Shoebox apartment, yes. Presentable apartment, no. Unpacking was climbing higher on my to-do list.
She turned, and noticed the phone in my hand. "Did you get a number?"
"That wasn't my objective," I laughed, wincing at the memory of the Tight T-Shirt Brigade's most recent appearance. "No, I got a text from my boss."
Jess frowned. "On a Friday night? What an asshole. I know you said he's intense and all, but slave driver much? What does he want?"
I shrugged, and slipped the phone into my clutch. "It's nothing. Should we close out the tab?"
We located Marley grinding on an alleged European prince, forced the dregs of the lemon drop down her throat, and huddled on the curb for cabs. I hugged them both, and savored the relative quiet of the cab as the highlights from the evening's Celtics game blasted, and the driver's radio squawked with dispatch alerts.
Back at my apartment, I discarded all of my clothes, removed my makeup, and slipped between the cool sheets of my bed. Reaching for my phone, I opened Patrick's messages.
Patrick: Really want to tell u that your grant and
Patrick: Shane was right your fucking awesome
Patrick: U work hard as I do and thirst great and year so smart
Patrick: I want too teach u so much
I laughed out loud. "Oh Patrick," I murmured. "What are you up to tonight?"
I typed a quick response and set my phone aside. I didn't expect to hear back from Patrick—his texts and emails were usually crisply written with pristine grammar, and I imagined his touch screen rebelling against his big hands after a few drinks.
Tom mentioned something about buying a case of wine for a serious dinner at Matt's place, though I was lost in concentration when he appeared in Patrick's office with documents from Shannon. He knew everything about Walsh Associates and the inner workings of the Walsh family, and his ability to sniff out office gossip was disarming. I figured his role as Shannon's taskmaster meant he was privy to all the juicy information.
I was still trying to determine whether Tom was wildly metrosexual or gay—I liked the guy either way, but I would not date someone who spent more time on eyebrow grooming than I did. He invited me out every day—coffee, brunch, dim sum, drinks. Tom could spare me the agony of another outing with Marley and the Tight T-Shirts, but a night with him didn't interest me.
My phone's screen faded, and my bedroom descended into darkness while the noise of cars on Storrow Drive and ambulances at Mass General offered a soothing soundtrack. Maybe it was a shoebox, but it was a gorgeous old shoebox, and it was mine. Patrick would understand—he knew the spirits of families past lived in the walls of these homes, and it was his responsibility to care for them.
Maybe it was our responsibility now and not just Patrick's alone.
Mouthwatering visions of his abdomen filled my mind, and I longed to run my fingers along the ripples and indentations. His trim waist was a wonder to behold with all those notches and grooves, and I couldn't imagine a sight more sexy than his jeans hanging low on his hips.
I even got a sneak peek at the black band of his boxers.
It was one thing to know his body was as cut as I imagined, but it was another to watch him repeatedly cross those strong arms over his chest. Keeping my hands filled with tape measures and flashlights averted awkward bicep-rubbing incidents. It was worse when he rolled up his shirtsleeves, and it was an accomplishment if he made it to ten in the morning with his cuffs buttoned.
My legs drifted apart on a sigh, and my fingers brushed over my chest. My nipples hardened in response, the delicate fabric of the sheets offering the right amount of texture. Scraping my nails along my skin, I went straight for my aching core and groaned when my fingers dipped into my arousal. Two fingers swept over my clit and I could feel my pulse hammering there. The quiet shattered with a loud hitch in my breath.
Reaching to the bedside table without so much as a glance, I retrieved my vibrator and spread my legs wider. Every day spent with Patrick left me hungry, and knowing he wanted me looking at him made the hunger more oppressive than before. I wasn't in the mood for long, teasing play—not after a day filled with Patrick's perpetually crossed arms, bared belly, and late night texts.
The arousal pooled at my opening, and the toy filled me with one smooth thrust that had me clenching my inner muscles and pressing against my clit. My body was ready—all systems go for a devastating orgasm—and I needed it. Since meeting Patrick, I searched in earnest for the muscle-weakening, brain-clearing orgasm to relieve the ache in my body, but I only found shallow, limping mini-orgasms that left me frustrated and edgy.
Turning to the lowest setting, I groaned in satisfaction as the pulsations radiated from my core and spread up into my clit. My fingers circled my throbbing bud in time with the vibrator, and my hips started rolling to find an outlet for the pressure building in my nerves. Small gasps and moans passed my lips, and I clicked to a higher speed.
I felt the quivering inklings of an orgasm deep in my core, and closed my eyes to focus on the sensations traveling through my body. My fingers quickened in their frantic circuit over my clit when my knees lifted off the bed to offer better access, yet I struggled to find the tipping point that would bring me closer to warm, pulsing release. So close, yet so far.
As the minutes ticked by, I fought my body for more—alternately pinching my nipples while running the vibrator over my clit and swiveling to rest my feet on the headboard to get a new angle. I was always this close—and it darted away from me every time.
My elbow ached, and my fingers were numb around the toy's base when I finally deposited it on my side table. My other hand continued circling my clit—after a week of nightly self-love sessions, the last things I needed were raw, chafed ladybits. That and a bout of carpal tunnel syndrome, and I'd be the spokeswoman for crimes against orgasms.
I laughed out loud at the prospect of telling Patrick I couldn't sit down or operate a screwdriver because I tweaked my wrist and elbow after an hour of furious orgasm hunting. I could see him narrowing his eyes at me while he crossed his arms over his chest. He'd lift an eyebrow, letting the tension rise between us and waiting for me to explain myself.
Or he'd throw me on his desk and fuck me.
Groaning, I curled on my side and squeezed my eyes shut. My dreams would most certainly feature that new fantasy.
Two hours of Bikram yoga drained enough energy from my body to temporarily forget Patrick and his abs, though it also left me sweaty and starving. After a quick shower, I headed to the winter farmers' market with the hope of finding a co-op or CSA opening to keep me supplied with local fruits and veggies.
I preferred unconventional pastimes—reading Patrick's thesis and yelling at DVR'd HGTV shows came to mind—and farmers' market shopping was no exception. It's not that I didn't love shopping for clothes or shoes—I did—it's that I loved heirloom greens and discovering new produce from local farmers more.
Wandering through the stalls, my cloth bags rapidly filled with an assortment of goodies. I stopped at a table advertising community dinner parties to experiment with Persian recipes and practice Farsi. New town, new job, and maybe a new opportunity to explore my heritage. I added my name to their email list.
Only a few of the Farsi words and phrases my father taught me before he died remained in my memory, along with vague stories of his family and childhood. He loved Tehran yet preferred Isfahan, and promised we'd spend an entire week exploring the bazaar there. We were going to visit the ruins of Persepolis in Shiraz, and Qeshm Island and the Hara marine forests. We were going to go just as soon as it was safe for him to return to Iran.
Everything I knew about my dad's culture and family came from the internet—my mother stopped talking about him after a year in Maine. She said it was too painful, and I didn't want her to suffer.
When I buried my face in a bouquet of basil, I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder.
"I'd know that hair anywhere!"
Shanno
n Walsh stood before me, her arm linked with a petite blonde's, both beaming at me with bright smiles. For a moment, I struggled with her friendly familiarity, but soon remembered I now worked at a third generation family firm where only a handful of outsiders joined the ranks. Of course she was friendly outside the office. I realized I should figure out how to do that, too.
"You're so awesome…already found the farmers' market and everything."
I shrugged and gestured to her long, red waves. "They call to me, and I'd know that hair anywhere."
"Hi, I'm Lauren." The blonde offered her hand to me.
"Andy." Remembering to be friendly, I added, "It's nice to meet you."
"Andy is working with Patrick," Shannon said to Lauren. "And Lauren is my future sister-in-law."
It was impossible to keep their stories straight—they looked alike and talked alike, and were in and out of Patrick's office all day long. I vaguely remember hearing about someone's fiancée, but I couldn't remember which one.
I forced a smile at the blonde, and my fingers closed around the bunch of basil when it dawned on me: she was probably engaged to Patrick. I was a little embarrassed—I did spend the week lusting after him and sent a few overtly flirty texts last night—but I was a lot irritated. She wasn't right for him. I felt my eyebrow arch into my forehead while I studied her.
"Matthew," Lauren supplied with a bright smile. "Matthew's mine."
A wave of relief crashed over me, and I released a breathy laugh. I looked around the market, hoping to find the source of my rapid onset possessiveness among the kale, hand-churned butter, and purple potatoes.
"We were going to grab some lunch, Andy. I'd love for you to join us," Shannon said.
"Hm."
I glanced between them while scanning for appropriate lunch conversation topics with my boss's sister and my boss's future sister-in-law. It wasn't as if I could discuss my surging jealousy at the prospect of Patrick's engagement or my struggle to reach a decent orgasm.
"Don't worry, Andy. No business on the weekends, and lunch with us usually involves mimosas and a thorough examination of Shannon Walsh's men—the ones she dates, not the ones she's related to."
"As long as you're not reporting back to Patrick." It sounded ridiculous the moment I said it—he wouldn't care about me having lunch with Shannon and Lauren. Or would he?
This wasn't healthy. Must get my thoughts away from Patrick.
Lauren hooked her elbow through mine and, inexplicably, I was walking through the farmers' market with a blonde and a redhead. We must have looked like we were filming a shampoo commercial.
"He's probably still where we left him—begging for death in Matt's den," Shannon said.
"He just needed some food," Lauren replied. She looked up at me—even in flats, I was at least five inches taller. I couldn't imagine such a small woman next to Matt. "He had a few cocktails last night—"
"A few? Honey, please, he was trying to put alcohol out of business. Between Patrick and Matt, I think they drained all the whiskey in Boston."
Lauren shrugged and steered us across the street toward a bakery cafe. "You were no better, and if anyone stumbled away with the first place medal, it was Sam. Besides, those boys have been drinking whiskey since they were two. As soon as they get him a new phone, I'm sure he'll be barking orders in no time."
"What happened to Patrick's phone?"
Did he remember texting me? Or see my response?
Shannon nibbled her lip while scanning the menu, her shoulders bouncing back and forth. "He smashed it."
"Smashed?"
"I think he was trying to put it down and, being the ogre he is, accidentally smashed it into a table, and then it flew across the room and hit the wall." Lauren layered her menu over Shannon's before looking at me. "So Matthew went out with him to get a new phone. I'm getting the brie and arugula with red peppers."
"Chicken with jicama and avocado," Shannon said.
They glanced at me expectantly, and I scrambled to skim the menu as the waitress arrived to collect our orders. "Grilled portobello and pesto."
Our mimosas appeared within minutes, and when our glasses clinked together, I noticed an enormous diamond ring on Lauren's hand. "Oh my God," I yelped, grabbing her hand and gazing at the sparkling stone.
"Right? It's a headlight. Isn't it amazing?" Shannon laughed. "That bastard didn't even ask for my help. I want to be insulted but…he did good."
Lauren blushed and acknowledged my outburst with a gracious nod. "Do you have a date set?"
"We do," she replied, an undeniably gleeful smile pulling at her lips. "Late May."
"And she's not pregnant!" Shannon stage-whispered. "We all thought it."
"Hm." Not knowing how to handle Shannon's comment, I sipped my mimosa and contemplated my reaction to Lauren's ring. In all of my twenty-four years, I never expressed more than obligatory politeness at weddings and babies. I went so far as debating the purpose of engagement rings in a day and age where a man's proof of possession over a woman was illogical, and marriage no longer required down payments or dowries.
"Is it all planned?"
Lauren lifted a shoulder and paused to sip her mimosa. "We're taking a laid-back approach to the whole wedding planning thing. We just want friends and family on the beach and some good food and music. Nothing elaborate or formal."
It sounded glorious, and completely void of all bridezilla tendencies to which otherwise intelligent, levelheaded women fell prey.
"They also needed to get married as soon as humanly possible," Shannon snorted.
"We wanted to get married before things got crazy at my school, and yes," she sighed, "we want to be married soon."
"Are you a teacher?" Lauren looked like a teacher. Not in an ugly sweater, chalk on the seat of her pants way, but in a kind, patient way that she'd listen attentively to your story about shadow monsters in the library, then plot ways to scare them off.
"I used to be," Lauren said. "I taught third grade for six years, and I'm opening a school in September."
"Wow." I was officially finished hating her. Lauren was genuinely warm and sweet, and I felt drawn to her.
"Yeah, yeah, Lauren's amazing and incredible. Let me tell you about Hunter. Ohmigod. Disastrousness. Why do I think these guys are worth my time?"
"Where did you meet him again?"
"The Genius Bar at the Apple store." Shannon rolled her eyes and groaned.
"Was he a Genius?" Lauren asked skeptically.
"No. Just a dude who was there, waiting in line, but that boy had no personality, and—get this—he expected me to pay. Not 'hey, let's split this' but 'hey, you're picking this up, right?' He was just rude about it." She shook her head. "Then he decides to reconfigure my phone to optimize the memory or whatever. I told him I was pleased with its performance, and would like to hear more about him, and he said I would be really impressed with the difference."
"Are you?" I asked.
"No," she answered. "No. And I wouldn't be shocked to discover some pervy surveillance app on here. I ended up sitting there for half an hour while he dicked around with my phone. I couldn't even text Sam to call me with a fake emergency."
"Shannon," Lauren sighed. "No more boys for you. No more hook-ups. You've met every weirdo in Boston. You need to let the universe take over now. Accept that there is a plan for you and surrender."
Shannon opened her mouth to speak but paused when our lunches arrived. Once the waitress left, she removed all the avocado from her chicken, jicama, and avocado salad. She noticed me staring, and offered the plate of discarded avocado. "I like a tiny bit of avocado flavor but I don't like biting into avocados. The texture is weird."
"Sure," I murmured, accepting the plate. Getting used to that level of friendly familiarity would take some time.
Shannon pointed at Lauren with her fork. "I don't feel like I need a relationship to be happy. By no means. I'm totally happy in my skin right now. I like my independence. I don't want to g
et on a daily call-text-email program with some guy, and I really don't want him getting miffed when I can't hold up my end of that bargain. I don't have time for the off-the-deep-end kind of relationship you and Matt have." She sent a horrified look in Lauren's direction and shook her head. "But I don't want to miss out on someone really great because I'm not looking."
As the words slipped from Shannon's mouth, I wondered whether she hacked into my psyche to find them. Eating the avocado she picked out of her salad didn't seem quite as weird anymore.
"Well…neither was I," Lauren replied. "I certainly attempted to send him on his merry way a couple of times, regardless of whether it made any sense."
"Yeah. That. I don't have time for dramatic shit, or obsessing about the random things some guy said or did, or didn't do. I can't even start with that. And I don't want to wake up with fourteen cats when I'm forty-eight."
"I wouldn't let that happen to you, Shan. I'd intervene after two cats. Hell, we'd have a come-to-Jesus when the first one showed up." Lauren shook her head. "And let me remind you of something you said not too long ago—it just happens when you stop looking for it."
"You're saying I need to stop looking so I don't start hoarding cats."
"Yes," Lauren said.
"I can't make any promises, but…I'll see what I can do."
"So Andy, we were going to hit a few boutiques around town if you'd like to come along. We have a wedding dress to find. We are choosing to be happy today, and not letting anything drag us down." Lauren directed a pointed stare at Shannon, and she nodded in response. "I don't want a poufy dress, and not necessarily a white dress, so we're looking for something a little different."
"As if you could wear white anyway," Shannon laughed. "We're skipping the bridal boutiques, Andy, so this is the end of our champagne, and I doubt we're going to find any sparkly tiaras."
"Somehow I think I'll survive."
"Good," Shannon barked. "You're part of the family now, and you have a vagina so you're obligated to look at dresses with us. Sam's the unofficial vagina that we usually drag along and he's busy hating the world these days so we really need you."
The Walsh Brothers Page 33