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.
10
Matthew
"Good 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.
I continued measuring, photographing, sketching, and Lauren didn't look up from her phone. Reciting numbers aloud and noisily retracting my tape measure didn't draw her attention, and when I had more data than necessary, I said, "I'm good. We can probably—"
She whirled around, her hands on her hips and forehead wrinkled. "What's your middle initial stand for?"
"What?" I heard the question; I really didn't want to a
nswer it. Lauren stared at me, and somehow this one inquiry was the test. I groaned and crossed my arms over my chest. "Listen. I don't let this out much but you're nice. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
"What are you? Eleven?"
"Thirty," I said. "Now, you first."
"Olivia. Your turn." She gestured, urging me to answer.
"Antrim."
She stepped closer, shaking her head. "What was that?"
"Antrim. My mother, she came here alone from Ireland when she was fifteen, and gave all six of us ridiculous Irish middle names, all starting with A. I got stuck with Antrim. I frequently draw the short straw."
Lauren nodded, her eyes cast downward at the dingy concrete flooring. She was carrying on a full conversation with herself, complete with raised eyebrows and head shaking.
"So like I said, I've got everything I need, and—"
"Don't you want a night off? Maybe some time away from me?"
My gaze swept over the mill's interior, as if I'd find something in the empty space to diffuse my exasperation. Why the fuck would she think that?
"No. Definitely not." I scratched my chin, not wanting to ask the question but knowing it was necessary. "Do you?"
She studied her scarf, the fabric twisting around her fingers and then unfurling. "It's a thing, a big thing, actually. Tonight. My friends, Amanda and Stephanie, they're both moving in the next few weeks, and we're having a party for them. And…" She sighed and tore her eyes away from her scarf. "And you could come. With me, that is. For a drink."
I didn't know what to make of meeting her friends when she barely agreed to see me today, and I didn't know whether drinks meant drinks, but I knew Lauren was predictably unpredictable. No rational order to be found.
But at least I knew she wasn't seeing some random guy tonight.
"I think I will come with you."
Fifteen miles of pavement always did me good, and tonight was no exception. As usual, it tied off my lingering annoyance with Angus over the Bunker Hill properties and other stresses from the week. It helped that Patrick's ass was parked in a British pub in Cambridge that broadcast his favorite soccer leagues, and not bitching about my route choice.
Back inside my loft, I grabbed a beer before stepping into the shower and spent a few minutes drinking under the water. It would have driven my mother crazy, and if she had lived to see me drinking in the shower, I'm certain she would have taken one of her wooden spoons to my ass because of it.
The places where my mother should have been were everywhere, but it wasn't the big moments—graduations, birthdays, holidays—that haunted me. It was the everyday moments, when I craved her spaghetti or needed to know the right gift to send for the birth of an old friend's baby, when I felt it the most.
The thought lodged in my throat, and I choked down the remnants of the beer. I dried off and headed for the den, knowing I owed Erin a response.
Her emails flashed across my phone all day, along with a torrent of calls and texts from Shannon about getting my shit together on the Bunker Hill properties before Angus went postal. Patrick wanted status reports on the brownstones, Sam needed me looking at a foundational decay issue, and Riley was very concerned about getting my take on his Fantasy Football league. All said, I had nineteen missed calls, thirty-two texts, and fifty-one emails from my siblings.
* * *
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: September 25 at 17:03 CEST
Subject: RE: Matt's mental breakdown
* * *
Since you haven't updated me on chica, I presume you've decided to climb Mount Washington together, or swim to Quincy Bay, or whatever you athletic types do, and you're living happily ever after.
* * *
(have I mentioned that I find that bizarre—isn't life difficult enough without choosing to climb things?)
* * *
Or chica kicked you in the balls and you're lying in a gutter somewhere and she wasn't as incredible you thought she was. BTW—In Italia now.
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: September 25 at 18:31 EDT
Subject: Not climbing Mt Washington
* * *
E –
Everything's awesome.
M
I pulled another beer from the refrigerator when I heard my phone ringing, and answered without looking at the screen. Odds were high Lauren was calling to cancel or a sibling was in need of something completely unessential. "Hello?"
"Everything's awesome? That's all I get? It's been ten hours, and I get a one-line response with zero descriptive details? Really, Matt?"
"But at least I know what it takes to get you on the phone." Smiling at Erin's ever-present piss and vinegar, I edged my hip on the counter and sipped my beer. "What would you like to know?"
"What does she look like? Give me a point of reference."
I ran my hand through my damp hair, thinking. "She's blonde, green eyes, twenty-eight, a little shorter than you, wears a lot of scarves—"
"Okay, scarves, that tells me everything. So you're with her now? You're dating?"
"Do people still use that term?"
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Erin muttered. "Matt, you're making it hard for me to tolerate you right now."
"Why are you being such a bitch about this?"
"I'm not! I just think you're getting a little carried away with chica—"
"Her name is Lauren," I snapped.
"Okay, great, you're getting a little carried away with Lauren. I mean, come on, you hooked up with her and then went into meltdown mode this morning. Do you even know her birthday? Her favorite citrus fruit? These are the important things, Matt, and it would suck to realize after a few months that she loves pomelos and you're all about tangerines. Take your pussy goggles off."
I wanted—no, needed—Erin on my side. "I don't ask you for much, E, and right now, I'm asking you not to analyze it. We're just hanging out. That's it."
"All right," Erin sighed. "But you better not—"
"I gotta go, E," I interrupted as the doorbell rang. "I'll keep you posted."
"I want proof of this in the form of pictures! You and chica, ASAP!"
A towel knotted on my hips and a half-empty beer bottle in my hand, I swung open the door to find Lauren in a blue sequined dress that barely covered her ass. "Holy fuck," I groaned.
Her eyes landed on my chest and then traveled lower, staring at the towel as she shut the door behind her. "Uh-huh."
I leaned against the wall and polished off my beer, somewhat surprised she chose to show up at all. "Where are your pants, sweetness?"
"Where are yours?"
That bossy little mouth. I wanted to hate it, I wanted to shove my cock in it, but more than anything, I loved it.
Locking a hand on her elbow, I pulled her to me, and lifted the loaded tote and silver gift bags from her. We watched each other for a heavy minute, the air between us shifting, heating. And then we attacked each other. Our lips crashed together, urgent and hungry, as if we spent three years apart instead of three hours.
Lauren's back against the wall, I dropped to my knees and hiked that blood-quickening excuse for a dress over her waist, and I found pale pink panties waiting for me. "Are these for my benefit, Miss Halsted?"
Her shoulders squared, she gazed down at me with a solemn expression. "I can't imagine why you'd think that, Mr. Walsh."
"Filthy, filthy girl," I said. The silky fabric slipped to her ankles and I hooked her leg over my shoulder, her laughter ringing around us. Her fingers dug into my hair when my tongue swiped her bare folds, and it was everything I craved about her—her taste, her sounds, her shivers.
"We should go-ooo," Lauren moaned. I glanced up at her from my knees but kept my tongue fused to her clit. "You really need to get dressed."
Lauren halfheartedly pushed away from the wall, and I tightened my grip on her ass. I growled against her before looking up again.
"Is this not working for you? Your pussy seems to be enjoying it."
The conflict was clear in her eyes, and I wondered whether I should feel the same, but I didn't understand what she found so problematical. I didn't see what could be wrong with this when we both wanted it, and we knew the rules of the game.
Her fingers curled around my hair, pulling me closer, directing me where she needed me, all while she shook her head. "No," she whispered.
"That's bullshit. Now stay right here," I said. "I know what you need."
"And what's that?" Her fingers attacked a knot in my shoulder while I returned to her folds, nipping and licking until we were both breathing hard.
I wanted her obscene words, but I knew if I asked for them they'd take over, and there were a few things I wanted to know before that happened.
"You need to be fucked properly, and I sincerely doubt anyone's ever done that for you." Two fingers pushed inside her, and her body immediately found its rhythm. "At least not before last night."
"Oh really?"
I nodded, my tongue teasing her. Last night with Lauren was indescribable. It redefined everything I knew about sex, adding layers of complexity and connection I never thought possible. And then there was her quietly obvious inexperience, and the unrestricted trust she placed in my hands. She was far from pure, but fuck, she was innocent.
"I knew last night. Either no one's ever gone down on you before, or you've never come from it. Which one is it?"
Lauren's head fell against the wall and her eyes closed, and for several minutes, the only sounds were her frantic murmurs and pleas for more. Then she ran her hands through my hair, canted my head to meet her eyes, and said, "You were my first."
"I like that." My tongue pressed against Lauren's clit, and I felt her orgasm pulsating around my fingers. In the distance I could hear her speaking, feel her clawing at my shoulders, but all I could hear was mine, mine, mine. It was the only thing I heard when Miss Halsted was around.
The Walsh Brothers Page 9
