The Space Between (12 page)

I didn’t know how long we stayed that way—maybe it was minutes, maybe it was an hour. Our bodies tangled while we moved with the pounding rhythm, our lips parting for frenzied moments before reconnecting.

“Andy? Oh, hey.” Jess’s hand squeezed my arm and tugged it away from Patrick’s neck.

“Hey.” Her coat was buttoned and her purse folded under her arm. “This is Patrick—”

“We’re going.” Jess’s eyes moved over us, and she spared Patrick an irritable glance. “Now.”

His hand rested in my back pocket, and was all the confirmation I needed. “You go ahead. I’m good.”

Jess pinned me with a fierce look. “Can I talk to you?” She sneered at Patrick. “Privately?”

With great reluctance, I stepped out of Patrick’s arms and followed Jess to the side door. Emergency exit lights illuminated the alcove, bathing us in red.

“Why are you being hostile?” I asked, my arms crossed over my chest.

“Um, I thought you were here to support me. I didn’t think you were here to get skanky in a corner. I had a really bad day, and I needed you on my side. Obviously that was too much to ask of you.”

“It looked like it was under control with Marley and your dental people—”

“Is that Patrick, your boss Patrick?” Jess interrupted. “The one you talk about all the time? The one who’s really anal about stuff?”

“Same.”

Jess recoiled from my words. “If it were me, I wouldn’t be getting into shit like that right now. I wouldn’t want to go through that again, even if he does look like sex on wheels. I certainly wouldn’t be whoring it up.”

I glanced back at Patrick, his hands propped on his hips, his eyes fixed on me. I didn’t answer Jess, but she did get me thinking.

What was next? Did I invite him to my place, or me to his? Did we spend the night together then conduct business as usual in the morning?

Could it ever be that simple?

“Okay, you’re going to do what you want anyway. You always do.” Jess held up her hands. “Just tryin’ to help. This has been a wicked bad day and I need to go home now, so whatever.”

She stomped away, and I watched her go. I felt Patrick’s eyes on me, and met his gaze. He approached, reaching out for my waist.

“I have an early morning,” I said.

“Yeah. Me too.”

I laughed at his wry smile. My hand wrapped around his wrist, bringing his watch into view. “And it’s late.”

He shrugged. “We should do this again. Maybe at a decent bar, or a fish dive. I hear there are some great ones in New Hampshire.”

“Maybe both.”

*

I slept fitfully
with the memory of Patrick’s lips and his hand under my shirt on heavy rotation in my dreams. Eventually, I surrendered to my insomnia with an unfocused hour of Pilates before sunrise.

I showered and dressed in black wool trousers, black Merino turtleneck sweater, and black leather boots that laced up to the knee. Even by Maine standards, the cold was brutal, and I piled on the layers before heading out.

I loved keeping my car in the Walsh garage and living within walking distance of the office, but these days made me long for door-to-door driving. Checking the time on my phone, I noticed a missed call from Patrick and played the voicemail.

“Hey Asani, pipes froze and burst overnight at Foster Street. It’s a block away from my place so I got here as soon as the GC called. I need you to check on our other sites while I try to salvage the hardwood here,” Patrick shouted over the rush of running water. “Call me with any floods.”

I grabbed a few supplies and swapped out my outfit for flannel-lined jeans, two thermal shirts, and royal blue Wellies, and mentally cataloged our properties by pipe age. An 1806 farmhouse would require the lion’s share of my attention.

The day flew by in a blur of cold and wet. The subzero overnight temperatures froze delicate plumbing systems all over town, and while the majority of our jobsites suffered no damage, I spent my day aiming a hair dryer at old pipes in cold, wet basements to keep them damage-free. I lost contact with my toes a little before noon.

Patrick and I exchanged a few brief texts during the day to update each other, but I couldn’t get a read on his mood. I wanted him to remind me about drinks tonight, make another attempt at a road trip to New Hampshire, or suggest we finish what we started last night.

It meant arriving at the bar after seven, but stopping at home to change into dry clothes was a necessity. Thick socks and lace-up boots took the edge off the bone-deep chills, and I hoped Patrick was interested in warming up the rest of me.

It wasn’t hard to find the Walsh table, especially considering a chorus of voices that yelled “Andy” the minute I stepped through the door. If nothing else, Shannon’s hair was a bright beacon drawing me to the back corner. I quickly inventoried the table—Shannon, Matt, Lauren, Sam, Riley, Tom, and someone I didn’t recognize next to Shannon and Matt.

A flare of disappointment hit me—no Patrick. He was probably tied up with his share of issues. I fixed a smile on my face and headed for the table.

“Hey, girl,” Lauren yelled, standing to welcome me with a hug. “Good to see you.”

“Any more water damage?” Matt asked.

Riley and Sam sat across from Matt at the table, their heads bent in conversation. Riley shared the same dark hair and slate blue eyes as Matt, though Sam was leaner with a lighter complexion and Patrick’s auburn hair. There was no doubting they shared a bloodline.

Lauren gestured to an empty seat facing away from the door between Sam and the stranger with thick, tousled dark hair. “Some leaks, thankfully no floods. I did some intensive pipe triage to keep it that way.”

“What can I get you?” the waitress asked over my shoulder.

“Shiraz. Whatever the house bottle is,” I replied. “Any news on Foster?”

Matt nodded slowly, and my attention turned to Lauren’s hand on his knee. He layered his hand over hers, his thumb brushing across the ring on her finger as he spoke about the flooding and restoration efforts. The gesture was simple but said so much. The love between them was palpable, and I got the distinct impression they were an eye-blink away from climbing all over each other.

“Hello,” the stranger said, angling his head to face me. I noted a slight southern accent.

“I’m the worst,” Shannon groaned. “Sorry. Andy, this is…” She scowled at him. “What are you? This is Nick Acevedo, and he’s the guy who hangs around with Matt. It’s kind of a problem, actually. He’s a level five clinger, so definitely don’t pay any attention to him or you’ll never get rid of him. Nick, this is Andy Asani, and she puts up with Patrick.”

“The next time you think your headache is a brain tumor, don’t call me, Shannon,” Nick drawled with a laugh. “It’s good to meet you, Andy.”

I shook his hand, soon releasing it to accept my drink. He started to speak again, but Sam pivoted and draped his arm over the back of my chair.

“I tried that Night Walker juice. With the beets and kale and jalapeño?”

“And?” A smirk tugged at my lips. Few possessed the constitution of will necessary to drink raw beet juice.

Sam laughed and patted his stomach. “And it put a little hair on my chest. How can you drink that?”

“You get used to it. Once you’re off processed sugar, it is fantastic.” I shrugged. “It gives me a ton of energy.”

“Don’t get him started on banning more foods,” Shannon yelled down the table. “He only eats spinach and seaweed as it is, and he’s a little more than borderline OCD about it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I haven’t touched processed anything in years, and I still gagged. It looks like blood,” he laughed. “The subcontractors gave me some strange looks when I rolled up with a bottle full of dark red juice.”

“They give you strange looks regardless.”

A tingle ran down my spine when Patrick’s voice boomed over my shoulder. I smiled when he jabbed his brother’s arm, knocking Sam’s hand from my chair and dragging his fingers between my shoulder blades.

It felt lusciously possessive and I was perfectly fine with a little possession. I sipped my wine, waiting until he pulled a chair between Nick and me to meet his gaze.

“Hi.” His voice was low and eyes sparkling with an uncharacteristically warm twinkle. Such a wonderful departure from the irritable scowl.

“Hi.” I waited for him to reply, lifting an eyebrow while he stared at me.

“If not the Night Walker juice, what do you drink every day?” Sam asked, oblivious to the silent conversation spoken between Patrick and me. “Or do you only juice occasionally?”

I held Patrick’s gaze another beat before shifting back to Sam and our discussion of pressed juices—another one of my random hobbies. Our conversation soon shifted to several other unconventional interests—part-time vegan eating and power yoga and arguing the fidelity of
The Lord of the Rings
movies to the books—and I discovered a mountain of things Sam and I had in common.

Around us, Matt, Lauren, and Nick were pumping Riley for information about the woman he was seeing, while Patrick stayed quiet.

I noticed him nursing a beer and I felt his eyes on me. It wasn’t enough for Patrick to spend the majority of his time staring at me as if he were inspecting every thought in my head—he stared with an intensity I expected to leave singe marks on my skin.

“Try a mix of raw local honey, cinnamon, and apple cider vinegar,” I said. “That always clears up my sore throats. Honey is my go-to.”

“I will,” Sam murmured, sending himself an email with the proportions.

“We need to do this more often,” Shannon said while Matt stood to help Lauren into her coat. “It’s like I never see you people unless it’s Monday morning.”

“That might not be a bad thing,” Riley muttered under his breath.

“We’re headed out for sushi, and we’re heavy one Texan so a few more won’t hurt if anyone wants to come along.” Matt glanced around the table.

Sam and Riley joined the sushi group, and Tom departed after I declined his offer of more drinks elsewhere. Following a round of goodbyes, I was left with Shannon and Patrick. She slid down the bench to sit across from me, and Patrick angled his seat between us before glowering at his sister.

“You love Oishii.”

“I do,” she admitted, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “But I saw Mackay and Brewster from the Planning Board walk in and I owe them a drink. Or nine. And I went out with the general manager at Oishii and…” She held up her hands and shrugged.

“You’re racking up a long list of spots where you’re
persona non grata
,” he said.

Under the table, his knee brushed against my thigh and my skin reacted with a series of tiny sizzling shivers. I liked him pressing against me. I shifted my leg to slide against his knee in encouragement, and concealed my smile with a sip of wine when he cleared his throat.

From the sound of it, he liked me pressing against him, too.

“You’re going to have to move to Vermont soon. Start corrupting the shepherds.”

“Fuck you.” Draining her beer, she narrowed her eyes at Patrick. “Did you get out to Wellesley?”

Patrick turned his head toward me and rolled his eyes, his knee pressing more firmly against my thigh. I shifted, the spiked heel of my boot rasping against his jean-clad leg. His muscles tensed under my touch when the leather passed over his shin and around his ankle.

“No, Shannon, not this week.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I spent the day knee-deep in literally freezing water.” He consulted his phone before slipping it into his pocket and dropping his hand to his leg. Pointing at Shannon with his beer bottle, he continued, “I’ll get to Wellesley when I get a chance.”

“If you don’t have time, you shouldn’t have volunteered.” She glanced to me. “Andy, make sure he gets to the Wellesley site next week. It requires Patrick’s immediate attention.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“And what if the pipes burst there?” she demanded.

“Then we tear that motherfucker down like we should have in the first place.”

Under the table, his palm covered my knee and my decision to wear pants instead of a skirt turned into a serious regret—living out fantasies trumped frostbite any day of the week. I nibbled the inside of my cheek to keep my expression mild while his hand warmed me through the denim and his thumb brushed across my thigh.

“What’s the story with Nick?” I asked.

Patrick cleared his throat and aimed a critical gaze at me, his hand clamping down on my leg. “Marathon training friend of Matt’s. Brain surgeon at Mass Gen. Texan. Matt and Lauren’s official third wheel. I hear they’ve met Nick’s parents.”

“And hotter than Houston in July,” Shannon said. “I’ve wanted to get my teeth on his ass since Christ was a cowboy.”

“Really?” Patrick asked.

“Oh yes. Yes. He’s not into me, not at all, and it’s not from my lack of effort. Are you interested?”

Patrick’s stare could have cut glass, and his grip on my leg tightened. “No,” I said. “Just curious.”

Shannon consulted her watch. “All right. I’m dragging these Planning Board boys to Last Hurrah. Time to grease some wheels.”

She talked to herself while she collected her things, and Patrick’s hand inched above my knee. I shifted, increasing the pressure against his leg. He squeezed in response. Five more minutes of soundless pressing and squeezing, and I’d have a blazing orgasm in the middle of the bar. My gaze boring into Shannon, I silently begged her to hurry the hell up.