, having dozens of pairs of eyes on me was nerve-racking. But in other ways, I felt incredibly liberated when I modeled. Free. There I’d be, standing before them, naked as a baby, allowing them to look at me, to record me.

  Art students trained their hands to record what their eyes saw. They focused on lines and curves, on spatial arrangements and on proportion. They didn’t really see me as a person, but as an object to draw with pencil or charcoal. A beautiful object, perhaps, and one with the flaws of humanity. But still, it did not feel personal. I felt separate from them.

  Normally, the class would do a series of quick sketches while I held various positions for as long as I could. Projects might be to draw the inside of me, the weight, not focusing on the outer lines. Other times, the professor would have them draw my movement, in scribbled lines.

  And sometimes I’d recline or sit on a chair and stay still, often with my eyes closed, while they drew me for lengthy periods of time. The professor had requested this work today.

  Again, I felt a freedom and a beauty being part of this process. I rarely saw the finished products, although occasionally the students would show me. I’d experienced every emotion in seeing myself as a nude, from gasping at how accurately they captured me, to cringing at the focus on a flaw, to trying not to laugh at particularly amateur art. But still, it was lovely to see people engage in creativity.

  It was important to me to create something or assist in the creation of something that did not exist before it came out of me, whether it was a phrase on a page, or here, as the subject of a drawing or a later painting. If I really thought about it, all of nature is creating all of the time—children are growing inside women’s wombs, plants are dividing cells and creating new growth, and mountains are being built up, as in the lava in Hawaii, or eroded down. All around us are creations. Allowing the artistic process, without judgment, without critique, to me, was essential to the experience of being human.

  While I waited in the anteroom, wearing my white robe, I heard the class file in and get settled. After a few minutes of instruction by the professor, she came over and opened the door.

  Walking to the center of the room, my eyes down, I stood in front of the students, and took off my robe, draping it on the chair that was now in the center. Then I sat down sideways in the chair, twisting elegantly in the seat so that my front pressed up against the back of the chair, my knees were together, my legs bent, my toes pointed and together. I rested my arms on the back of the chair and set my head in my hands. And then I held this position, letting them draw the curves of my spine, the hourglass of my waist, the flesh of my ass.

  After a long time, the professor asked me to get into a different position, and I adjusted my body, spinning the other way in the seat, staggering my legs as they curled off to the opposite side, resting my face in the crook of my elbow. I tried to concentrate on breathing, on elongating my spine, on staying still.

  The thoughts that ran through my head during these sessions were so random. Not sexy, at all. More like oh, I need to get milk from the grocery store. But occasionally I got into the restful space where I could think about my books, and I found myself thinking about my new novel.

  I’d completed more writing and I was happier than I’d been a week ago, but the story still wasn’t gelling. It was funny, the more that I wrote, the more that my hero was veering away from my standard issue Alpha male billionaire playboy and more into well, Jake.

  While Jake looked like a classic romance hero, he didn’t act like one. At least, not that I could see. He was too off-kilter with work, a little clumsy, and a lot of a talker. But I liked how he kept after me.

  He was real, he wasn’t some guy with a tragic past who needed to be taught a lesson. At least I hoped not.

  Still, my imagination ran away from me at times, and I found my new hero looking more and more like Jake, sounding like him, and talking like him.

  My thoughts carried me through the end of the class, when I was excused to go to the small adjoining room and get dressed. I took my time getting dressed, not really wanting to interact with any of the students, and when I got out of the room, only the teacher was in the classroom. She told me about the next week’s class assignment, I shook her hand, and left.

  I walked down the hall of the school and outside, heading for my car, when I heard a “Lucy” called out to me.

  Jake loitered on the steps, wearing jeans and a button down shirt.

  With a huge pad of paper under his arm and a pencil box in his hand.

  My eyes widened.

  No.

  My stomach plummeted.

  No.

  Was he?

  No.

  “Jake?”

  He had a strange look on his face. “Why didn’t you tell me what you did for a living?”

  “You never ask— Wait a minute. What? I’m a novelist. This is just for some extra spending money. You never told me you were taking an art class.” I felt heated, pissed, and confused. And very turned on. All these things coursing through my blood.

  “I don’t talk about it. It doesn’t mix well with my business.”

  We stared at each other.

  “You mean to tell me that you just stared at my naked body for an hour and a half?”

  “It was an hour and twenty-two minutes.”

  I didn’t know what to think of all of this.

  “The longest hour and twenty-two minutes of my life,” he continued, “because goddamn Lucy, you’re smoking hot. I couldn’t handle being in there and I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t touch you, I couldn’t acknowledge you, and I knew that you couldn’t see me because your back was to me the whole time and besides, your face was buried in your arms.” He paused. “Are you going to be the model for this class the whole time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Holy fuck.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, starting to get a little insulted. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “You know that’s not it at all," he said, and his eyes sizzled. “I don’t know how I can keep from dragging you out of there. I barely managed it today.”

  I had absolutely no idea that he was in the class. And now that I
knew, the whole event had an erotic overlay that wasn’t there while I was in the moment. We had just compressed an hour plus of foreplay into a minute of talking outside. Now I thought about his denim eyes—artist’s eyes, why didn’t I know that before?—studying my curves and restrained from touching me. Damn, that was hot.

  “Are you going to show me what you drew?”

  He looked up at the sky and then back to me, very intense. “Yeah. Not now. But I will.” It seemed like it was hard for him to agree to this.

  We stared at each other some more, neither one of us wanting to move, both of us wanting to go.

  “Let’s go back and get ready.”

  He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Do you want to go early and get a drink and watch the sunset? This time of year, we should go before five if we want to catch it.”

  “That sounds great.”

  His arms tightened around his notepad and his fingers gripped his pencil box. He leaned over and kissed the hell out of me, but with our arms restrained, his holding his art supplies, mine holding my purse and robe.

  And then we headed to our separate cars to go back to the same place.

  Question: What happens when you ruminate about a date the whole week?

  Answer: When you go to get dressed for it, you get really fucking nervous and completely overthink it.

  I tore apart my bedroom, trying on everything I owned that was suitable for a night out. And trust me, I owned plenty of night-out clothes—miniskirts, little black dresses, wrap dresses, fifties-looking dresses, slinky dresses, dresses with illegal v-necks cut down in the front, dresses cut so low in the back that you can almost see the top of my ass, high necked, long-sleeve dresses that hugged every curve, sequined dresses, babydoll dresses, and one pair of black pants that actually fit.

  So, I had nothing to wear.

  I did, however, have fabulous shoes. They were shoes that Oprah would wear for five minutes only, but I was used to wearing high heels. No problem. They had one teeny strap over the toes and one around the ankles, and were otherwise held on by luck.

  Desperate, I called Sara, hoping that her Macy’s experience would help. “I’ve got a date with my neighbor, who is straight out of a book that I’d write, and I don’t know what to wear,” I panted out in a rush, pacing in my messy bedroom, wearing black lace panties and a matching bra.

  “Slow down,” she ordered. “This is tamale guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he apologized?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s worth your time?”

  I paused. "I think so. He works crazy hours. I don’t know what he does, some sort of advertising or something. He’s always bringing samples from clients. But the thing is, he goes out of his way to come see me every day, even when it’s late.”

  “That’s your answer,” she said. “A universal truth is if a guy is interested, he’ll show you he’s interested.”

  “I think he’s interested. He told me as much.”

  “But mama, you’re such a romantic. You haven’t dated in so long.”

  “That’s because I swore off real men. Book boyfriends are better.”

  “You see? That’s why you can’t forget that he’s a real flesh and blood guy. He’s no Franggy. I know you know this. But because he looks good doesn’t mean anything unless he treats you good. And he might have some issues.”

  “We all have issues.”

  “True.” She paused. “I love you, mama. Take good care of yourself.”

  “I do.”

  “I know. Okay, so then have fun and let me know how it went.”

  She went to hang up and I cried into the phone, “Wait, what do I wear?”

  Chuckling, she asked, “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. He said somewhere nice.”

  “Go with classic and elegant. Sparkly top and pencil skirt.”

  “Shit, you’re right. You’re the best. Love ya.”

  I hung up, pulled on a sequined tank top that was between blush pink and bronze colored, a black pencil skirt, and my little strappy black heels. With my hair down around my shoulders and my lip gloss on, I grabbed my clutch purse. Then, leaving my room a torn-up mess, I closed my front door, locked it, and headed over to Jake’s.

  He answered the door, wearing a charcoal gray, long-sleeve, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his gorgeous forearms, and black slacks. He smelled like he just got out of the shower, his hair damp. He held a coat over his shoulder and stepped out, locking his door.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “No.” He stood, looking at me, keys dangling in his hand.

  I put my hand on my waist. “No?”

  “I don’t want to go out anymore.”

  “But why not?” I asked, feeling indignant, having put all this work into what I was wearing.

  “Because you look so hot . . . I . . . shit . . . I don’t want to . . . well . . . We’d better go or we won’t leave,” he stuttered out.

  Oh.

  That made me feel better immediately.

  He grabbed my hand and led me to his car, a new black BMW, holding the door for me as I sat my booty in the leather seat and slid my legs around, the only way to get in a car in a pencil skirt. Opening his door, he got in, started his car, and took off.

  “What kind of music do you like?” he asked.

  “Dance, R&B, hip hop.”

  He turned on the radio and it was set to my favorite station. “Guess we have the same taste.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “The Four Seasons Biltmore. We can have drinks in the lounge and dinner by the ocean.” The Four Seasons sat on the beach in one of the most exclusive parts of Santa Barbara, almost in Montecito, near where Oprah lived. You could cross the road and be at the beach. Those Jake-thrills coursed through me again. This was going to be a special night.

  “You know, I would go anywhere, but I’m so glad you picked the Biltmore. I’ve only been there once and I’ve always wanted to go back.”

  After a short drive, we pulled up to the valet parking and the attendant helped me out. Jake handed over his keys, then came over to me and gave me his arm.

  Like everything in Santa Barbara, the hotel was Spanish style, with a red tile roof, white stucco walls, and black iron accents. The hotel had obviously been redone and we walked into the chic bar and sat down at a little table that overlooked the ocean. Because it was getting near the shortest days of the year, the sun started to set earlier and earlier. Jake ordered a beer and I ordered a margarita on the rocks, which a friendly waiter served with a flourish.

  “Tell me about your son,” said Jake.

  “He’s shy and quiet, but smart. He likes to read, like me. He’s nuts about Minecraft.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A videogame.”

  Jake took a drink of his beer and I watched his Adam’s apple move. God, glorious. “I’ve never heard of it. Never played much videogames as a kid.”

  “So what do you do for fun?” I asked, sipping my margarita.

  He laughed but it was the kind of laugh that had no humor. “I don’t.”

  “What do you mean you don’t?”

  “For the past eleven years, I’ve worked seventy to eighty hour weeks every week, sometimes more. I go to work. I come home and crash. That’s it.”

  “That’s no way to live.” God, what a workaholic.

  He got a funny look on his face and paused. Then he looked around at our opulent surroundings and lowered his voice. “When I was young, my family didn’t have money. Like any money. I mean, I grew up using ketchup instead of spaghetti sauce on pasta.” I cringed. “My mom divorced my dad when I was a teenager, saying that she deserved better than my dad, who worked all the time, and she left me . . . Sorry, this is kind of heavy. I guess where I’m going with this is that when I was young, all I did was draw. I wanted to be an artist. But once I was a teenager, my dad, knowing how hard it is to make a living, pushed me in
to doing something more. And I guess that’s it. I work all the time now.”

  “Your dad didn’t support you being an artist?”

  “No.” He didn’t elaborate.

  Well, if he didn’t have any family support, no wonder he was in advertising. That could be artistic—another outlet for creativity.

  “But you like drawing.”

  “I can’t not do it,” he said earnestly. “So I take classes when I can. Photography. Painting. Drawing.”

  “What did you think of the life drawing class?”

  He looked at me with a sexy stare that did things to my whole body. “It had a great model.” He continued, even quieter, “Actually, I was wondering what it felt like to be up there, naked, with everyone looking at you. Drawing you.”

  “It feels disembodied. I know all these art students are objectifying me, making my body into lines on a page.”

  “I didn’t objectify you,” he said, intently. “I knew it was you, Lucy, my beautiful neighbor, the whole time.” My margarita glass got really interesting to me all of a sudden and my cheeks grew hot. Yeah. We liked each other. But could anything happen?

  I had to ask. “So with all this work, do you actually have time to see anyone?”

  He barked out another mirthless laugh and shook his head. “No.” Great. Stomach in my shoes. Not the right answer. But he continued, “That’s not the thing to tell you on a date, but it’s the truth.” He took my hand across the table. God, I loved his hands. Artist hands. Strong and warm and intelligent hands. “Listen. I’m always at the office. I know it’s unhealthy. But I want to see you. I want to get to know you. Will you give me a chance?”

  Was there any question? Of course.

  I nodded. Yes, I could give him a chance. He was trying. He was so sweet and I just felt compelled to be with him. When I wasn’t around him, I was wondering what he was doing. I don’t know if that was healthy or unhealthy, but it was how I felt.

  I also knew that I wanted to be in bed with him by the end of the night.

  And I knew that it would be the first time I’d been with a man since Carlos.

  This romance writer had a way more active imagination than active sex life. For a really, really, really long time. Yes, I’d been on dates. Yes, I’d messed around. Yes, I’d done things. But I hadn’t been all the way with a guy since Carlos.