Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (25 page)

“If we blow
out this wall, we get all the natural light from the front windows, and the flow of the space completely changes.” Riley gestured to the dusty parlor windows with one hand and pointed to the adjacent wall with the other. “I think natural light is the best asset of this one.”

I paced from the windows to the back of the Bunker Hill property, mentally calling up the blueprints and scanning the space for load-bearing walls. “While I agree with that, I’m concerned about structural support without that wall. Original plans seem to indicate it supports the second and third floors.”

“Which is why we need to move the staircase. Here, look.” Riley spread his latest draft on the window seat and pointed to several new arteries of steel. “Struts here, here, and here.”

“That’s a lot of steel,” I murmured. “What’s Angus thinking for a budget on these properties?”

Riley cleared his throat and rolled up his drafts, tucking them into his cylindrical canister. “Half million, all in. He’s not talking about where that kind of scratch came from. I’d rather not be implicated in the affairs between him and his bookie, so I’m not about to ask.”

I whistled, my palm running along the recently discovered carvings in the arched doorway to the parlor. I couldn’t understand the logic behind covering such fine craftsmanship with shitty composite wood paneling, hiding it for decades, but underneath it all, these properties were hidden gems waiting for someone to understand their structures, put in the work, peel back the layers, and honor their original beauty. As much as I hated giving Angus credit for anything beyond taking up space, these were incredible finds.

“By all means, load up the steel. That’s going to double the timeline, though. We’ll want to save a lot of this.” I waved my hand at the exposed brick walls and plaster detailing around the windows. “Let’s get White’s crew in here next week. They’re the best at gentle demo. We’ll want to supervise, too. I’m thinking we’re going to find more when we start tearing out walls.”

“These plans, they’re good? You’d tell me if I needed to fix something, right?”

“I would tell you.” I gestured toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. It’s freezing.”

Riley followed me to the Range Rover. “Does it make sense to get rid of the parlor if we’re restoring this property? Wouldn’t a restoration preserve the original design? Sometimes I don’t think I understand what we do and if I’m doing it right.”

I swiped my phone to life and waited for the airline’s app to load while I considered Riley’s question. I typed in Lauren’s flight information and stifled a groan when I saw it delayed by ninety minutes. At the same moment, she texted.

16:39 Lauren:
hey. Not getting in until 1015 now. crazy day getting crazier.

16:40 Matthew:
yeah, I just saw that. Are you ok?

16:41 Lauren:
yes. hold on tight for this: woke up late. put on the wrong suit coat and I’m rocking black pants and a navy jacket. got salad dressing on my silk shirt. tripped because I’m wearing the wrong shoes with these pants and grabbed some lady’s boob to break my fall.

16:42 Lauren:
karma’s kicking my ass over something today.

16:43 Lauren:
So…I might spend the next hour and a half in the bar. introduce myself to nola’s other specialty: the hurricane.

16:43 Matthew:
pace yourself, sweetness.

16:44 Lauren:
we’re going to miss dinner. gah…hate that.

16:44 Matthew:
tomorrow.

16:45 Lauren:
but I had a plan.

16:45 Matthew:
you always have a plan, sweetness. sometimes you just need to roll with it.

“Dude.” Smiling brightly, I looked up from my phone and realized Riley was still waiting on my response. “I was talking.”

“Yeah, sorry. Let me just send this. Lauren’s flight’s delayed. You want a beer or something?”

“Sure. That’ll make up for you sexting right in front of me.” He shook his head and stared out the window. “I put up with a lot of shit from you guys.”

16:48 Lauren:
:)

16:49 Matthew:
I’m getting a beer with Riley. Text me when you board.

16:49 Matthew:
Or when TSA picks you up for drunk and disorderly conduct, whichever comes first.

16:51 Lauren:
say hi to RISD for me.

“Lauren says hi.” I pulled away from the curb and negotiated my way through traffic, crossing the Charlestown Bridge into the North End.

“She’s getting in tonight?”

“Not until after ten.” I zigzagged through narrow cobblestone streets toward my building. “How about the Sail Loft?”

Riley snickered. “If you’re buying and you don’t mind yachty bros.”

“How could I? I spend all day with you, and your sockless boat shoe situation.”

We parked at my building and walked down Atlantic Avenue. Cold, wintry wind mixed with sleet was gusting off the water, and I felt the chill in my bones. Definitely time for warmer layers and snow gear. We found two open stools at the corner of the long bar and ordered Oktoberfest beers.

“As I was saying,” he started. “I think it makes sense to blow out the parlor because it wrecks the entire flow and cuts off the natural light. But if we’re restoring this joint, wouldn’t I keep the parlor and
restore
it? Isn’t that the deal?”

I sipped my beer and shrugged. “Not always. Heritage restoration is all about preserving the effects of age and decay, and that’s usually removing elements that were added after the original build. Like linoleum and popcorn ceilings and that fucking wood paneling. We also do a lot of heritage restoration on structural issues, and that’s okay because most of the engineering techniques didn’t exist until recently.”

Riley signaled to the bartender. “Sweetheart, can I get a fisherman’s platter?” He glanced to me. “I don’t share. If you want something, speak up.”

“Steamed mussels.” I figured I wouldn’t get Lauren back to my place until after eleven. I doubted we’d spend much time eating although I didn’t expect the cupcakes in my fridge to go untouched tonight. The naughty schoolteacher had one hell of a sweet tooth.

“And a basket of onion rings,” Riley called. He looked back to me. “You said you’re buying, right?”

“Yeah, whatever.” I glanced to my phone and saw no new messages. “While opening up the original parlor is not a strict restoration, we’re saving everything that can reasonably be restored, and upgrading all the structures and systems. We’re not winning any National Trust for Historic Preservation awards—okay, Sam will, but that’s Sam. At least we’ll prevent that property from being torn down.”

“And you’re good with that?”

I nodded, and checked my phone again, estimating that Lauren would be boarding in the next fifteen minutes if her flight wasn’t delayed further.

An overflowing plate of fried shrimp, scallops, calamari, cod, and clams landed in front of Riley, and he bit into a clam with a low groan. “Hot plate,” the waiter warned as he dropped the bubbling mussels to the bar.

“I don’t get why we’re basically flipping houses.”

“We’re not,” I said. “When the market turned a few years back, we ended up with a few abandoned projects on our hands. Owners couldn’t afford to continue and walked away. Knowing we weren’t getting paid, Shannon said we had too much invested to blow them off. She wrote lowball offers and we bought the properties, sold them high, and cleaned up. Angus likes to pretend he invented that strategy, because he’s doing the same thing now.”

“Dude, I’m not trying to tell you your business, but that sounds like flipping to me.”

“Flipping is putting in granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Slapping on some builder beige paint. The market downturn came at a time when we were taking over the business from Angus, and it showed us that some people don’t want to buy fixer-uppers anymore. Especially not the kind of fragile, restriction-heavy multimillion dollar properties we work on.”

I lifted my phone when it alerted, dropping my fork into the dish of mussels. “Instead, we buy, fix, and sell. And make a killing, and that’s why we couldn’t do this without Shannon. And we still take on plenty of non-investment properties.”

“If you say so, dude. I always thought we drew up bluelines and handed them over to GCs and walked away. Easy peasy. This is…not even close to that.”

“It isn’t exactly what we expected when we planned to take over the business, but it’s working for us.” I glanced at my message from Lauren with a chuckle.

18:09 Lauren:
I’ll have you know I’m on the flight. No incidents to report.

18:12 Matthew:
how many hurricanes?

18:12 Lauren:
just 2.

18:12 Matthew:
and you’re standing?

18:13 Lauren:
sitting but pleasantly intoxicated and holding it together just fine.

18:13 Matthew:
you’ll be able to make it out of the terminal?

18:14 Lauren:
you really underestimate me, Matthew.

18:14 Lauren:
my brothers used to take me out drinking and then try kidnapping me

18:15 Lauren:
they’d time how long it took me to escape

18:16 Matthew:
1. that’s incredibly weird

18:16 Matthew:
2. they are going to beat the shit out of me someday, aren’t they?

18:17 Lauren:
I’m ignoring all that nonsense you just spouted. I will see you at the curb in 3 hrs.

18:18 Matthew:
text me when you land. I’ll come inside if you want.

18:18 Lauren:
oh I bet you’ll come inside.

I laughed out loud, my eyes widening as I read her message. Not so innocent anymore. Dismissing Riley’s inquisitive look, I shook my head.

“You’re really whipped,” he said, watching my fingers as they flew over the screen.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think that’s the right term. I just like talking to her.”

“I’d rather chicks not speak at all,” he said with a mouthful of scallop.

“Maybe you haven’t found the right one.”

18:19 Matthew:
only if you let me.

18:19 Lauren:
you know I will.

18:20 Lauren:
evil death stare from the flight attendant. gtg.

“And you have?” Riley asked.

He was too busy watching the Celtics game to notice the irrepressible smile on my face.

Lauren wasn’t just the right one.

She was the
only
one.

LAUREN

S
liding my finger
over the tiny rosettes adorning a pretty pair of panties, I knew I was in dangerous territory. A late afternoon meeting with a team of education researchers in Cambridge left me only a few blocks from my favorite lingerie shop, Forty Winks, and it was my Friday treat. I promised myself one sweet purchase, yet a mountain of silky, frilly, scandalously delicious items now sat beside the cash register.

And the rosette panties were going on top.

Lingerie was one of my most beloved splurges, but I didn’t like thongs—I didn’t equate sexy with basically bare—and garters were altogether too complex for me. A simple bikini or boy short in the right fabrics, styles, and colors was adequately devastating for me.

And Matthew.

Not long ago, I wore fancy panties because they made
me
happy, but if it was possible, I now gained more satisfaction from his reaction than anything else. The perfect pair left him speechless, and I loved possessing that power.

He knew my days started winding down around six or seven, and that was when he usually texted to inquire about my skivvies—guessing the color and cut, asking when he’d be able to rip them off, debating whether he’d want to carry them around for a day or two after dragging them off.

It was hilarious and delightful, and despite Steph’s commentary on this topic, not at all perverted or fetishy.

The best part was he understood there wasn’t much space in my head for more than a couple flirty texts each day, never mind properly scheduled dates or plans exclusive of take-out and Netflix. This was our version of
more than drinks
, and I appreciated his low key approach. It was fun and easy, and we weren’t busy overthinking it.

Last Friday was a great example. He texted in the late afternoon, curious about my underthings, and decided we needed dinner in the North End. He was taking care of reservations and I was to meet him at the restaurant. It was one of those extraordinary planetary alignments where we weren’t too exhausted for a night out, we didn’t have any work crises to manage, and we were free to sleep in the next morning.

Matthew and I indulged in pasta and people watching and wine, and under the table I let him slide his hand all the way up my thigh and over my new panties. We shared innuendos and inside jokes, and we stumbled all the way back to his place, clinging to each other in laughter as we reveled in our private stories. My dress was on the floor seconds after he closed the door, and I stood there in only my bra, panties, and heels.

“I think I understand now,” Matthew said, his hands on his hips, “why they’re called unmentionables.”

With that thought, I tossed the rosette panties on the heap, and headed toward the bras. Soon cradling an armful, I closed the dressing room door behind me and felt my phone ringing in my back pocket.

“Where are you?” Matthew asked, breathless.

“Um…I’m out.”

“Where?” he said, the word bursting out in a whoosh.

Looking around the room, I considered how much to tell him. The slightest mention of lingerie was known to turn him into quite the caveman. “Cambridge. I’m doing some errands. Why? What’s up? Everything okay?”