The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  Patrick ran his thumb and forefinger along his chin, his stubble rasping against his fingers and filling the silence with a slight grating sound. He stared at me, and I held his gaze while curiosity replaced his chilly indifference.

  "You know a lot about the competition."

  "I make it a priority to always know what I'm going up against," I replied. "And as I'm sure you know, there's no shortage of gossip at Cornell."

  "Do you always succeed? Do you always know what you're up against?"

  I offered a slight shrug.

  "All right. Andy, it was amazing to meet you," Shannon interjected, an eye trained on her brother.

  The articles I read about Shannon suggested she knew her shit and enough of everyone else's too—real estate license at eighteen, first seven-figure sale at twenty, business degree at twenty-one, law degree at twenty-five. Everything I read pointed to her real estate savvy as the kick-start Walsh Associates needed to survive and thrive through the housing market crisis, though she insisted that success was a product of their team.

  And fuck me if I didn't want to be on that team more than I wanted warm blood pumping in my veins.

  "We expect to finalize our candidate pool this week, and you'll be hearing from me. Can I give you directions to South Station, or call you a cab? Do you have a sense about town?"

  "No need," I replied, my eyes locked on Patrick while I responded to Shannon. "I'm here a few more days."

  Standing, Shannon extended her hand across the table. "In that case, enjoy the week and stay out of the cold. Not too different from Ithaca, I know, but I think we have better restaurants."

  "More variety," I offered. "I'll take Boston over Ithaca any day."

  "Funny," Shannon said as she rounded the table and gestured toward the door. "Patrick says the exact same thing." Shaking her head, she smiled. "My assistant, Tom Esbeck, will show you out. Again, so fantastic to finally meet you." She leaned out the door and bellowed, "Tom!"

  I nodded, taking in the pristinely preserved Beacon Hill offices. Working here would be a dream come true.

  I glanced back at Patrick. He didn't offer any parting words or acknowledgement, but the inquisitiveness in his eyes seemed to grow with each moment I held his gaze. I felt his stare on me as I exited the conference room, and a subtle toss of my hair told me he was still staring when I walked down the hallway.

  2

  Patrick

  What was that? What the actual hell was that?

  A long curtain of dark, wavy hair caught my eye through the conference room windows. I stared after it, half expecting to develop X-ray vision to see through brick walls, half hating myself for noticing it in the first place.

  Shannon leaned against the door and squealed, "She is freaking awesome!"

  Andy was nothing like the other candidates with their nervous tics, obvious immaturity, and shortage of authentic interest in this type of work.

  She radiated cool confidence. Her gestures were measured and meaningful, her speech deliberate.

  How she could sit there while I hit her with impossible scenarios and answer as if she expected the goddamn questions, cool as a fucking cucumber, was beyond me. I dug in with increasingly outlandish questions—problems I was trying to bend my brain around—with the perverted hope I'd break that cool.

  Didn't happen, and I couldn't explain why I was determined to shake her. See her ruffled. Get her flustered.

  I scrubbed my hand over my face, a feeble attempt at slowing my galloping heart rate. Nothing prepared me for Andy. I knew I'd be interviewing one of the most accomplished and focused candidates to apply for our fledgling apprenticeship, but I didn't anticipate an unflappable spine of steel enthralled by my work.

  It got even more interesting when she wouldn't let me shut her down. She wanted to learn from me. She was demanding it. I knew it was inappropriate but the moment those words passed her lips I started drowning in fantasies far filthier than anything my mind had ever produced.

  Oh, yes. I could teach her plenty.

  My head and my dick wrestled for control in ways I'd never before experienced when Andy told me she wasn't finished. But noticing attractive women never fucked with my mind. Was this it? Was my sanity on its way out?

  People didn't usually take me on, yet I had the distinct impression Andy would provoke the shit out of me with her poignant commentary and patronizingly dismissive "hm." I could see her sitting back and allowing me a tiny smile while I went ballistic over that "hm."

  I barely noticed Shan's babbling.

  "…perfect for you. She's taking her licensing boards in June but if this works out, we could bring her on long term to build your capacity. She said she's in town the rest of the week. I say we get her back this afternoon and make an offer."

  No. Hell no. Not with her maddeningly unfazed responses to my brutal questions. Not with her steady gazes and precise expressions. Not with those dark eyes that were altogether too wise, too perceptive for her age. Andy needed to take her eyes and that smile far away from this office. Mentoring her was out of the question.

  "No. She's like a…a feral cat, Shan."

  "What?" She dropped into a seat across the conference table, her face twisted in irritated confusion. I loved Shannon in full-on Black Widow ass-kicking mode unless she was aiming her Avengers-style wrath at me.

  "All that hair and her voice. She seemed annoying." Both of those things were very real problems. I'd never seen so much hair in my life. Thick, dark, uncontrollably curling. It was mythical. Odysseus would have had something to say about that hair.

  "You're annoying. This whole process is annoying. I want to find a freaking apprentice for you and move on with my life. Is that so hard? We're talking about six months, Patrick. I don't see why you can't handle working with someone like Andy for six months. We've been searching since November. It's time to nut up, man."

  "She acts like she knows it all." I shook my head. "I can't see her cutting it at a jobsite, Shan. Doesn't look like she can lift more than a latte."

  I couldn't help it; lame responses kept spewing out while my brain fixated on that voice. If aged whiskey had a sound, it would be Andy's voice, all heady and rich, with a slow burn as it went down.

  "Did you notice those fancy boots? I'm not about to wait on some girl because she tiptoes around in heels and is afraid of messing up her nails."

  I noticed the boots. I noticed them and the long legs encased in them about four seconds after I ripped my eyes away from her hair. They went all the way up to her knees. All I could think about was wrapping those legs around my neck and feeling those ridiculous heels digging into my back while she writhed against my face.

  Yep. That was a normal thought for the start of an interview.

  Shannon rested her forehead against the table alongside her flattened palms. "The universe needs to help a bitch out."

  "And there's her complete lack of originality," I continued, pulling at any thread possible to weaken Andy's candidacy. "She wants to learn from me? No design vision of her own? That's weak. I can't work with that."

  Mentoring Andy would be the cruelest form of punishment.

  Shannon lifted her head, leveling me with a patented Black Widow death stare reserved for moments when I was epically fucking things up.

  "As your counsel," she started, her voice ripe with loosely restrained anger, "I am advising you to evaluate Miss Asani on her credentials rather than her shoes or hair. I am advising you to read her résumé, specifically where it lists her extensive jobsite experience as well as hands-on experience with Habitat. She's built fucking houses with her manicured hands, asshole."

  She slammed her hand on the pages in front of me. I glanced at the name streaming across the top of her résumé: Andy A. M. Asani. I never liked people with two middle names.

  "As your sister and a professional woman myself, I am advising you to get your head out of your ass and recognize that she is the most exceptional candidate you have met—by far. Please
keep in mind that people come to interviews looking their best. They don't show up in tromp-around-a-construction-site clothes." She sighed and folded her arms over her chest. "I'd also love to know when you became such a raging misogynist. It's quite surprising to hear after all this time you evaluate a candidate's competency on the height of her heels."

  "I don't think of you as a girl. You're more of a honey badger." I lifted a shoulder. I could not mentor Andy. I didn't care if Shannon was right. "Can't get around the originality issue. I want someone with thoughts of their own."

  Shannon fisted her hands and banged them against the table.

  "Last week you said no on Robert because he had too many of his own ideas, and you wouldn't be able to teach him a fucking thing. Which one is it, Patrick?"

  Her screech brought work outside the conference room to a momentary halt. It wasn't Shannon's first and it wouldn't be her last today. Shrugging, I met her narrowed eyes.

  She was my best friend and confidante but I couldn't tell her I spent the past hour looking at Andy's mouth because I had never seen such fuckable lips, or that looking at those lips on a daily basis would drive me to alcohol dependency if they didn't give me an aneurysm first. I couldn't tell Shannon that, while listening to Andy's responses, I spread her across the table, tied her hands behind her back, and fucked her six times in my mind.

  "She's not the right candidate, Shan."

  "How is that fucking possible, Patrick?" Shaking her head, she stood and opened the door. "Samuel Aidan! Get in here."

  We stared each other down until Sam strolled inside. His eyes swept between us, lighting with amusement as he digested our standoff. The runt always took her side.

  "We're in full first and middle name mode today, Shannon Abigael? Shall I fetch Matthew Antrim or Riley Augustin?"

  She handed Andy's résumé to Sam with a nod. "I want your gut reaction."

  He skimmed the document, his eyebrows lifting and his head bobbing while he read. I sank deeper into the seat, knowing I was dead in the water.

  On paper, Andy was the picture of perfection for us. Unlike most candidates, including the ones she mentioned, she wanted to work in our preservation-meets-sustainability niche, and came with the experience to prove it. She was competent enough to dive into the projects specifically earmarked for this role, and would require less handholding than the majority of recent grads.

  But if I had to inhale one more ounce of her light flowery scent, my head and dick would simultaneously explode.

  "Hire. Immediately." Glancing between us, he asked, "What exactly is the nature of the debate? Unless he kicked—"

  "She," I interrupted.

  "Unless she kicked a puppy in front of you, I'm unclear as to why we'd wait. It is mystifying that a candidate of this caliber isn't already slated for an apprenticeship, and you should know that, Patrick Arden."

  I glared at him and his fussy gray suit with his pink shirt and pink tie. And the goddamn matching pocket square. He couldn't look more the part of a sustainability specialist if he bought a Prius and started wearing feathered fedoras.

  "She only wants this apprenticeship. She's holding out for us, amazingly, but Patrick doesn't seem to know what he wants anymore."

  I knew exactly what I wanted and I knew it in achingly precise detail. It was also ridiculous to think it would ever happen.

  She snatched the résumé from Sam and slid it across the table to me.

  "I'm giving you until the end of business today to figure out your issues. In the meantime, I'm writing a contract for Andy. I'll call her at five to offer her the job unless you come to your senses or find one hell of a convincing argument to dissuade me."

  Looked like I had a long road of silent suffering or alcoholism ahead. More than likely both.

  3

  Andy

  "To Andy's new job!" Jess squealed over the clinking of our shot glasses.

  "Andy's new job!" Marley echoed.

  They knocked back their shots before turning their attention to me. Offering a weak smile, I downed the contents of my glass but couldn't control the shudder of disgust shaking my shoulders. Jess and Marley high-fived and whooped, interpreting my reaction as an indication of the alcohol content rather than the artificial cinnamon and almond flavorings.

  I hated mixed shots and the silly names attached to them—apparently this was a Cocky Motherfucker—but I intended to put that aside for the night. I was riding such an incredible high I wasn't even going to comment on the severely elevated douche factor at the bar Marley selected either.

  Shannon's call came while I was admiring the brownstones along Berkeley Street. I didn't want to go back to Jess and Marley's apartment in Brighton after the interview, and decided to get my fill of Boston architecture while the January sun was shining. I was studying the panes of glass in double-hung window sashes on a gorgeous brick Georgian—I got that my hobbies tended toward weird—while we spoke, and her words still rattled around my brain.

  So impressed with your work.

  Clearly devoted to restoration and sustainability.

  Perfect for our firm, perfect for the scope of Patrick's work.

  Such a strong base of experience.

  We want you on board as soon as possible.

  So many opportunities to grow here.

  Definite possibility of extending your work past June.

  Patrick will be an amazing mentor.

  I accepted a pathetically watered-down vodka gimlet from a bustier-ed waitress, and savored the loose feeling of inebriation slowly seeping into my body. I earned some drunkenness after the interview from hell. Spending the afternoon telling myself I nailed the interview and they'd be fools to choose someone else didn't prevent Patrick's chilly disinterest from rattling my confidence right to the edge.

  "Enough thinking," Marley yelled over the thundering house music. "More dancing."

  We danced as a trio and ignored attempts from men in awkwardly tight t-shirts to splinter our group, instead allowing them to admire us from the perimeter. I drained a few more gimlets while we tried to yell-sing along with the music, and found myself pressing into the large hands and firm chest that appeared behind me.

  Holding my drink aloft, I tossed my head to the beat, closing my eyes when my partner's hands curled around my jean-clad hips. I didn't glance over my shoulder to check him out since I had no interest in leading the Tight T-Shirt Brigade's foot soldier to believe he had a chance.

  His hands moved with me while I danced, and I imagined different hands on my hips, a different broad chest pressed against my shoulders. My backside swayed against my partner's crotch and I recognized the ridge of his arousal bumping against me. He squeezed my hips and urged me closer. Letting myself believe those hands belonged to someone else, I rolled my hips over his erection and covered his hands with mine.

  "Let's get outta here," he grunted.

  His accented voice dragged me back to reality and I shifted out of his hold. Taking in his v-neck t-shirt and hair that looked styled to the point of crunchiness, I shook my head. There wasn't enough alcohol in the bar to make it happen with Tight T-Shirt. Not even close.

  "No thanks."

  I offered my best attempt at a gracious smile. I did grind on the boy for at least four songs, and was leaving him in an unpleasant condition.

  "Fuckin' cock tease," he murmured, his eyes coasting up and down my body.

  I shrugged and walked away. I'd heard worse, and he wasn't entirely wrong in that moment. That didn't mean I was required to experience any remorse.

  "I'll be right back," I yelled to Jess and Marley, both moving with the beat and ignoring me.

  I hit the bar for another drink and guzzled a gimlet from the relative quiet of the white leather seating area. If wine was my rabbi, vodka was my therapist, and I needed some sorting out.

  It didn't escape my notice that Patrick was attractive.

  Okay, I can be honest: Patrick was strikingly hot.

  He possesse
d the build and authentic masculinity of a rugby player. It was an observation I noted and discarded when we met this morning, and months ago when I read a feature about his work in Architectural Digest, complete with several photographs of him. I refused to allow a chiseled jaw or broad shoulders to kill my focus then; I wasn't excited about allowing it now.

  Accepting another tumbler of vodka with lime, I nodded to the waitress in thanks.

  Considering those observations were manifesting themselves in the form of dance floor daydreams, it was possible I hadn't discarded them at all. More than likely, I'd tucked them high on a shelf in the back of my mind and waited for a properly uninhibited moment to take them down and play. If my reaction on the dance floor was any indication, I really wanted to play.

  And lest we forget, I hadn't played in a few months.

  I spent years admiring Patrick's work from afar without once admiring him as a man. Becoming his apprentice meant immediately returning those observations to that shelf. It was an uncomfortable thought to swallow.

  I frowned at the bar's faux Miami seashell-and-white-leather décor. As much as I loved my high school friend Jess, growing up and going to college in rural Maine meant she fell on the wide-eyed and naïve side of the lobster trap. In addition to finding a place to live, a hardcore yoga studio, and the farmers' market, better nightlife options were in order.

  "Hey, hey, hey!" Marley shouted as she shimmied toward me. She collapsed on the sofa, panting and drenched with sweat. "Where'd you go?"

  "I'm right here," I replied, muffling another sarcastic comment with my cocktail.