That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (19 page)

Damn it
. Feeling like a jerk, she stopped so fast the woman almost ran into her. "Fine," George said. "Tell me whatever you need to."

Esme blinked, and then her eyes narrowed. "Are you trying reverse psychology? Because I'm cognizant."

George shook her head. "Can't you just be onto me?"

"That's what I just said. And don't distract me, I have something for you." She searched in the layers of her voluminous skirt.

George wondered if she had a rabbit or something hidden in there.

"Here it is!" Esme held up a little pink thing triumphantly.

"A disposable razor?" she asked, arching her brow.

"Yes." Esme grabbed George's hand, turned it over, and slapped the razor in her palm. Then her fingers tightened and she leaned in, her eyes eerie in their paleness. "Shave your legs."

She recoiled as much as she could, even though it seemed she was tethered to crazy. "What?"

"Stubble is a huge turn-off. If you don't, I'll give
him
the razor and let him do it for you." She widened her eyes as if making a point, let go, and then walked away.

George stared after her, not sure what to do, so she called after her, "You're insane."

Esme's only response was maniacal laughter.

"You're creepy, too." George made the sign of the cross and walked home.

Letting herself in, she carefully laid the dress on her unmade bed and set the shoes properly on the floor. The dark roses Remy had given her stood on her dresser, their perfume tickling her nose. She inhaled them, feeling a soft warmth despite herself.

She shimmied out of her dirty clothes, leaving them on the floor and going into the bathroom. She started to turn on the shower, but something made her fill the bathtub instead.

She never took a bath.

She shrugged. Nothing was normal today. To punctuate it, on impulse, she grabbed one of the roses and plucked its petals into the hot water.

Stripping out of her clothes, she got into the filling tub. As the water rushed out, she felt the day run off her. Closing her eyes, she lowered her head to rest against the wall behind her, her arms on the edge of the tub, the scent of roses soothing her.

When the water reached the right level, she opened her eyes to turn it off. As she reached for the faucet, a pink thing on the floor caught her attention.

The razor.

She glared at it. Against her will, she ran a hand up her leg and shuddered. "Damn it."

Mumbling the whole time, she splashed water on the floor as she reached for it. She swiped soap on her skin and dragged the blade upward in rushed swipes, the way she normally did it standing up in the shower.

But then her movements slowed. She became conscious of the glide, the slow rasp of the blade on her skin. She pictured Remy standing in the doorway, watching. She imagined him walking in, taking the razor from her hand, and doing it himself.

She stopped and closed her eyes, trailing the smooth handle up her inner thigh like it was his fingers exploring.

Her breath caught in her throat, and right before she reached ground zero, where her secrets lay, she stopped. She was panting. She hadn't even touched herself and she felt like she was on the verge of climaxing. Like if Remy stepped in the room and just laid eyes on her, she could have come.

Would that be so bad?

It wouldn't be, as long as she kept it at that: a casual encounter between two consenting adults.

Except that she'd agreed to tango in exchange for the mural. Tango mixed with sex was a big
hell no
for her. She wanted to tell herself that they'd dance a
tanda
and it'd be over, but she wasn't delusional enough to believe that he'd be done with one set.

But maybe if she distracted him with the sex part they could avoid the tango. Sex without intense emotion was doable.

He
had
said that he'd show her what he'd dodo if she made a pass. Maybe she should find out.

Remy sat at the dining room table, surrounded by crayons and- pages torn out of the coloring book Esme had given him. The pages were covered with drawings.

Drawings of Georgina.

Once he'd started, he hadn't been able to stop, and he wasn't done. He picked up the turquoise and rolled the crayon between his fingers, holding it up to his nose to inhale the scent, the way he used to with clay.

Pulling one of the torn-out pages closer, he made one swooping line: the flouncy flow of a skirt. He drew the outline of her lithe curves and then took another crayon and drew in her legs and arms, flung out and embracing the world in a way that she didn't.

Then, the red shoes and her wild red hair.

He flipped the page and drew her again, this time in yellow. Georgina was a woman who should always be in vivid colors and warm places. Like Argentina.

He closed his eyes, imagining her taking a nighttime stroll with him in Buenos Aires. Her hair would be loose, and her eyes would be as warm as the summer air.

She'd love Buenos Aires.

Flipping the page, he wrote Buenos Aires and Georgina in scrolling letters, beginning to augment the script in the ornate swirls of classic
fileteado.

The tips of his fingers began to tingle as he drew in the vines. The old senses stirred, and suddenly he knew exactly what the mural on the outside of her garage should look like. He sketched it roughly, thinking about everything he wanted to draw. Georgina in her overalls. In a dress. Wearing those red shoes.

Wearing nothing but those red shoes
, Giselle corrected.

"Don't encourage me," he muttered. It'd been so long since he'd felt so—

Inspired
, his wife's spirit whispered.

He dropped the crayons he held onto the table and pushed them away. No—not inspired. Maybe possessed for a moment, but definitely not inspired. Giselle was the one who'd inspired him to greatness. His sculptures had taken off after he'd met Giselle; her family was supportive in a way his had never been, and they had the standing to make him popular in their social circles.

Which they had.

He could never forget that. He could never forget Giselle's gentle nurturing or the love that she'd showered on him. He pictured her in his mind, with her gray-green eyes—

No, Georgina's eyes were gray-green.

Standing up so abruptly his chair overturned, he raked his hair back and began to pace. As hard as he tried, he couldn't remember the exact shade of Giselle's eyes. "What color were they?" he asked her.

He waited for her to answer, but there was only silence.

Not knowing what to do, he called Max. "Where are you?" he asked the second his friend picked up the phone.

"At work." Max paused. "I can take a break if you want to come meet me."

He exhaled in relief. "Text me your address."

It turned out to be close to the loft he'd rented, and on his bike it took only minutes to get there. He arrived at the restaurant where Max had told him about, hung his helmet on the motorcycle, and walked in.

Max wasn't there, so he picked a table in the corner and ordered a sparkling water while he waited. He was about to text his friend to see where the hell he was when he rushed in.

"Hey there," Max said, smiling broadly as he took a seat. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." He glared at his so-called friend.

"Can whatever has your panties in a wad wait until I order some food?" Max asked, opening a menu. "Not that I'm not very concerned, but I forgot to eat lunch and I'm hungry. That trumps all."

"Order," he said, pushing the menu aside.

Max raised his brow. "You aren't eating?"

"Not hungry."

"When was the last time you ate?"

Remy glared at him. "When did you become my mother?"

"When you stopped being able to care for yourself." Max flagged the waiter and ordered enough food for an army. Then he focused on Remy. "What happened?"

"Ask me something about Giselle." The words felt like glass scratching the inside of his throat.

"Giselle?" Max sat back, blinking. "Why?"

"Just ask," he said through gritted teeth.

Max shrugged. "What was her favorite color?"

"Black." He felt a grim satisfaction about it, but it was an easy question.

"Black's not a color," Max said. "It's the absence of color."

Remy stared at him. "Ask something harder."

"What?" He held his hands out. "What are you looking for here?"

"Proof that I remember her."

"Dude"—his friend leaned in—"she was your wife. You'll always remember her."

"The memories aren't as sharp. She's becoming blurry."

Max's face fell with sympathy. "That's normal, Remy. You have to move on eventually."

"I can't move on. She was my muse. I haven't been able to create without her."

"You just needed space to grieve," Max said reasonably. "You don't just lose your talent. You've always had it. Sure, she inspired you, but you'll find other inspiration."

He vividly pictured Georgina and scowled, disappointed in himself for being disloyal. He crossed his arms. "There's no replacing her. She was an angel."

"She
is
an angel," his friend said gently, "and she wouldn't want you to stop living just because she did."

He glared at Max. "What do you want me to do? Drink? Fine, I'll have a drink." He lifted his hand to call the bartender, seething on the inside.

"That's not what I meant."

Remy ignored Max's disappointed tone. "Two shots of whiskey," he told the bartender.

"I'm happy with my beer," Max protested.

"They're for me." He waited until the man poured them and then downed one right away. It burned a path all the way down to his stomach, but it didn't make him feel any better, so he downed the second one, too. Setting the shot glass on the counter, he faced Max. "There. Happy?"

Max shook his head sadly. "She would have hated seeing you like this. You're like a walking advertisement against life."

He pushed back from the table. "You're no help."

Max threw his arms in the air. "You aren't exactly being helpful either."

Shaking his head, he stormed out. He felt too angry to be drunk, but he knew better than to get on his bike. He left it there and walked all the way to his rented loft.

The walk gave him time to think about Georgina and to sort out his thoughts.

One thing was certain: he was attracted to her in a deep primal way. But what did that mean? That he wanted sex? He was only human. Sex didn't mean a lifetime together.

Which was just as well, because Georgina was the sort of girl who deserved more. She deserved roses and romance and all the things she denied she liked.

He just wasn't the one to give them to her.

By the time he got back to the city, he knew what he was going to do. He'd tango with her tonight, and then he'd pick up his bike and leave San Francisco in the morning.