Eyes wide, mouth open, I stared at the screen. I felt my heart thumping up my throat.
Patrick: More than you think you can
Andy: That seems like a lot of responsibility for you
Patrick: If you haven't noticed, taking on a lot of responsibility is my thing. It's either an incredible strength or massive weakness.
Andy: Let's go with strength
Patrick: Let's
Getting up for another beer, I kept my eyes glued to my phone in anticipation of her response. The ball was squarely in her court, and I wanted her to take the next step.
Andy: May I ask why you're texting me tonight?
Patrick: You can ask me anything, anytime
Patrick: I realized that we spend 60 hours a week together and only talk about work
Andy: I like talking about work with you.
Patrick: Me too
Andy: We talk about food. A lot.
Patrick: Ok, so work and food. but I don't know much about you even though we spend all this time together
Andy: That would require you to ask me questions
Patrick: I can do that
Andy: So then maybe you should ask me out for a drink.
I finally understood why footballers ripped off their shirts and hugged each other like long-lost twins when they scored a goal: that moment when everything aligned and you seized the opening to sink your shot was fucking amazing.
Patrick: I'd suggest tomorrow…but I know you have plans
Andy: And how do you know that?
Patrick: I noticed a text on your screen when you were going over the Capriossi designs
Andy: You're very observant
Patrick: I try.
Andy: Some people might see that as early stalking symptoms
Patrick: But not you?
Andy: No…I just know you're thorough
Patrick: I can be very, very thorough
Andy: Promise?
Patrick: Swear.
Andy: Ok stalker, what about that drink?
Patrick: I could ask you questions over a drink and fried clams in NH
Andy: I've seen plenty of NH and I could do without the clams
Patrick: You haven't had the right clams
Patrick: What if we talked about the possibility of clams?
Andy: I would be open to that
Patrick: I think everyone's going to 21st amendment. At 6 on Friday
Patrick: It's near the office
Andy: That sounds like asking questions with everyone
Patrick: Doesn't have to be
Andy: I'd rather be alone with you when you're asking me questions
Gulping, I gazed at her message and felt the joy of another shot hitting the net high and right.
Patrick: As would I but I know Matt believes it's his duty to formally welcome you to Boston and the firm. He sees himself as a goodwill ambassador or something these days
Andy: Yes. He does.
Patrick: It's his new thing
Andy: I'll have a drink with Matt. Then you can ask me questions
Patrick: If I'm getting you a drink, what am I ordering?
Andy: That depends on a number of factors
I started typing out my recollection of the beers on tap at Twenty-First Amendment with the hopes of collecting another morsel of Andy knowledge. On a sigh, I erased it all when it dawned on me her response wasn't necessarily related to the menu, and I was a loser who memorized that sort of shit.
Patrick: Factors?
Andy: Yes
Andy: I'll tell you Friday night
Patrick: You're not giving me much
Andy: I've given you quite a bit
Andy: Probably too much
Patrick: I don't think so
Andy: That's just it, Patrick
Andy: I get the sense that there will never be enough for you
10
Andy
More than you think you can.
More than you think you can.
Patrick's words echoed over the throbbing techno mix, leaving me elated and edgy. I couldn't shake them last night, and they lingered in the back of my thoughts. I spent most of the day distracted and a couple steps behind.
A glance at our table informed me that Jess and Marley were deep in discussion—some drama at the dentists' office where they worked as hygienists had them and a few of their co-workers fired up tonight.
A quick drink was all I signed up for, not a late night out. It was easier for them—their offices didn't open until nine, while I was checking out my third jobsite of the day by that time. I didn't have the endurance for weeknight partying anymore, and figuring out how to back away from their drinking and drama routine was growing more crucial.
I edged closer to the speakers to drown out my thoughts, dancing with my companion for the evening: a limey gimlet.
The songs started blurring together and my muscles loosened. The combined effects of vodka and dancing made everything a little more mellow, and I didn't protest the hands that landed on my hips.
"Your friends have terrible taste in bars," a voice—Patrick's voice—rasped against my ear, and I actually moaned in delight.
I didn't dare look over my shoulder. I wanted to know why he was here, how he found me, and what he wanted, but those questions were going to wait. I needed to enjoy the way we fit together first. He enveloped me, his body curling around mine, wrapping me in sinewy muscle. Long fingers mapped my pelvis, pressing and pulling with the rhythm.
"And you were wandering around Lansdowne Street on a Thursday night, looking for overpriced drinks?"
"Something like that," he murmured. "Those texts on your screen are hard to miss sometimes. And then you looked up the reviews for this place when we were stuck in traffic. I…I couldn't stay away. I should, but…here I am."
"I never told you to stay away."
"You shouldn't have to, Andy."
Patrick's lips brushed across the nape of my neck, and I hoped the music swallowed my guttural sigh. Or maybe I wanted him to hear, to know what he did to me. His fingers pried the glass from my hand and he studied the melting ice.
"My therapist," I murmured, glancing over my shoulder for the first time. I smiled at his wrinkled brow. "Vodka. She keeps me in line. Usually."
Patrick set the glass on a passing waiter's tray. With a flick of his wrist, he spun me around and reclaimed his place on my hips.
"Running a couple miles along the Charles usually does it for me," he said, ducking to my ear. "But it doesn't seem like anything's working for us right now."
I shook my head. My eyes dropped to his lips and the pale freckles there. Where else would I find freckles? "There's always tequila."
"No," he whispered, threading his hands through my hair. "There's a much better solution."
Stretching up on my toes, I captured Patrick's lips as a growl rattled in his throat. It wasn't like other first kisses. There was no hesitation, no patient exploration. This was the deep end. He knew what he was doing, and it was clear he intended to teach me something.
A distant voice reminded me that he was my boss, and this type of lesson from Patrick meant our professional relationship—the same professional relationship I dreamt of for years—was changing forever.
"We shouldn't do this," I whispered, our mouths a breath apart.
"Yeah," Patrick murmured, his hands moving over my hair and down my back until he cupped my ass. His lips mapped my cheekbones and jaw, leaving a fevered trail in his wake while his hands urged my hips forward. "And the fact we lasted this long is a fucking victory."
He wasn't wrong.
The ridge of his erection connected with my belly, low—just a few inches away from where I needed it. My grip tightened on his sweater. Patrick's hand slipped under my shirt, his thumb coaxing my nipple to attention. Weeks of fantasizing about Patrick and flirty chatting over lunch did nothing to prepare me for his hands on my body and his lips on my mouth.
"Do you want me
to stop?" He studied me, his expression even despite the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders while he caught his breath.
He was giving me an exit. Swallowing thickly, I stared at a patch of freckles on his neck while I brainstormed a list of acceptable reasons to make out with my boss. It wasn't a long list—'because I want to' was the first entry, and 'because he wants to, too' was the last.
I shook my head and framed his face with my hands. "No. Don't stop."
I didn't know how long we stayed that way—maybe it was minutes, maybe it was an hour. Our bodies tangled while we moved with the pounding rhythm, our lips parting for frenzied moments before reconnecting.
"Andy? Oh, hey." Jess's hand squeezed my arm and tugged it away from Patrick's neck.
"Hey." Her coat was buttoned and her purse folded under her arm. "This is Patrick—"
"We're going." Jess's eyes moved over us, and she spared Patrick an irritable glance. "Now."
His hand rested in my back pocket, and was all the confirmation I needed. "You go ahead. I'm good."
Jess pinned me with a fierce look. "Can I talk to you?" She sneered at Patrick. "Privately?"
With great reluctance, I stepped out of Patrick's arms and followed Jess to the side door. Emergency exit lights illuminated the alcove, bathing us in red.
"Why are you being hostile?" I asked, my arms crossed over my chest.
"Um, I thought you were here to support me. I didn't think you were here to get skanky in a corner. I had a really bad day, and I needed you on my side. Obviously that was too much to ask of you."
"It looked like it was under control with Marley and your dental people—"
"Is that Patrick, your boss Patrick?" Jess interrupted. "The one you talk about all the time? The one who's really anal about stuff?"
"Same."
Jess recoiled from my words. "If it were me, I wouldn't be getting into shit like that right now. I wouldn't want to go through that again, even if he does look like sex on wheels. I certainly wouldn't be whoring it up."
I glanced back at Patrick, his hands propped on his hips, his eyes fixed on me. I didn't answer Jess, but she did get me thinking.
What was next? Did I invite him to my place, or me to his? Did we spend the night together then conduct business as usual in the morning?
Could it ever be that simple?
"Okay, you're going to do what you want anyway. You always do." Jess held up her hands. "Just tryin' to help. This has been a wicked bad day and I need to go home now, so whatever."
She stomped away, and I watched her go. I felt Patrick's eyes on me, and met his gaze. He approached, reaching out for my waist.
"I have an early morning," I said.
"Yeah. Me too."
I laughed at his wry smile. My hand wrapped around his wrist, bringing his watch into view. "And it's late."
He shrugged. "We should do this again. Maybe at a decent bar, or a fish dive. I hear there are some great ones in New Hampshire."
"Maybe both."
I slept fitfully with the memory of Patrick's lips and his hand under my shirt on heavy rotation in my dreams. Eventually, I surrendered to my insomnia with an unfocused hour of Pilates before sunrise.
I showered and dressed in black wool trousers, black Merino turtleneck sweater, and black leather boots that laced up to the knee. Even by Maine standards, the cold was brutal, and I piled on the layers before heading out.
I loved keeping my car in the Walsh garage and living within walking distance of the office, but these days made me long for door-to-door driving. Checking the time on my phone, I noticed a missed call from Patrick and played the voicemail.
"Hey Asani, pipes froze and burst overnight at Foster Street. It's a block away from my place so I got here as soon as the GC called. I need you to check on our other sites while I try to salvage the hardwood here," Patrick shouted over the rush of running water. "Call me with any floods."
I grabbed a few supplies and swapped out my outfit for flannel-lined jeans, two thermal shirts, and royal blue Wellies, and mentally cataloged our properties by pipe age. An 1806 farmhouse would require the lion's share of my attention.
The day flew by in a blur of cold and wet. The subzero overnight temperatures froze delicate plumbing systems all over town, and while the majority of our jobsites suffered no damage, I spent my day aiming a hair dryer at old pipes in cold, wet basements to keep them damage-free. I lost contact with my toes a little before noon.
Patrick and I exchanged a few brief texts during the day to update each other, but I couldn't get a read on his mood. I wanted him to remind me about drinks tonight, make another attempt at a road trip to New Hampshire, or suggest we finish what we started last night.
It meant arriving at the bar after seven, but stopping at home to change into dry clothes was a necessity. Thick socks and lace-up boots took the edge off the bone-deep chills, and I hoped Patrick was interested in warming up the rest of me.
It wasn't hard to find the Walsh table, especially considering a chorus of voices that yelled "Andy" the minute I stepped through the door. If nothing else, Shannon's hair was a bright beacon drawing me to the back corner. I quickly inventoried the table—Shannon, Matt, Lauren, Sam, Riley, Tom, and someone I didn't recognize next to Shannon and Matt.
A flare of disappointment hit me—no Patrick. He was probably tied up with his share of issues. I fixed a smile on my face and headed for the table.
"Hey, girl," Lauren yelled, standing to welcome me with a hug. "Good to see you."
"Any more water damage?" Matt asked.
Riley and Sam sat across from Matt at the table, their heads bent in conversation. Riley shared the same dark hair and slate blue eyes as Matt, though Sam was leaner with a lighter complexion and Patrick's auburn hair. There was no doubting they shared a bloodline.
Lauren gestured to an empty seat facing away from the door between Sam and the stranger with thick, tousled dark hair. "Some leaks, thankfully no floods. I did some intensive pipe triage to keep it that way."
"What can I get you?" the waitress asked over my shoulder.
"Shiraz. Whatever the house bottle is," I replied. "Any news on Foster?"
Matt nodded slowly, and my attention turned to Lauren's hand on his knee. He layered his hand over hers, his thumb brushing across the ring on her finger as he spoke about the flooding and restoration efforts. The gesture was simple but said so much. The love between them was palpable, and I got the distinct impression they were an eye-blink away from climbing all over each other.
"Hello," the stranger said, angling his head to face me. I noted a slight southern accent.
"I'm the worst," Shannon groaned. "Sorry. Andy, this is…" She scowled at him. "What are you? This is Nick Acevedo, and he's the guy who hangs around with Matt. It's kind of a problem, actually. He's a level five clinger, so definitely don't pay any attention to him or you'll never get rid of him. Nick, this is Andy Asani, and she puts up with Patrick."
"The next time you think your headache is a brain tumor, don't call me, Shannon," Nick drawled with a laugh. "It's good to meet you, Andy."
I shook his hand, soon releasing it to accept my drink. He started to speak again, but Sam pivoted and draped his arm over the back of my chair.
"I tried that Night Walker juice. With the beets and kale and jalapeño?"
"And?" A smirk tugged at my lips. Few possessed the constitution of will necessary to drink raw beet juice.
Sam laughed and patted his stomach. "And it put a little hair on my chest. How can you drink that?"
"You get used to it. Once you're off processed sugar, it is fantastic." I shrugged. "It gives me a ton of energy."
"Don't get him started on banning more foods," Shannon yelled down the table. "He only eats spinach and seaweed as it is, and he's a little more than borderline OCD about it."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I haven't touched processed anything in years, and I still gagged. It looks like blood," he laughed. "The subcontractors gave m
e some strange looks when I rolled up with a bottle full of dark red juice."
"They give you strange looks regardless."
A tingle ran down my spine when Patrick's voice boomed over my shoulder. I smiled when he jabbed his brother's arm, knocking Sam's hand from my chair and dragging his fingers between my shoulder blades.
It felt lusciously possessive and I was perfectly fine with a little possession. I sipped my wine, waiting until he pulled a chair between Nick and me to meet his gaze.
"Hi." His voice was low and eyes sparkling with an uncharacteristically warm twinkle. Such a wonderful departure from the irritable scowl.
"Hi." I waited for him to reply, lifting an eyebrow while he stared at me.
"If not the Night Walker juice, what do you drink every day?" Sam asked, oblivious to the silent conversation spoken between Patrick and me. "Or do you only juice occasionally?"
I held Patrick's gaze another beat before shifting back to Sam and our discussion of pressed juices—another one of my random hobbies. Our conversation soon shifted to several other unconventional interests—part-time vegan eating and power yoga and arguing the fidelity of The Lord of the Rings movies to the books—and I discovered a mountain of things Sam and I had in common.
Around us, Matt, Lauren, and Nick were pumping Riley for information about the woman he was seeing, while Patrick stayed quiet.
I noticed him nursing a beer and I felt his eyes on me. It wasn't enough for Patrick to spend the majority of his time staring at me as if he were inspecting every thought in my head—he stared with an intensity I expected to leave singe marks on my skin.
"Try a mix of raw local honey, cinnamon, and apple cider vinegar," I said. "That always clears up my sore throats. Honey is my go-to."
"I will," Sam murmured, sending himself an email with the proportions.
"We need to do this more often," Shannon said while Matt stood to help Lauren into her coat. "It's like I never see you people unless it's Monday morning."
"That might not be a bad thing," Riley muttered under his breath.
"We're headed out for sushi, and we're heavy one Texan so a few more won't hurt if anyone wants to come along." Matt glanced around the table.
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