Chapter 7 #3
She scanned the comments left by her friends.
After the event coordinator’s defection, it seemed like they’d quickly gotten the party back on track.
Every activity was highlighted in green, except one.
That cell of the spreadsheet was glaring red with a note from Rebecca.
The caricature artist never made it on the boat.
We’re going to lose five thousand dollars in pre-paid pledges if we can’t find an artist on board.
Avi’s going to sing to gather the crowd and then ask for a volunteer. Any other ideas?”
It was crickets after that. Not a single suggestion.
Libby sighed. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money for The Trevor Project.
“What’s up?” Micah asked. “You look upset.”
Micah had mad drawing skills, but… “None of your colleagues know you can draw?”
Slowly, he shook his head.
“Okay.” She pressed her lips together, sighing again. “Then I won’t ask you.”
“Ask me what?”
She turned her screen toward him and pointed at the red block on the screen. “To step in for our missing artist.”
He took her phone from her hand and glanced at it, staring for several long seconds before he took a visible deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
Micah shocked himself when those words came flying out of his mouth. But he couldn’t stay silent when he was more than capable, and it was for such a good cause.
Libby’s bright smile could light all eight Hanukkah candles. “Really?”
He nodded.
She grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the main stage. Doubt set in, but he brushed it aside. It’s not like I’m drawing figures and flowers. Caricatures were nothing like his M. Waterman paintings. No one would make the connection.
Libby skidded to a halt next to Rebecca and held up their linked hands like a boxing referee declaring the winner of a match. “I found an artist.”
He tugged free of her grip, face heating. “Let’s not get carried away. I can draw well enough to capture a likeness and hopefully appease the masses.”
Rebecca’s relief was instant and blinding.
“Bless you, Rabbi. Jay said the art supplies are in the captain’s office.
It’s in the main kitchen. Libby, you know where, right?
” She’d commandeered a headset and had a clipboard in one hand and her phone in the other.
Her thumb blurred as she typed without looking.
“You’re quite the helper tonight, Rabbi.
Candle lighting, cookie decorating, sketching…
any other hidden talents you’d like to reveal? ”
Before he could answer, Libby dragged him toward the kitchen.
“You’ve got twenty minutes to get set up!” Rebecca called after them.
He squeezed Libby’s hand until she looked back at him. “Does she know about Mike?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve sworn her to secrecy,” Libby said.
“You told her?” He felt a shaft of betrayal.
Libby skewered him with a look that instantly made him feel two inches tall. He had no right to complain about honesty.
“Not exactly. I asked her to keep our awkward reunion to herself. Rebecca is solid. She’ll keep your secret, even if she makes the connection between Waterman and Wasserman.” A flicker of doubt made his skin prickle, but he had no choice but to trust Libby’s faith in her friend was well placed.
She led him down a short hallway into a kitchen where servers darted in and out with trays in an intricately choreographed dance. The scent of frying food made his stomach rumble.
She waved at the chefs behind the line and pulled him into a tiny office at the back of the small kitchen, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.
Her body briefly pressed against his, and it took every ounce of strength he had not to slide his hands around her waist and keep her there.
She stepped back—three measured paces—and crossed her arms. “You’ve got twenty minutes to explain yourself, Rabbi, and it better be good.”
Micah ran a hand over his neck, feeling the tension gathered beneath his collar like coiled wire.
He’d thought of very little else the entire time he’d been chatting with the cookie crowd, so much so that he’d very nearly piped the Hebrew letters for charatá, remorse, on his dreidel cookies instead of the traditional nun, gimmel, hay, and shin.
“First, let me say I am incredibly sorry for deceiving you. I should have been honest with you.”
Libby didn’t say anything, just watched him with her steady, open gaze.
It was the same way she’d looked at him in Palm Beach.
“The truth is, I hide M. Waterman because I’m afraid,” he said quietly.
“Of the looks. Of the whispers. My father is a lawyer. My mother teaches Hebrew school. My sister is a doctor. They’re all proud that I’m a rabbi, and I don’t want to lose their respect.
” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Erotic art isn’t exactly something you brag about at Shabbat dinner. ”
Libby’s lips twitched, like she got the joke, but she didn’t look convinced. “Depends on where you spend Shabbat, I’d say. You’d get a fist bump at my house on Friday night.”
He raised a brow. “From your parents? What about your grandparents? When I first started painting, it was about beauty and form. About capturing how it feels to be alive in my body—to touch, to want, to crave. But somewhere along the way, it became the place where I felt free. Everything else in my life is about my work at the temple, and I am honored to be of service. But the art—” he gestured helplessly “—it’s where I put everything that doesn’t feel like it fits the life I’ve chosen.
” He met her gaze again. “And I hide it because every time I imagine my parents’ faces…
my congregation’s faces…I freeze. I don’t want to see disappointment.
Or worse—scorn. The rabbi who paints naked women.
The jokes practically write themselves.”
Libby’s voice was soft. “No one else knows about your painting?”
“No one who actually knows me.” He huffed out a breath.
“I started posting pictures of my paintings online a few years ago, and I was shocked as hell when people started following me. And when you recognized me by my hands? I thought I was going to pass out, but at the same time, it felt good to be seen. You didn’t just look at my work—you saw me. ”
“Not all of you.” Her expression hardened. She was listening, not forgiving. It made him want to be better.
“No.” His chest ached with the truth of it.
“Just being recognized as M. Waterman scared the hell out of me, but selfishly, I wanted to know what it would feel like to be a real artist, instead of just pretending to be one for a few weeks each year. The way you looked at me and talked about my paintings like they mattered kind of made me lose my mind. I got carried away.” He forced himself to keep going.
“I wanted to be Mike, so I didn’t tell you my real name.
I made sure you knew we were a short-term thing, like that would help.
” He shook his head, disgusted with himself. “What a joke.”
“Why a joke?” she asked. “I wasn’t expecting anything more.”
“Because I’m not a short-term guy. I’d never had a one-night stand.”
“Seriously?” Her brow crinkled adorably. “Not even one?”
“Nope, and my record stands because we had a two-night stand. I’m just not a casual sex kind of guy.” He shrugged. “I’m a get-to-know-you, meet-the-friends-and-family, show-you-my-heart-before-I-show-you-my-schvantz kind of guy.”
She snorted. “I guess I really did get lucky.”
“I’m glad you see it that way. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday, and I almost texted you from the deck outside a couple of hours ago. I only stopped because how would I explain being on the Matzo Baller when I hadn’t told you I’m Jewish?” His stomach turned.
“That felt like the biggest betrayal of all.” Her smile flattened. “We lit the Hanukkah candles together, and I didn’t know we share the same faith. You could have trusted me with that.”
“I know that now.” His voice cracked slightly. “When we met, you were just…” he trailed off because the way he was going to complete the sentence no longer made sense.
“A hook-up? Someone who didn’t matter? Not worthy of the truth?”
He flinched. “I wish I could go back and share more with you, do things differently. You deserved better. You deserved the truth. All of it.”
Her gaze—steady, clear, too perceptive—stripped him bare.
“So does your congregation, Micah. They deserve a leader who shares his whole self, imperfectly. Not just the parts he thinks are worthy and good. Who are you to judge? Who are they? You are doing God’s work.
You literally work for God. Would you tell a member of your congregation to hide a part of themselves just because it didn’t fit the traditional mold? I really hope not.”
She was saying everything he’d been thinking, but it was even harder to hear it out loud.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to hold her gaze.
“The disparity between what I preach and how I live my life was hard to deny while I was standing up on that scaffold. Art might have been a small part of my life when I first started painting, but that isn’t true anymore.
I’m just—” He took a breath. “I don’t think I can be M.
Waterman and a good rabbi at the same time. ”
The words burst from the darkest corner of his soul. He didn’t even know they were there, but he knew they were true. His chest tightened, lungs seizing. Black spots danced before his eyes.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him steady, grounding him until he could catch his breath.
“Oh, Micah, don’t you see? You are M. Waterman and a good rabbi at the same time—to everyone but yourself. You think your art makes you less of a rabbi? To me, it makes you more human. More relatable.”
He’d never considered that angle.
She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at him, a challenge in her gaze.
“What are you protecting, Micah? Your reputation? Your family? Your community? Because I’m not buying that you want to hide M.
Waterman anymore. Maybe you did when you started painting, but once you started posting on social media, it was only a matter of time.
You booked a show in a Palm Beach gallery, basically Jew central.
You decorated cut-out cookies that are instantly recognizable to anyone who knows M.
Waterman’s style. You volunteered to sketch caricatures for Rebecca, who literally knows every working artist in the United States.
What are you doing, Micah? Because if you want to hide M.
Waterman, you’re doing a crappy job of it.
You might have lied to me to protect your identity, but come on.
Actions speak louder than words, and your actions are screaming for attention. ”
What could he say? She was right. “I’m truly sorry for deceiving you, Libby. And for hurting you.”
“Then do better,” she said simply. “Stop apologizing and start showing up.”
He blinked. “Showing up?”
“For yourself,” she said fiercely. “For all of you. You don’t have to be perfect, Micah. You just have to be you—the real you.”
Her words hit him harder than any sermon he’d ever heard. “You aren’t pulling any punches tonight, are you?”
“You deserve a few,” she said with a half-smile. “Lucky for you, I believe in redemption.”
Hope flickered in his chest. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Rabbi. Forgiveness must be earned.” She picked up the easel behind her and handed it to him, and then grabbed a sturdy tote filled with art supplies and a giant pad of paper. “We’ve got five minutes to get you ready to wow the donors.”
He would draw all night if she would give him another chance. “Admit it—you just want to watch me sketch,” he teased.
She smirked. “Guilty.”
His pulse kicked hard. “I’ll try to make it good for you.” He leaned the easel against the desk and glanced at his watch. “It’s not going to take five minutes to get to the salon. Can I kiss you?”
Her brows arched. “You want to play two minutes in the captain’s office with me, Rabbi?”
“I do.” He set the timer on his watch, knowing two minutes would never be enough. They’d be back at the dock before he came up for air. “Come here.”
She set the tote on the floor and stepped forward.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her lips.
Her mouth opened under his, and he was lost. She smelled like sweet vanilla, citrus, and warm skin, and every thought disappeared from his mind except tasting more of her.
He shifted, moving with her in a tangle of heat and want and need, crashing back against the desk and pulling her into his lap.
Her legs wrapped around his waist. He shoved her dress up and grabbed her bare ass with both hands, dragging her along the length of his hard cock, groaning.
An alarm sounded in his head. Her preference for thong underwear might actually kill him.
“Whoa.” She sounded breathless.
He lifted his head and loosened his grip, suddenly aware that the noise he’d been blocking out was their timer blaring an obnoxious summons.
He met her heavy-lidded gaze, growling. He silenced the timer, but he didn’t let her go. “One more kiss.”
“Are you absolutely positive you’re a relationship guy?
” She slid out of his lap and stood between his knees.
“Because we’ve met each other’s friends tonight, and I’ve already seen your schvantz.
” She cupped him through his pants, making him throb.
“But I don’t do the dating thing. My schedule is brutal, especially at this time of year.
Would you consider another one-night stand, maybe on a night-to-night basis? ”
For now, he’d take anything he could get from her. “I’d love to see you again on any terms. But it’s only fair to warn you, I’m going to try to change your mind.”
A slow smile curved her lips. “I’ll give you a hint: you’ll have much better luck convincing me if you’re naked.
” She winked. “You can hide in here for a few minutes until you’re decent.
I’ll start setting up.” She grabbed the tote, opened the door, and breezed past him in a mouthwatering brush of citrus-scented curves, leaving him laughing, hard, and aching.
“Don’t forget the easel,” she called over her shoulder.
After regaining control of his body, he trailed her through the kitchen’s chaos, easel propped on his shoulder, knowing one thing for certain: he was done hiding.
From now on, he would show up for her, starting one night at a time.