Never Been Kissed by Molly O'Keefe Page B

and Brody. In fact, considering she was naked and he was combing her filthy, matted hair, the air in the room should be frigid and filled with glass.
    “It’s my brother’s fault,” Brody said. “He makes me think I’m funny.”
    “You’re not,” she said, being mean.
I’m sorry,
she thought. Again.
    “Tell me about Kate.” Even though he said it in a murmur, his voice echoed against the tiles. She tilted her head, looking over her shoulder at him, though she could only see his legs, the hard muscle and bone of his knee and thigh.
    If she were a different woman, one who made different choices, she might lean against that knee. Rest herhead on that thigh. Let his strength bear a little of her load.
    She turned away, staring at the tarnished silver knobs, the small pipe that led up to the showerhead. For a year she’d been dreaming of showers and running water and bubble baths—it was time to relax and enjoy it.
    “I met Kate in Haiti. She worked for a mission that developed health clinics for women. My family’s foundation teamed up with her, and when she headed back to Kenya last year, she asked me to join her.”
    “To build clinics?”
    She nodded, and her hair pulled.
    “You know this is easier if you don’t move.”
    “Sorry.”
    The damp smooth skin of her knees slipped against her breasts.
    “Was it bad?” he asked. “Dadaab?”
    “It’s a nightmare. One hundred and sixty thousand people living in a place built for ninety. Not enough food, not enough safety. Not enough hope. It’s one long sustained scream.”
    But even as she said the words, she thought of the gardens that managed to flourish. The healthy babies where there had been so many dying ones. The afternoon teas Ashley had organized so women could learn about AIDS and contraception, the teas that often dissolved into laughter and gossip, as any good tea should.
    Children with bright white smiles and a million games to keep the boredom away.
    “We built a community, or tried to. A school, a clinic.” His hands moved higher up in her hair, a finger brushed her ear, the back of her neck. Her nipples hardened against her knees, little points she ignored. Her body was often so easy to ignore. “Kate is a nurse and she works with teachers and—”
    “You? What are you?”
    “Willing to work. An extra set of arms. Rich.” She laughed as she said it. Hard to say which asset was more important; at any given time all of them were.
    “I imagine you’re selling yourself short.”
    “You do?” She turned toward him, carefully, so it didn’t hurt. She saw him from the corner of her eye, his hands were wrapped in her hair, his face was relaxed. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just … quiet. All that darkness put away for the moment.
    “You were always good at that,” he told her, still brushing her hair, not quite looking at her. “And you were good at making a community.”
    It was such a surprise, as surprising as his jokes had been. The tenderness of his hands in her hair, these observations that made her breath stall in her chest.
    She didn’t know what to do with him like this, with the reaction to his words that bubbled through her chest, under her skin. So she shrank away from it. Distanced herself from anything as ambiguously threatening as physical reactions, as terrifying as attraction. Particularly to this man.
    She just set the physical aside, anything she didn’t want to deal with, anything that had personal ramifications, she set it aside until it no longer mattered.
    Another thing she was good at.
    “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I was in charge of the gardens, some of the outreach stuff.”
    “Did you like that?”
    “I liked when it worked. I liked making it work. It was a lot of problem solving.”
    “Gardens in the desert. I’d imagine you had some problems.” She heard the smile in his voice and it made her smile.
    “Will you go back?” he asked.
    She shook her head. “I was burning out. It’s