Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The sun poured through her east-facing window, striping Micah’s bare back in gold.
They’d spent most of the night wrapped up in each other, but now he was curled around his pillow. His hair was a dark tumble against the white pillowcase, and the sheet tangled at his waist. She was surprised there were any covers on the bed at all. They’d really torn the place up last night.
She propped herself on one elbow, resisting the urge to trace the path of light down his spine.
He stirred. “Coffee?” His voice was thick with sleep.
He rolled and gently tugged her supporting arm out from under her. She fell against his chest and was immediately enfolded in his warm, strong arms. “This isn’t going to get you coffee, Rabbi,” she teased.
“But it might get me something better.” He caressed her hip, tugging her leg over his. Her thigh nudged a part of him that was definitely awake.
Last night was a blur of sugar and skin.
His hands had been steady and reverent, like he was blessing her body with every touch of the pastry bag, while he throbbed inside her in the most deliciously profane way.
His fingers had blended colors, teasing and amazing her until she had begged him to ruin his work faster—so he could also wreck her.
If ever there was a perfect Hanukkah miracle, this was it: a one-night stand that refused to burn out.
Her phone buzzed against the nightstand, released from Do Not Disturb jail.
Then again. Then again. “Sorry, my friends are chatty post-Baller. I completely bailed on the party wrap-up.” She leaned to kiss him, tasting morning and Micah, tempted to ignore her phone for at least long enough to kiss him thoroughly awake, but her phone would not shut up. “Let me silence that sucker.”
She reached back with one arm, fumbling for the switch. It kept buzzing. Sylvie was always on text breakthrough, and she could not ignore a summons from her still-heartbroken friend, halfway around the world.
She glanced at the screen.
It wasn’t unusual for her to have a hundred notifications in the Ballers chat, but she’d never seen hundreds of notifications across every social app she had. Texts. Mentions. DMs.
Her stomach flipped.
She scanned the screen and froze.
Sylvie
Isn’t this your artist crush?!
Jay
You’ve seen this right?
Rebecca
We’re getting tagged like crazy. Does Micah know?
Then a link.
She tapped it.
A photo filled the screen—Micah, smiling as he squeezed blue icing onto a dreidel cookie.
Rebecca’s photo of the cookies for the silent auction listing, conveniently missing the artist attribution to Libby.
Another of him sketching Rabbi Ezra and his wife.
The signed sketch with M. Waterman, clear as day.
Then the damning side-by-side: one of his caricatures, one of his Iris painting.
The caption read:
Could NYC @TempleBethHatikvah Rabbi @MicahWasserman also be the mysterious erotic artist @MWaterman? #MatzoBallerNYC2025
“Fuck,” she breathed.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was gravel and sleep and warmth. “Libby?”
She turned her phone so he could see. “You’re trending.” She could barely get the words out.
He grabbed the phone and sat. His expression shifted from concern to horror. “No.” His voice cracked. “No, no, no.”
She sat, too, holding the loose end of the sheet over her breasts.
He swiped frantically, scrolling through photo after photo, screenshots, comments, praise, and speculation.
“I didn’t see anyone taking pictures while you were decorating, but somebody clearly did.
” This is my fault. She’d known there was a chance someone had snapped a photo, and she’d let him put those cookies in the auction.
She could have stopped this. “I’m so sorry, Micah. ”
His hands shook. “This can’t—” He stopped, throat working. “My parents are going to see this. My congregation. Ezra. Beth Hatikvah is tagged. Everyone will know.”
She touched his arm, searching for a way to cast this in a better light. “Your parents should be proud of you. You’re incredibly talented. Not all of these posts are negative. You’re a viral sensation—in a good way.”
He just stared at her. “You think this is good?” His voice was sharp, brittle. He tossed her phone onto the bed between them, where it sat like a snake. “Libby, this is a nightmare. My family’s going to be humiliated. My board could fire me.”
“Micah—”
“I told you this would happen,” he cut in. “You knew what it would cost me if people found out. But you kept pushing.” He stood, jammed his feet into his boxers, and yanked them over his hips.
Her heart jolted. Did he think she was responsible for the leak? “I was honest with you. I think you should share your paintings, but I didn’t tell anyone about M. Waterman.”
“You told Rebecca!” he snapped. “She’s the director of an art gallery.
What did you think she’d do? You challenged me to stop hiding—to be seen.
And now I’m all over the damn internet. If those are the mentions you’re getting, I don’t even want to see what’s on my phone.
It’s going to be ten times worse. This is a fucking catastrophe!
I should never have said yes to sketching. You shouldn’t have asked me.”
“Rebecca did not out you. She would never.” She lifted her chin, her temper rising despite her sympathy.
“And I didn’t ask you to sketch, remember?
You volunteered. You signed those caricatures, Micah.
You decorated the cookies. So don’t tell me you didn’t want to be seen.
You even let people take pictures. On some level, you wanted this—”
“Not like this!” His voice rose, raw and furious. “I wanted to control how and when I revealed myself. I didn’t want to wake up to the world scrutinizing my life.”
She stared at him, her pulse hammering in her throat.
“Control? You can’t control how people see you.
Or what they say on the internet.” She’d had plenty of experience with that.
Not every wedding guest loved her cakes, and they were often vocal about it online.
“But you can control your actions—and reactions. Take a breath, Micah. Think about it. This is your chance to show up as yourself—your true self.”
His eyes flashed. “That’s easy for you to say. Your job doesn’t require you to model the values of an entire community.”
Her chest squeezed. “You model values, yes. But you’re still allowed to be human.
I know this feels like a disaster, but maybe it’s also an opportunity?
Last night, you showed everyone how amazing you are.
You made so many people happy. Don’t discount all the glowing mentions.
People might wonder why you’ve been hiding your gift, but if anyone questions your values, that’s on them, not you.
Your paintings are erotic as hell, but they’re also respectful and beautiful. Plenty of Jewish artists paint nudes.”
He dragged his dress pants on and shrugged into his shirt, every movement agitated. Was he even listening to her? “Micah, I promise, you will get through this.”
He straightened and stared down at her. “Alone, right?”
“What?”
“I notice you said I’d get through it, not that we would get through it. Are you going to stand by my side while people tear my life apart? Or will that be decided on a night-by-night basis?”
Her throat tightened. “That’s a low blow.
” But it had some truth to it. Her feelings for Micah were tangled up in a lot of uncertainty.
She felt deeply connected to him, but he hadn’t been honest with her.
Actually, he wasn’t honest with a lot of important people in his life.
She didn’t know what a future with him would look like, not until he truly revealed himself.
He raked his hands through his hair. “Whatever—it doesn’t matter. So I drew a couple of pictures and decorated cookies with flowers. So what if I have the same initials? That doesn’t mean I’m M. Waterman. I can fix this.”
She felt the words like a heart punch. “By hiding again?”
He didn’t answer.
She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hold her emotions in check.
This truly was a nightmare for him, the worst possible way to bring his art to light, but denying the rumors would likely bring more attention to them.
“Micah, you can’t make this go away by hiding from it. And denying it will make it worse.”
“That’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? You aren’t the one with years of study, a decade of work in the community, a new job, and a reputation that’ll be reduced to tits and ass covered in flowers.
You have nothing to lose. In fact, you probably have something to gain if somebody got a picture of us making out on the boat last night.
Great job—you’ll get credit for ruining me.
” Bitterness coated every sharp word. “I can’t believe you made me think revealing my art could be anything but a shit show. It’s too much. You’re too much.”
Oh no, he didn’t.
“Too much? Maybe for you.” She knew it was his fear talking.
She’d probably freak out in his shoes, too.
But that didn’t mean she was going to be his punching bag.
He’d crossed a line by using that phrase to deliberately hurt her, and now she was going to serve up the truth that was now blindingly clear to her, at least. “I’m not too much.
You aren’t enough—or at least you think you aren’t enough. ”
She stalked to her dresser and grabbed a long-sleeved t-shirt, pulling it over her head.
Then she slid her legs into a pair of pajama pants.
When she looked up, he was fully dressed, his hair sleep rumpled, his gold kippah clutched in his hand, his face a mask of pain.
She wanted to throttle him—and hug him, damn it.
“Libby—” His tone was measured, his gaze bleak. “I didn’t mean that—“