Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (11 page)

The distance between us evaporated, and he reached for me, running his hands from my shoulders to my fingertips and back up again. It was a decent response, considering I kicked him out of my apartment. Regardless of what he said in his texts, I expected to hear I was an awful hook-up and he was dumping me as a client and telling all his architect-engineer friends to steer clear.

“Miss Halsted,” he sighed. He studied me, shaking his head while his hands skimmed up and down my arms.

“Mr. Walsh.”

“Do you have any idea what you put me through? You leave in the middle of the night, then you don’t respond to my texts? What the fuck happened?”

His sharp tone didn’t align with his gentle hands as they pulled me closer, working over my shoulders and down the planes of my back, settling on my waist. He was a demanding little shit, but at least he was sweet about it.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” I rolled my eyes. “You don’t think this is all a bit much? Showing up at my place? The texts? My panties, my necklace? Aren’t you coming on a little strong?”

Matthew tilted his head and shot me a measured glance. “I think last night was a little…strong.”

It didn’t matter whether I agreed with him—I did—but what I really wanted to know was whether last night was normal. What he liked, what he wanted, what he fantasized about. And perhaps the question wasn’t about last night so much as it was about me: was
I
what he liked, what he wanted, what he fantasized about? Or was I convenient? Was it possible he did this, this whole crazy production, on a regular basis?

Or was it something else? Something different?

“Don’t do this, Matthew. Don’t go all caveman on me. You do not get to call the shots. I didn’t mean to scare you, however you cannot send me, like, three dozen texts. I don’t care
what
happened last night. It’s ludicrous and overbearing and suffocating, and I don’t put up with that shit.”

“Are you kidding me? You actually believe I shouldn’t freak out when you disappear from my bed in the middle of the night after promising to stay and you don’t respond to my texts?”

“Well, yes.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me. “Miss Halsted, that’s bullshit and you know it.”

I gazed at his long-sleeved Cornell t-shirt, and my argument dried on my tongue. I didn’t know why he generated such strong reactions in me, but there was no in-between.

I told myself to stop analyzing, stop dissecting. The day was crisp and sunny, and these jeans did amazing things for my legs, and this scrumptious man wanted my attention. It didn’t have to fit into an agenda, and it didn’t have to mean anything.

“Do you like croissants?”

“Hmm?” He squinted at me.

“Croissants. One of my favorite bakeries is over on Charles Street, and they have the best croissants, and I’d rather have a croissant than yell at you in the middle of the Common.”

“Fine, but you need to promise me you’ll never do that again.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Fine, but you need to promise you’re not telling me what to do, or blowing up my phone with obsessive and stalkery texts again.”

“Fine, and just so you know? All that eye rolling is adorable. Keep doing it.”

“Fine, I will,” I snapped, my voice cracking into a laugh at the end. “You’re a caveman.”

“You’re bossy. I have to keep up.”

Matthew smiled, and brushed his lips against mine. A hot blush stole across my cheeks and I studied the wash-weathered lettering on Matthew’s shirt.

“I’m sorry I freaked out, Miss Halsted. I kept thinking you’d trip into the harbor and be swept out to sea. And then pretend you did it on purpose.”

Another eye roll. “Can we talk about that croissant now?”

Matthew’s fingers laced with mine as we walked to the bakery, and they stayed that way while we ordered and chose a sun-drenched table outside. He tore into his sandwich as I slathered apricot jam on my croissant, and from the right angle, we were a regular couple out for brunch. The unlikely history of us fell away, and we weren’t trying to formulate the right words without the shelters of night and alcohol.

“You’re not from around here,” he said.

I unwound my scarf and dropped it to my lap. “Why do you say that?”

Matthew watched as I adjusted my chair in the direction of the sun’s rays. “I know Boston people. You’re not Boston people.” He rubbed his knuckles over his jaw. “And you’d never heard of The Red Hat. So where are you from?”

“I grew up in California. Outside of San Diego.”

He nodded and sipped his coffee. “And you’re here because…why? You have a problem with great weather and beaches?”

“No. I love all beaches. They’re my favorite places. And sunshine, too, but I’m into seasons. San Diego is summery and slightly less summery. I came out here to go to Williams College, and I wanted to work in urban schools, which is how I made my way to Boston. Chelsea, actually.”

“Do you visit California much?” Matthew leaned back, his ankles crossed over each other and his arms folded against his chest.

Licking my lips, I tried to remember the question. Too scrumptious. “No, not much. My parents are mostly retired, and they do this whole motor-home-and-road-trip thing. My dad does some consulting, and my mother’s blog is basically five minutes from being featured on the Travel Channel, so they’re busy.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Not even for the holidays?”

Frowning, I sipped my latte and mentally scrolled through my calendar. Surviving September was my top priority. “Uh, no, I hadn’t planned on it. My parents are touring Baja California for the next few months. A group of friends usually get together for Thanksgiving and some form of mash-up of winter holidays, and…”

I trailed off, realizing that we wouldn’t be hosting a Christma-Hanu-Festivus party this year. Not with Steph in Chicago and Amanda in DC. Sure, other friends would extend invitations to their celebrations, or try to recreate our festivities. Not so unlike book club, it wasn’t the same, and I wanted—maybe I was being a petulant child—to remember the way we did it, not the spin-off.

“I like this area,” he said, looking around. “My sister lives on Mt. Vernon, near Louisburg Square. She’s obsessed with Beacon Hill.”

I hated the idea of dismissing his comments, but I didn’t want all of these personal details. I couldn’t pretend this never happened if I picked up another uniquely Matthew story. “You said you wanted to hang out today?”

Matthew nodded and reached into his pocket, retrieving a neatly folded cocktail napkin from The Red Hat. “We could walk a few properties.”

“Oh, so you’re here in a professional capacity? When you showed up with my panties I figured you were in manwhore mode.”

He grabbed the arm of my chair and dragged me closer, a metal-on-stone screech whipping through the courtyard and drawing every eye toward us. He brushed my hair over my ear, leaning in until I could feel his breath on my skin.

“You’re a mouthy little thing, you know that? I don’t know why, but I like it a lot.” My teeth sank into my lower lip to repress a broad smile. “You’ll be getting a bill. I think it will come out to…” He brushed a few croissant crumbs from my shirt and twisted my nipple in the process. “Drinks with me.”

“I don’t have time for drinks with you. I barely have time for drinks with myself. I have too much—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted. “We work too much and neither of us has a life. We covered that last night. Doesn’t have to be drinks. Maybe just my cock in your mouth, and just because you want to.”

I turned and stared at Matthew’s defined jaw, and the way the sun illuminated his dark, wavy hair, and those blue eyes that told so many stories. I couldn’t have it all, that I knew. But I could have a little treat. “Drinks? Just for fun? Just for now?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s only as complicated as you make it.”

As much as I wanted to lock Matthew in the First Time for Everything vault and throw away the key, I didn’t want that at all.

MATTHEW

“G
ood bones,” I
declared, my hand slapping the brick wall with reverence. I appreciated many things about old Boston architecture and construction, and diehard brick walls was one of them. “A wrecking ball’s the only thing taking down this place.”

Over my shoulder I saw Lauren, her head shaking. She stared at the abandoned button mill’s broken windows and released a strangled sigh.

“Okay, explain to me what’s wrong with this site,” I said. “Because this will work
and
it won’t cost half of what the last three sites would have. And it’s solid. I walked the roofline twice, and it’s the most stable roof I’ve seen in months. And that’s saying something because I climb a lot of roofs.”

She waved at the cavernous space. “I don’t see it the way you do, Matthew, I don’t get it. How am I supposed to make this into classrooms? Where’s the playground going to go? And do you see how the floors slant? That’s gotta be expensive to fix.”

I paused, expecting a dozen more complaints. Despite wanting to peel her jeans off and fuck her against one of those brick walls, I was also in architect mode and trying to keep my client happy. My brain blew up a few times attempting to manage that line, and counting bricks was the only thing keeping me from doing wind sprints up and down the mill floor.

As if I needed to make matters more complex, there was a pussy necklace in my pocket. It was all too easy for my hand to slide in there and, without thinking, let my thumb glide over the stone.

“Those are reasonable concerns, and they’re solvable. I sketched a rough plan. You’ll see all the classrooms you requested here, along this half of the building. Look.” I handed over my graphing notebook. “And the offices and gymnasium and cafeteria here, along this side. By my math—which tends to be correct—you have space for more classrooms or offices, if you want them. And flooring is a fast fix. It doesn’t require a quarter million in steel, unlike everything else we’ve seen.”

Lauren’s arms crossed over her chest while she turned a critical eye to the design. I knew this wasn’t exactly what she wanted, and the degree of abandonment was pretty high—the rusted-out water heaters piled along one side of the building weren’t helping my case, and neither were the raccoons defending their territory in the basement.

“Oh,” she said at length. “Okay. I like that.”

“All you need here is upgraded flooring, drywall, and ventilation, and a couple green improvements. Altogether, that will cost less than the steel on the last property we checked out. You can afford this.”

“How much?”

“All in? I could ballpark it,” I shrugged. Staring at the walls, I visualized a few cost structures and scribbled a number beside the blueprint before handing it to Lauren. “Fully loaded.”

“You did that in your head.” She pointed at the number. “I didn’t see you write anything down, or use a calculator.”

Watching Lauren’s eyebrow arch, I chuckled and slipped my hands into my pockets. “Well, yeah. It’s mostly addition. Some multiplication.”

“Don’t let anyone tell you you’re anything less than freakish.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I laughed. “I can give you something more precise when I draw this up, and do some more research on the lot. The estimate might be a bit high.”

Lauren nodded and paced the perimeter. The mill’s interior was huge, and when she wandered out of sight, a thin sheen of doubt trickled into my stomach. I had seen her debating with herself at the park, and I had seen her turn to walk away. Even when she excused herself to the ladies’ room at the bakery, I contemplated whether she’d sneak out through the kitchen.

I couldn’t understand what kept pulling her away from me when all I wanted was to pull her closer.

After waking up alone, I had surveyed the wreckage of my loft—note to self: never, ever leave used condoms on the floor where it was all too easy to step on them—and took a long shower. I expected the hot spray to wash away the night, to clear my head, but if anything, each drop of water left me more tightly wound. Pacing, push-ups, emailing Erin, more push-ups, manically texting Lauren, none of it helped. Not until Erin suggested seeing Lauren.

I knew it was far from rational, but showing up with her underwear in my hand was my admittedly inarticulate way of asking “When can we do that again?”

The mechanics were secondary.

We were each too damn busy for our own good, but I’d forgo food and sleep to get her naked again, to be with her again. I didn’t care what we called it. I wanted more of those jarringly intense nights with her, but if the cautious glint in her eyes was any indication, I should have turned the project over to Patrick and let it go down as the best one-night stand in recorded history.

Lauren’s shoulder bumped mine and she handed the notebook back to me. Warmth radiated from the subtle touch, and I bumped her in return. “So, what now? You’ll call me with the final number tomorrow or Monday, and we’ll figure out how to get started here?”

I grinned. “Or you can just come back to my place and I’ll do it today.”

“I can’t.”

I waited for more explanation, but Lauren offered nothing.

“Okay.” I nodded and stepped away from her, deciding to focus on photographing the plumbing and duct work instead of deciphering another layer of Lauren. I pointed my phone at a serpentine cluster of pipes in the corner and snapped a few pictures before turning back to her. “Actually, no. Is that you can’t—you don’t want to? Or is that you can’t—you have something else going on?”

“I have a thing.”

Tell me you don’t have a date. Say you’re not seeing some guy tonight.

I crossed one arm over my chest and rasped my other hand against my jaw, waiting, while Lauren fidgeted with her scarf. Those fucking scarves. It was as if she was intentionally putting a barrier between her breasts and me, intentionally killing my joy. “I can find some tequila if that sways the odds in my favor.”

“Hilarious as always, Matthew.”

She walked toward the windows, the afternoon sun catching her hair and illuminating every shade of blonde. Her phone in her hands, she typed and toggled through screens, the topic dismissed.