Pushing Patrick: Fight Dirty (The Gilroy Clan Book 1)

by Megyn Ward

  These last six months have been torture. I know that’s my fault—that if I was just honest with him, tell him what I want, instead of letting Tess talk me into what she’s now calling Operation: Get Gilroy, I could either tear his clothes off and jump on his cock or accept the fact it’s never going to happen. Either way, I’d be putting myself out of my own misery.

  I was already up when he left for his morning run, the urge to paint pulling me awake long before the sun. It’s like that sometimes. My fingers get itchy. I can’t sleep. I get irritable and testy… or maybe I’m itchy and irritable because I’m living with Patrick Gilroy and I haven’t had sex in six months. That’s probably it but since sex seems to be off the table where Patrick is concerned, painting is the only outlet I’ve got.

  By the time he comes back, I’m lost. Drifting in the half-dream, half-frantic state that painting puts me in. I hear him and know exactly what he’s doing. Stripping his shirt off and dropping it into the laundry basket he’s moved from his room to beside the front door in preparation for laundry day. Moving through the living room, he makes his way into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. Even in the half here state I’m in, I know exactly what Patrick is doing and I know the precise moment he realizes I’m awake and comes to stand in my doorway.

  I know what he looks like without his shirt off but damn if I don’t nearly swallow my tongue when I finally look at him. Perfect white teeth. Perfect brown hair. Perfect green eyes. Tall and lean. Smooth, sun-kissed skin—not a blemish or scar in sight. Broad shoulders that taper down, past tightly packed muscles into a pair of low slung track pants. I can smell him for here, clean sweat and sunshine. It makes my mouth water. Patrick isn’t hot. He’s beautiful. Probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Too beautiful and clean to ever want anything to do with a girl like me.

  That’s when I catch him looking at my ass. The expression on his face is anything but clean. It was just for a second, so fast that I’m sure I imagined it. But I’m not imaging the rush of heat that shoots through me, pooling between my legs. I’m practically dripping wet and all he did was look at me.

  I open my mouth to tell him I want him. That I’ve always wanted him, but that’s not what I say. Like an idiot, I tell him I made coffee even though he’s standing right in front of me with a cup of it his hand and after a few minutes of small talk, he heads for the shower.

  As soon as I hear the bathroom door snap closed I drop my paint brush and follow him down the hall. Pressing my ear against the door, I can see the shadow of him moving in the light that creeps under the door. I listen as he starts the shower before pulling back the curtain to step in. I imagine him running the bar of soap he uses across his shoulders. Over his chest. Down his tightly packed abs. That’s when I hear it. I hear him.

  A soft slapping sound so faint under the rush of water.

  That’s when he says my name.

  Cari.

  The throbbing in my pussy intensifies, pulsing in time with my knocking heart. With my ear pressed to the door, I listen. I can see him, his perfect body tense, his beautiful lips parted slightly, his chest heaving, his breath pushing out of his lungs in short, uneven gasps that keep time with the hand that’s sliding up and down his gorgeous cock. I don’t even know what it looks like but I know it’s beautiful. Just like the rest of him.

  Across the hall his phone goes off. Loud. It sounds like a fucking air horn. Not once, not twice. Over and over until I’m sure he’s going to hear it and stop what he’s doing. I dart across the hall and silence it. Bringing it with me I stand outside the door, hand on the knob. I don’t want to just listen anymore and I don’t want to rely on my imagination. I want to see Patrick. I want to see what he looks like when he comes.

  In some sort of trance, I push the door open. I know he knows I’m in here, the bathroom door squeaks when you open it. But he doesn’t stop.

  “Patrick.” My throat is burning, my hand gripping the hem of my shirt to keep from touching myself, the other reaching for the shower curtain. That’s when he comes, saying something low and guttural, the hand braced against the shower wall above his head curled into a fist. He knows I’m in here but doesn’t stop.

  I lose my nerve. Looking down at the phone in my hand, I start babbling. Making excuses. “Your phone—”

  “Get out, Cari,” he barks at me. He sounds angry that I’m there. Like I’m intruding. Not like Patrick at all.

  “I—”

  “Get the fuck out.”

  I turn, tossing his phone on the bathroom counter and run, like the coward I am.

  I slam my car door and hurry across the street, juggling my car keys, cell phone and morning yogurt. Opening the gallery at 10AM is my responsibility, which means I have to be here by 9:30AM to make coffee and confirm Miranda’s appointments for the day.

  Hustling up the stairs, I shove my key into the lock and open the door. Noticing that the alarm is already turned off, I have a slight panic attack. I’m always the first one here and I know I set the alarm before I left last night.

  Dumping my bag and yogurt on the floor at my feet, I clutch my keys and cell. Thanks to Patrick, my keys have a small can of mace attached to them and I have 911 on speed dial. I can hear him now. I hate the idea of you closing that place by yourself. It’s not safe. He’s gonna give me a big fat I told you so when I get home.

  Inching my way around the stairwell wall, I expect to see paintings slashed out of their frames. Most of our artwork comes from local artists, struggling to make a name for themselves but we have more than a few pieces that come from well-established artists, any of which would be worth more than I make in a year.

  I am so fired.

  Poking my head into the gallery, I see what I see every morning. Beautiful art hanging on pristine white walls. Floor to ceiling windows, the strengthening summer sun streaming in through UV tint (to protect the paintings) to bounce off the flecks of pyrite in the dark granite floors.

  I breathe a soft sigh of relief and stoop to retrieve my bag, sticking my yogurt into its side pocket before standing.

  “Cari, can you please come in here.” Miranda’s voice cuts through the silence and I have to slap a hand over my mouth to keep from yelping out loud. I look at the clock on the wall behind my desk. She never shows her face before noon. What the hell is she doing here?

  I hurry to my desk and press the intercom button. “On my way,” I tell her, kicking my bag under my desk. So much for breakfast.

  Hurrying down the short hallway behind the main gallery, I pull up short in front of her office door and open it without knocking. “What’s up, Miran…”

  She’s not alone and the person she’s with causes the words to dry up in my mouth. I swallow, trying to force my throat to work properly. “I mean, what can I do for you, Ms. McIntyre?” In the six months I’ve worked here, Miranda and I have developed a good relationship. So good that I’d almost consider her a friend. We’re on a first name basis, but never in front of clients. Or artists.

  “Cari, I’d like to introduce you to Everett Chase,” Miranda says, biting her lip to keep from laughing at me. “Chase, this is Cari Faraday, my personal assistant.”

  Everett Chase.

  Everett. Fucking. Chase.

  Suddenly, I’m feeling light-headed.

  The man lounging in the chair in front of Miranda’s desk stands slowly, offering me a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cari.” He made no attempt to hide the amused smile on his face.

  Take his hand, Cari and try not to mess this up.

  I take his hand and give it a firm shake. I hate those women who shake hands like their wrists are broken. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Chase,” I say, thoroughly impressed with myself. I not fangirling. I’m forming rational, complete sentences. I almost sound like a normal person. “I’m a huge fan or your work.”

  Okay, I’m fangirling a little bit. He’s gorgeous. Eyes that are almost too blue to be real. Reddish brown hair that curls ar
ound the collar of his expensive dress shirt, a pair of paint-splattered jeans and battered work boots that cost more than my car rounding out the casual wealth of his appearance. More than just gorgeous, he happens to be arguably the best contemporary artist in Boston. Certainly, its most famous.

  I’m a painter too. The words force their way to the tip of my tongue and I have to grit my teeth to keep them from tumbling out. I’m not a painter. I don’t want to be. I want to own my own gallery someday, like Miranda. Painting is just a hobby. That’s all.

  Chase’s smile turns. He’s not amused anymore. Now he’s wondering if I’m full of shit, just trying to fluff his ego. “Oh? A fan?” Still holding my hand, he turns it over, studying my paint stained cuticles. Bright blue eyes assess everything about me. I suddenly wish I was dressed in something a little less stuffy than black dress slacks and my white silk blouse. As if he’s confirmed something, he looks up at me through thick, dark lashes. “Which of my paintings is your favorite?”

  “Full Moon on Flowing Water,” I say without hesitation. I’m sure he’s heard it a thousand times. How great he is. How talented. All from brainless bimbos who see nothing more than a walking wallet with a pretty face to match. I’m embarrassed. Want to jerk my hand away from his but I don’t. I just stand there and wait for the ridicule.

  He shoots Miranda a quick look before letting go of my hand. “Points for originality,” he says, reclaiming his seat. “But it’s not my best work,” he says, challenging me.

  “Technically, no,” I concede, clasping my hands behind my back to hide the fact that they’re clenched into fists. “But your use of light and texture are amazing. I saw it a few years ago, when your personal collection was on loan to The Institute of Contemporary Art.” I’m gushing, I know that, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Instead, I seem intent on making it even worse. “When I looked at it, I felt like I was dreaming and awake at the same time. It was a… transformative experience.” I sound ridiculous. Heat floods across my chest, collecting in the spot just below my collarbone. I turn away from Everett Chase’s assessing gaze and focus on my boss. “Was there something you needed, Ms. McIntyre?” I say, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity.

  “Yes,” Miranda nods her head, fiddling with some papers on her desk before giving me a cool smile. “Can you please confirm today’s appointments.”

  Her request gives me pause. “Of course.” What’s going on? She’s meeting with Everett Chase before opening hours and to top it off, calls me into her office to tell me to do something she knows I do every day without prompting. Completely confused, I give my head a short nod before making myself look at Miranda’s guest. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Chase.”

  “It’s just Chase—no mister.” he says, smirking at my formality. “And you’re wrong. The pleasure was all mine, Cari.”

  I split a small smile between the two of them before turning and making my escape.

  Thirteen

  Patrick

  I noticed Cari’s lunch on the counter about fifteen minutes after she blew out the door. Any other day I’d take a picture of it with my cell and send it to her and she’d text me back, calling herself a space-cadet or some shit like that. Then I’d go out of my way to take it to her, just so I can see her smile. But that was before she stood outside the shower and listened to me come while I was thinking about her.

  Quit being such a twat. She doesn’t know you were thinking about her. It’s only weird because you’re making it weird. Now man the fuck up and take Cari her goddamn lunch.

  Swiping it off the counter, I set my coffee cup in the sink on my way out the door. The gallery is on my way to the jobsite where Declan and I are meeting prospective clients. Blueprints tucked under my arm, I use my free hand to dig my cell phone out of my pocket while I jog down the stairs. Who says guys can’t multitask?

  “Call Declan,” I say and a second later, the phone is ringing. I always like to make it to the job site at least thirty minutes before a meeting but this time I’ll be lucky if I’m not late. Thankfully, I get Declan’s voicemail. “Hey, Cari forgot her lunch again so I’m gonna be a few minutes later than usual.” Tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder, I fish out my truck keys and pop the lock on the diamond-plate toolbox in its bed so I can dump everything but Cari’s lunch bag inside. “Tell the Beemans I’m on my way and they’re gonna love their plans.” Slamming the lid, I kill my cell and circle the truck. Climbing in, I toss it into the cup holder and start the car, hoping like hell Declan doesn’t call me back. I can just hear him—Let her starve a few times. Maybe then she’d stop forgetting her lunch.

  Usually, I just shrug it off with an it’s no big deal because I don’t want him or anyone to know that I’m not taking Cari her lunch because I’m afraid she’ll starve. I’m taking it to her because, even after what happened this morning, I’ll take any opportunity to see her I can get.

  Because I’m a pathetic loser.

  I make it to the gallery a few minutes before ten and park next to her car. These days she can afford a better car—the gallery commissions are padding her income nicely—but she’s still driving the car she brought with her from Ohio. It’s a complete rust bucket but it suits her and thanks to Tess, runs like a top.

  I realize what I’m doing. I’m stalling. The thought of looking her in the eye after what she heard this morning has me jamming my key back into the ignition, ready to drive away. But I don’t because I know the longer it takes me to look her in the eye, the harder it’ll be for me to actually do it. I force myself out of the truck and up the stairs.

  I can see her sitting at her desk, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder while she works on the computer. I wait for her to hang up the phone before I walk in. As soon as I do, her head comes up. Seeing me, she offers me a shy smile. Yup, she definitely knows what I was doing in the shower this morning. “What are you—”

  Not sure I can manage actual words, I hold her lunch bag up.

  “Shit,” she says, the smile on her face edged with exasperation as she stands to round the desk I’m waiting in front of. “I’m so sorry—I was running late because…” Her voice catches, a flush rushing across the exposed part of her chest. “I really shouldn’t paint before work,” she says, catching her lower lip between her teeth. “I lose all track of time.”

  Seeing my opening, I kamikaze my way through it. “Look—Cari…” I run a hand over the top of my head, trying like hell to pretend I’m totally cool with the fact that she walked in on me jerking off, that it’s no big deal, but before I get the words out, she’s talking over me.

  “I’m sorry, Patrick.” She shakes her head. “It was inconsiderate of me to barge in like that. It won’t happen again.”

  I stand there for a second, not sure what to say. She’s acting like all of this is her fault. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like—”

  “Cari, call Hector and tell him I need him to deliver the Randell watercolor to the Fletchers by—Patrick,” I look over Cari’s shoulder to see her boss standing a few feet away. “It’s nice to see you again.” Behind her is a man I’ve never seen before. Taking in his paint splattered boots and expensive jeans I peg him for an artist. A rich one.

  I ignore the way she’s looking at me, like she wants to eat me for breakfast. I think about Conner’s offer a few months ago to fuck a payroll advance out of her for Cari and I have to clench my jaw for a minute to keep myself from laughing. Having gotten to know Cari’s boss a bit, I have a feeling even Con wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. “Morning, Miranda.” I hold the paper bag I’m still holding up like a shield. “Sorry to interrupt, Cari forgot her lunch. Again,” I say, teasing her just a bit because I like to watch the flush of heat creep across her chest to collect beneath her collarbone.

  “Nonsense,” Miranda says, shooing away my apology like it annoyed her. “You know you’re welcome anytime.” The way she says it, and the way she’s looking at me heat the back of my neck.
“Where are my manners?” She breaks eye contact with me and turns. “Patrick, this is my friend, Everett Chase—Chase, this is Cari’s roommate, Patrick Gilroy.”

  I step forward, holding out my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I say. The name is familiar. Probably one of the painters Cari talks about when she tells me about her work day.

  “Patrick Gilroy?” Chase says, giving me a firm handshake before breaking contact. “The architect?”

  I shoot Cari a quick look, wondering if she’s been talking about me. “That’s me.”

  Chase nods his head and smiles. “You do beautiful work—ever think about branching out into commercial design?”

  It’s not the first time someone has recognized my name and my work but for some reason, it catches me by surprise. “Eventually,” I say, taking a step back. “My partner and I are really buried right now with residential projects.” I offer him a quick smile before re-directing my attention to Cari. “Speaking of which, I’ve gotta run.” I extend the bag to her and she takes it. “Pizza night?” We usually order pizza on Friday nights and clear the DVR which means watching reality television until my brain starts oozing out of my ears. After this morning, it’s the last thing I want to do but in the interest of putting my embarrassment behind me, I’m going to try.

  Cari takes the bag, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’ve got a date,” she says, shaking her head, watching from the corner of her eye as Miranda and her pet painter wander into the gallery and start talking about lighting and space. “Trevor is taking me to dinner.”

  “Cool,” I say, even though it’s anything but. I hate Trevor almost as much as I hated that douchey lawyer she was dating before she moved in. The one she caught banging his intern. To be fair though, I’ve hated every single one of her boyfriends. Because none of them are me. “I guess that means I don’t have to watch Reality Rapper Bachelor Housewives until brain damage sets in.”