"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."
Lauren: :)
Matthew: I'm getting a beer with Riley. Text me when you board.
Matthew: Or when TSA picks you up for drunk and disorderly conduct, whichever comes first.
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.
Lauren: I'll have you know I'm on the flight. No incidents to report.
Matthew: how many hurricanes?
Lauren: just 2.
Matthew: and you're standing?
Lauren: sitting but pleasantly intoxicated and holding it together just fine.
Matthew: you'll be able to make it out of the terminal?
Lauren: you really underestimate me, Matthew.
Lauren: my brothers used to take me out drinking and then try kidnapping me
Lauren: they'd time how long it took me to escape
Matthew: 1. that's incredibly weird
Matthew: 2. they are going to beat the shit out of me someday, aren't they?
Lauren: I'm ignoring all that nonsense you just spouted. I will see you at the curb in 3 hrs.
Matthew: text me when you land. I'll come inside if you want.
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."
Matthew: only if you let me.
Lauren: you know I will.
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.
21
Lauren
Sliding 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 overthi
nking 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?"
"Everything is awesome," he said. "We sold those brownstones, the ones in the Back Bay. All of them. Out of my hands, finally, and off the books. And it was a big sale."
"Matthew, I am so thrilled for you. That's incredible!"
I knew he'd been dedicating long hours to that project and dealing with all manner of problems.
"Hey, so, whenever we have huge wins like this, we go out and celebrate. And I want you with us tonight."
I was about to say no—it seemed like something Matthew should enjoy with his business partners and I had a ton of work to plow through this weekend—but I caught my reflection in the mirror and paused. I looked the same as always, but I was different now, somehow more me than I was before. With my phone tucked between my shoulder and head, and a half dozen bras under my arm, I decided planetary alignment wasn't the only reason for a night out.
"Okay. Let me finish these errands, and meet me at my place in an hour."
"Does that mean you'll let me stay over when you get hammered and I have to carry you home?" Matthew asked.
"If anyone's getting hammered—"
"Just say yes, sweetness. I'm happy and I want to spend the night with you and not everything needs to be a debate."
"Fine. You can stay over. But I'll definitely want croissants for breakfast tomorrow morning," I said.
"And I'll definitely want you sucking my cock for breakfast. Let's see who wins."
"Such a caveman," I groaned.
"You're bossy. You leave me no choice."
Matthew's mischievous grin caught my eye as we walked toward the tiny bistro on Park Street. Almost an hour late to meet his siblings, my skirt was on sideways and there were very distinct teeth marks on my collarbone. We could safely add sex hair to the list, too.
He had been waiting at my door, zeroing in on the Forty Winks bag the moment I rounded the corner, and we barely made it to the bed.
"Good thing you have so many scarves," he chuckled.
"Yeah, so you can be a little vampire."
He smirked, and I was tempted to drag him back to my place and beg for his teeth all over again.
"Your brothers and Shannon are going to take one look at us and know," I murmured.
"No, they're not. They're busy getting drunk and talking about how many times I fucked up this build. Far bigger issues than whether I spent the past hour owning your pussy."
He grabbed my hand, kissing my palm then lacing our fingers together as we joined the group inside the restaurant.
I'd seen plenty of Shannon since returning from my conference travel. We went so far as to calendar drinks and pedicures, and spent the weeks before our appointments harassing each other to get shit done and not cancel at the last minute. So far, it was working.
Riley often accompanied Matthew to Trench Mills, and he occasionally led the progress-monitoring walk-throughs. He was charming and sarcastic, and if my parents had ever given me the younger sibling I requested on multiple Christmas lists, I would have wanted him to be exactly like Riley.
Sam and Patrick were still question marks for me, and Matthew didn't share much about either. He jogged with Patrick, which was to say Matthew jogged and Patrick—allegedly—complained about it for the duration.
We sat, and after a round of greetings and brotherly ball-busting, the table fell quiet and all eyes were on me. It was painfully obvious I was the only outsider, the non-architect, the plus-one, and it felt oddly similar to sneaking into my brothers' tree house when I was four.
"Why the fuck did you kick me?" Sam yelled, his glare leveled on Matthew.
"Consider it a warning shot," he mouthed.
"If I may," Riley said from beside me, his hand raised for silence. "You shouldn't be staring at Miss Honey's tits, Sam. She's a nice lady, not one of your party girls, and I would've kicked you, too."
"Is that a thing now?" Shannon asked. She passed the white wine to me, the red to Matthew. "'Miss Honey?'"
Nicknames were a rite of passage for this group. Initially I found them rude and rather cruel—how else can you explain referring to Sam as 'the runt'?—but I came to see them as part of the Walsh DNA. They were tough on each other, yelling and criticizing and insulting each other easily, and swearing with impunity, but it was how they showed their love. I figured their name-calling was roughly equivalent to the elaborate training operations Wes and Will staged with the Commodore.
"Yeah, I'm taking credit for this one," Riley said. "I think we should adopt her."
I felt Matthew's gaze on me but I couldn't interpret his preoccupied stare, his slow, measured sips, or the way his eyes lingered on my face.
"Do you adopt many people?" I asked.
"So far? Just Nick," Patrick said.
Nick was the one person apt to show up at Matthew's door at six on a Sunday morning and drag him out for a bike ride, or invite himself in for breakfast. The pediatric neurosurgeon and I got to talking several weeks ago, and discovered a shared nostalgia for the West. We missed In-N-Out Burger and street grids that made sense, and admitted to love-hate relationships with New England winters. My Commodore Halsted stories could go toe-to-toe with stories from his superstitious grandmother. We were both the babies—he had two older sisters—and to the dismay of our families, we both ended up staying on the east coast after college.
"What's his nickname?" I asked.
"Doctor," Patrick said. "And we aren't entirely sure he's earned that one."
"And what's yours?" I asked Matthew. Still watching me with his wine glass in hand, a curious expression moved across his face, as if he was trying to understand something complex.
He shook his head. "Never found one that stuck."
"That is not true," Shannon said. "More like you squirmed out of everything we tried."
"The Flash," Sam offered. "He is a brisk runner."
"Jugger," Riley said. "For that hard head."
"None of them worked," Patrick said.
"We even tried Mitt, you know, for MIT." Sam shrugged. "I prefer Mitzy, but that one didn't last."
"Thankfully," Matthew muttered.
Dinner was fun, and chock-full of ridiculous stories about the brownstone restorations. The one about the flooded basement. The one about the nest of bats in the linen closet. The one about the frozen grout. The one about the small pet cemetery in the backyard. The one about the ghost because why else would the plumbing materials mysteriously relocate themselves every night?
"You live around here, right?" Sam asked, gesturing toward me and—finally—keeping his eye
s above my chest. "Matt said you're in an awesome building. Good light?"
"Yeah, just over on Chestnut and River. I have really big windows, and these cool ones in the bathroom with little, um—"
"Muntins," Matthew supplied. His hand was on my upper thigh, and it had been there since he finished eating. I figured he was six seconds away from licking my neck and peeing a circle around me, and if that weren't tragically gross, it would be endearing. "A diagonal diamond casing, just like the ones we saw in the West End last week, Patrick."
"Those were old." Patrick considered this, nodding and staring into his glass. He was a chatty drinker, and I liked it. Much of that cool exterior warmed with the alcohol. "Have you been there long?"
"And can we buy the building because I really want some garden-side restoration action," Sam added.
"Can we let the cash sit in the bank for twenty minutes, Samuel? God help me," Shannon muttered.
"I've been there about three years, and I don't know whether it's for sale, but I will be moving in a few months. The guy I sublet from is finishing a tour in Afghanistan soon."
I felt it again, Matthew's gaze on me, weighty and potent. As he watched me, I sensed pieces of me shifting and realigning, my muscles and bones and organs making space inside me to accommodate the immense pressure of his stare.
Sipping my wine, I cut my eyes in his direction, trying to translate the unspoken currents between us.
"When?" he asked. It came out as a whisper, hoarse and pleading, and now I sensed four more pairs of eyes on me.
On us.
"In the new year. January or February, but knowing the military, maybe later."
"And what are you looking for?" Nodding, he added, "I know what you need and I think I know what you want, but I'd like to hear you say it."
Discussing my apartment search with Matthew's entire family seemed strange, especially tonight, but I knew they loved talking real estate, and he was responsible for finding my other home: Trench Mills.
The Walsh Brothers Page 19
