"Believe me, Matt, it is worse," she hissed. "He's picked up four rehab and restore properties around Bunker Hill. Apparently, he wanted to. You know. Just because."
I turned down a side street and brought the Range Rover to a stop. My fingers curled around the steering wheel. Tension seized every muscle in my hand, up my arm, along my neck, and into my jaw. I didn't need this shit and I didn't need four bullshit projects clogging my days.
"Who's going to run that? Does he realize how much we're managing right now? Sam, Patrick, and me, we're fully booked. I've backed out of three marathons in the past few months! I have no time for anything, ever, and now I have four properties that will definitely fall to me because Sam's busy agreeing to random shit without discussing it with us first, and Patrick works twenty-nine hours a day, and no one stops to say this is insane."
"Exactly! And me, right now, I'm saying this is insane." Sharp clicks punctuated her angry sigh, her stilettos reverberating against the hardwood as she paced her office. "He just wants us to know he's still holding some of the cards and plenty of chips."
"A lot less than you think, Shan."
In the nine years since we—me, with my brothers Patrick and Sam, and my sister Shannon—put our stake in the ground and edged Angus onto the sidelines of our ailing third generation architecture shop, he never failed to concoct obstacles to our success. He hated that we were doing more with the family business than he ever did. Us kicking up some dust in the sustainable design world didn't meet with his favor either, and he made his displeasure clear every time he interfered with projects or bought crumbling buildings to add to our overflowing slate.
Externally, it appeared that visionary architect Angus Walsh was simply staying engaged with the work in his retirement. What could be obnoxious about an old man who wanted nothing more than to preserve the city's forgotten architectural gems?
And he was brilliant when it came to keeping up appearances. Only a select few outside our family knew the truth of Angus's alcoholism, his vindictiveness, his violence. We went along with the rouse, even when that meant absorbing costly projects and covering up his public indiscretions.
I shook my head and drained the coffee from my afternoon stop at Dunkin's. I was always the intermediary, always stuck cleaning up Angus's messes. I didn't know when I earned that role but seeing as I never let him get to me it was mine to keep.
I felt a glimmer of wry relief Angus hadn't shown up at one of my properties to deliver the news of his acquisitions in person. Increasingly, his appearances were moving out of the office's controlled environment and into public venues. And after my face-off with the inspector, a visit from Angus would have gone down as smoothly as a shot of scotch and a handful of nails.
"Fuck," I sighed. "Just…fuck."
"You know there's nothing I enjoy more than Angus and his little visits. We need to hire a bouncer."
On most days, Shannon was a steamroller and that was putting it mildly, but when Angus was in the office, he usually raked her over the coals. He treated her with such derision and scorn I couldn't help but take those bullets for her. She shouldered more than her share of the work and family burdens.
"We probably should," I murmured. "Shan, I gotta go. I'm late for a client and I'm lost in Dorchester. I'll figure out how to deal with him later. Be a duck. Don't let him get to you. He's not worth it."
"I don't want to hear about your fucking ducks, Matt."
After fifteen minutes circling the streets of Dorchester and some help from Siri, I scaled the steps of Saint Cosmas while pulling on the fleece vest embroidered with our new Walsh Associates logo—another in an endless line of changes to make the firm our own.
Weeds stood tall around the perimeter and vines roped up one side, over the roofline, and down the other. Small trees grew out of the parking lot, the roots leaving behind eruptions of concrete. The earth was repossessing the structure. A quick inventory of the church and the attached hall told me the work involved the two E's: extensive and expensive.
"Oh, hi, over here." I turned my focus away from the sagging roofline and stone pillars toward a female voice. "Hi, I'm Lauren Halsted."
She came in about nine, maybe ten inches under my six-three, though the energy she projected made up for the small package. Tucked into a navy skirt and jacket with her rich blonde hair loose at her shoulders, she turned a slow smile toward me. The professional suit did nothing to disguise her curves, and for a moment, I stared at her, wondering what a pin-up girl was doing at a Dorchester church.
My expectations had run closer to a graying librarian or grandmotherly type. Who else would want to convert an aging church hall into an elementary school?
"Miss Halsted, hi, Matt Walsh. I apologize, I didn't mean to keep you waiting." I squeezed her hand, but it was the shimmers of gold in her green eyes catching my attention. I'd never seen anything like it before, and I couldn't look away.
"Oh please don't give it a second thought. And call me Lauren. Let's get inside, and I'll tell you what I'm thinking."
I held open the heavy, warped door for Miss Halsted and found myself gazing at something even more captivating than her eyes: her ass. It was round and firm, and the craving to squeeze it—hard—left my fingers itching. And then her legs. Deeply tanned, natural and without a hint of that strange spray-on shit.
She was talking, but between her butterscotch-washed voice and the dark freckles on her calves, my brain didn't have the bandwidth to listen. Angry creaks echoed from the floorboards and plumes of dust swirled around her ankles, and then I noticed the leopard-print Come Fuck Me heels.
Those looked good on her.
Finding myself admiring the lilt in Lauren's voice and her sultry features was a surprise. She wasn't my type. Not even a little bit.
I liked beasts—ass-kicking, whey protein-and-oatmeal-guzzling beasts who preferred compression sleeves and hydration belts to jewelry and flowers. I liked women who planned their lives around Color Runs, Tough Mudders, and the Ironman circuit. I liked women who could bench press my weight, and those within a few inches of my height, and even the ones who liked to remind me they could knock my ass into next Friday. I was about hard-core athletic women, usually ones from my marathon and triathlon circles, and always ones who wanted only fast, stringless sex.
Maybe I was irreversibly fucked-up, but beast mode worked for me.
Lauren was short and soft, with generous, real curves. Everything about her screamed sexy as fuck, yet innocent and warm. Not even within striking distance of beastly.
And this was an architectural consult, for Christ's sake. I wasn't here to think about her or types or freckles or sexy-ass shoes. And women like her married young. Anyone with sense would have snapped her up the minute it was legal. She had naughty schoolteacher written all over that sunny blonde smile, and I was willing to bet she was bent over someone's knee every night.
Client, client, client.
Fuck, I needed to stop thinking about spanking this chick and get my head in the game.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I turned away and inventoried the hall's structure. Rays of daylight shone through the ceiling. Crisp autumn air wafted in through broken stained glass windows. Beams listed at precarious angles. Water damage and wood rot long ago destroyed everything worth preserving. It was a train wreck—my favorite kind of project.
"…so this area could be divided into four classrooms and five small offices over there. I know the plumbing needs updating. What would it take to add another set of bathrooms down here?"
My phone's structural engineering apps came to life under my fingers while I eyed the space. Perhaps train wreck was a gracious characterization.
I looked up from my phone to watch Lauren traversing decayed stairs to a small alcove—in the CFMs, no less. When she shot her left arm out to steady herself, there were exactly zero rings on those fingers.
Client, client, client.
Get through the consult, I thought. Plenty of time fo
r thinking about fucking Little Miss Naughty Schoolteacher when she was out of sight.
I ran my hands along the pillars flanking the main room. The feel of an unstable load-bearing structure was unmistakable, and I stopped caring who Miss Halsted went home to at night. I jogged across the hall, slowing only when I reached her side. "Time to go."
Eyes narrowed, she studied my grip on her bicep. "Excuse me? What's going on?"
I yanked her outside and shook my head. "Miss Halsted. You need to stay away from this place. It's not stable. Go across the street. Now."
Lauren's lips fell into a tight line. Maybe she was the one doing the spanking. "I'm fine right here, thank you."
If this place wasn't a breath from caving in around us, my dick would have been standing at attention and waiting for marching orders, and I would've had only that sharp look and bossy tone to blame.
"The load on this structure"—I pointed to the roof—"is causing extensive stresses and deformations on the internal supports. The walls, the pillars. And I'd bet anything the foundation has deteriorated beyond repair. A strong gust and this place is coming down. I want you fifty feet away, Miss Halsted." I passed my fingers down the stone column for emphasis, a trail of sand and pebbles trickling to the ground.
"I'm only Miss Halsted inside the classroom. Call me Lauren." Her smile was serene, yet wholly impatient. "Are you sure?"
"I make a point of knowing safe structures." I wanted to drag her across the street, lock her in the car, and then…well, those interests weren't part of a standard consult. "But let me take a closer look at the foundation. Stay right here."
The property borders told the same story. The site needed a full rebuild, if not a straight teardown and that was no surprise after surveying the interior. I debated how we'd get a team in place to preserve the only thing worth saving: a round, eastern-facing stained glass window. The time and money would be huge, and wouldn't help her project in the least.
Rounding the perimeter, my chest lurched when I noticed her staring at the structure, her plump, red lip trapped between her teeth. She looked frustrated and determined, and so fucking desirable, and even if it was a giant pain in my ass, I wanted to find a solution and make this right for her.
"I could run some more calculations at the office, see to a few variables. But," I hedged as the sparkle returned to her eyes, "I can't promise anything."
"Thank you. I knew we'd find a way to make this work," Lauren said.
She started down the church steps toward me but a worn patch of granite caught her heel and she shrieked, pitching forward. Her chin was headed for the sidewalk when my hand seized her elbow, and I jerked her against me. The adrenaline was pumping too fast, and my brain couldn't focus on the slide of her silky hair against my chin, or her sweet scent engraving itself on my memory.
"I was going to stick that landing," she said. Her expression was dead serious, but it wasn't until a shy smirk pulled at her lips that I understood the humor.
"I bet you were," I murmured. I kept my arm around her lower back, my hand cradling her waist. "Are you okay?"
Her palms laid flat against my chest and I didn't want her pulling away yet. My fingers had plans of their own, and they flexed, kneading the flesh beneath her suit coat. There was strength under all that softness.
And those eyes, they couldn't decide if they were green or gold.
She released a shaky laugh and looked up. "Quick reflexes. I knew you were the man for my project."
I was close enough to kiss her. She was short, and I'd have to bend down to meet her, but then I'd determine whether she tasted as sweet as she looked.
"Oh yeah?" I didn't know much about the correlation between reflexes and decent architects, but it seemed like something I wanted to hear. And if she noticed me rubbing her back or staring at her mouth, it didn't show.
"You're all over it and one step ahead, even when I knock myself down some stairs, which is not a new occurrence for me. Sadly." She paused, realizing her hands were on my chest, and pulled them away to rake through her hair. "I need people who won't give up on this project. I'm not stopping until I get a yes from you."
I reminded myself we were still talking about this shithole property, and not the seventy-two other activities to which I'd eagerly agree. But that bossy tone was addictive. Mesmerizing. Sexy as fuck. "I'll do my best."
"I know you will." Her arms wrapped around my shoulders and she folded me into a fierce hug. "Thank you," she said, her breath whispering over my ear. It was gentle and light, and if she didn't step back in the next three seconds, my hand was going to introduce itself to her ass.
Client, client, client.
"Okay, well, that's wonderful," I murmured.
Retreat. Disengage. Fall back.
Thirty was too old for midday erections on the sidewalk. A stiff pat to her shoulder, a giant step backward, and a notebook over my crotch kept my dignity intact.
For the moment.
Hugging clients wasn't a standard part of my consults. Neither was caring. I was good at numbers, structures, and ratios. It was a pleasant coincidence that I usually liked my clients, and because I was good at getting shit done, and delivering on time and under budget, they liked me. Somehow, I managed to both hug Miss Halsted and care about her happiness inside an hour.
And let's not forget the waking wet dream.
"I'll run some numbers. Probably get back to you in a day or two." I tried ignoring her smile—I could feel it piercing my skin, stabbing me like little pins of sweet, sinful joy—and gestured to the stone steps. "Watch out for stairs."
Lauren nodded and accepted my card. "Thank you so much. For everything." Her gaze swiveled between the steps and me, and she laughed. "I sent all of my information to your assistant last week, but if you need anything else…"
There was more, something she wanted to say, but it melted on her tongue and she presented her card instead. I felt only the brush of her fingertips against my palm, but it was enough to send electricity charging through my veins.
I didn't know what the naughty schoolteacher was doing to me.
"Call me. Day or night. This project is my life. Really. Anytime."
But I didn't think I wanted it to stop.
I went a couple more rounds with the inspector on the Back Bay brownstone restorations that were giving me hell, but after six hours of fixing mistakes and chewing some general contractor ass, all I had to show for it was a pounding headache. Making tracks on at least ten miles of pavement was the only answer, but at the rate my day was going, I'd be running at midnight. Exhausted, I climbed the stairs to the Beacon Hill headquarters of Walsh Associates and waved to Shannon and Patrick when I passed her office. Inviting myself into their weekly budget-and-sushi meeting was the last thing any sane person needed.
Settling into my desk, I stared out the eyebrow dormer windows at the night sky. Why did I do this? Insane hours, impossible expectations, bitch-ass inspectors. Why did I put up with this?
There was always Lauren Halsted.
If pulling a bubbly blonde from an unstable building and subsequently preventing her from eating concrete were the highlights of my day, I was calling it a memorable day. The full-body embrace put an interesting spin on things. A scarf camouflaged the finer aspects of her chest, but the second she was up against me, her full breasts were unmistakable.
Something else unmistakable? The semi I got from those tits and the vision of my hands all over them while she rode me. I couldn't remember the last time my hands explored a body like Lauren's, if ever. She wasn't sculpted or race-hardened. She was real, all feminine, and completely foreign to me. And a client and not my type and I needed something else to occupy my mind.
Fast.
I demolished a Reuben sandwich while listening to voicemails, and sighed—and couldn't repress a smile—when her voice filled the room.
"Hi, Mr. Walsh, this is Lauren Halsted. From the Saint Cosmas property. Touching base to see if you have any updates f
or me. Looking forward to hearing from you."
I pulled up the specs of her project on my laptop.
"Mr. Walsh, this is Lauren Halsted again. Please feel free to reach out with updates. I'm free anytime. Looking forward to hearing from you. About the Saint Cosmas project."
I checked the timestamp on her calls. Thirty-five minutes apart. "She wasn't joking when she said it was her life," I murmured.
"Mr. Walsh, this is Lauren Halsted calling. Sorry to trouble you. I've emailed some information gathered from a feasibility study completed on the site a few years ago. Again, please call me. Anytime. Looking forward to hearing from you."
I crumpled the sandwich wrappings and turned my attention to the Saint Cosmas project. The calculations were quick, and confirmed everything I suspected: the site was completely unstable. The costs of rehab far exceeded Lauren's budget, and that was before we started talking about restoration or turning it green.
Annoyed, I rolled my eyes at the screen. I probably would have been prepared with that information before this afternoon's meeting if I wasn't managing a ridiculous project load and incapable of seeing more than four minutes ahead at any given time. Regardless, I wanted another visit with Miss Halsted, and I wanted to touch her again.
And I figured she'd want to go through the data in person, piece by piece. She seemed thorough like that. Flicking a glimpse at my watch, I decided it wasn't too late to call.
"Hi, this is Lauren."
Fuck, I wanted to know what she was wearing. In detail. The conservative suit made me think of cotton panties in safe, subtle colors, but those heels said red thong. And I wanted to get to the bottom of that controversy.
Client, client, client.
"Miss Halsted, Matt Walsh. How are you this evening?"
"We're not in my classroom, Matt. Lauren is fine," she laughed, but her tone was no nonsense. It went in my ear and straight down to my dick. "So great to hear from you so soon. Any news on the site?"
We were pushing and pulling against a strange layer of formality. Was she still Miss Halsted because I was imagining her underwear, and fighting like hell not to? Or because she was my only full-body contact since the triathlon chick in July? Or was it the naughty schoolteacher thing?
The Walsh Brothers Page 2
