The Space Between (10 page)

“Sam’s going to blow a gasket.”

“That will happen regardless of whether we pay off the mortgage or not.” Her lips folded into a grim line, and I nodded. “I don’t want to pay interest on this loan a minute longer than I have to, and you need to get out to Wellesley this week.”

Shannon’s reminder found a home at the bottom of my to-do list. Having an open discussion with Andy about my desire to tie her to my bed and fuck her seven ways to the weekend seemed less daunting than visiting my childhood home.

Matt, Riley, and Sam trudged up the stairs minutes later, and I made a point of starting on time. Work was moving along as quickly as possible for the early days of February, though the deep freeze forecasted for the end of the week would slow a few projects. Shannon argued her pricing strategy for the Bunker Hill properties, and I enjoyed watching Riley disagree with her. It was good to see the kid getting his sea legs.

“In other news,” she sighed, exaggeratedly flipping pages in her notebook. “The ‘Witch is Dead’ party will be next Friday evening at my place.”

“The what now?” Sam asked.

“We decided we needed a party,” Matt said.

“A party in the spirit of munchkins celebrating Dorothy’s house killing the witch,” Riley said with an eager smile. “Just my two cents, but we shouldn’t refer to it as the ‘Witch is Dead’ party outside this room. You know, basic respect for the dead and other things we don’t seem to possess. We might be thoroughly fucked up, but that doesn’t mean we need to broadcast it to the world.”

Matt frowned. “That’s Valentine’s Day, Shan.”

“It’s not like any of us have plans.” She gestured around the table and my brothers shrugged. “It’s fine. You two can go gather your rose petals afterwards.”

“Where was I when this was discussed?” Sam dragged his hand through his hair while he peered around the table.

“You were busy pissing on the wall in my half bath,” Matt replied.

“Oh.” Sam frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about that.”

“Apologize to Lauren. She made that discovery,” he said with a smirk. “We’re going out for drinks this Friday, for Andy. Like, normal office happy hour to make her feel welcome.”

I groaned at the mention of her name, earning me a rapid elbow to the ribs from Shannon while she addressed Matt. “Happy hour isn’t legal in Massachusetts. The concept of bargain beverages at a specific, common time doesn’t exist in this state.” She turned toward Riley. “Bring your dominatrix. I’d love to meet her.”

“You’re tripping balls,” he murmured. “Not gonna happen.”

“What’s her name again?” Sam asked.

Riley gazed out the window as he exhaled loudly, his head shaking. “Ma’am. She lets me call her ma’am.”

Matt pressed his fist to his mouth to conceal a laugh. “Twenty-First Amendment, around six. I want Lauren to meet Andy.”

“She didn’t tell you?” Shannon asked. She closed her laptop and folded her arms on the table. “We had lunch with Andy on Saturday. Bumped into her at the farmers’ market. Andy picked out Lauren’s wedding dress.”

“Really?” Matt murmured, his arm crossed over his chest and his free hand propped under his chin while an affectionate smile danced across his face.

“Don’t ask. I’m not telling you anything other than it is gorgeous and ideal,” Shannon said. “And don’t even think about asking Andy. You won’t get anything out of her.”

Didn’t I know it.

I tried to picture Andy shopping for wedding dresses with Lauren, her dark, fitted clothes a sharp contrast to the sea of white. An uninvited image of Andy’s slim body encased in a delicate white lace wedding dress floated into my mind, and I choked on my coffee.

I sputtered and coughed while Shannon smacked my back, though I couldn’t escape the vision of Andy’s hair spilling over her shoulders, and the gentle rise of her breasts against the lace.

Yep. Losing my fucking mind.

They continued talking but my attention slipped back to Andy. She was turning me into a delusional maniac, and now I had a wedding dress fetish.

*

Andy didn’t mention
my drunken text messages on Monday. I waited for her to inquire about my weekend, or offer anecdotes from hers, and found myself irrationally annoyed when we talked through design changes over lunch without a moment of small talk.

At one point in the late afternoon, I started babbling to myself about finding a case to protect my new phone because it cost more than most kidneys on the black market. She gazed at me from the conference table while I rambled, glanced at the phone in my hand, and turned her attention back to her laptop.

Fucking infuriating.

Tuesday passed without comment, and I repeatedly scrolled through my messages to reread her responses and confirm the exchange did in fact occur. Given the degradation of my sanity as a product of Andy’s aloofness and pouty lips and ever-present “hm,” it seemed entirely possible I hallucinated.

Her hair wasn’t helping my mental state either. The gusting wind that came in with Wednesday’s blast of arctic air sent her tendrils flying in spite of her earmuff headband.

I had the good fortune of getting a face full of her hair that morning. I felt hundreds of brain cells explode when I inhaled the lavender scent that was uniquely Andy. It happened three more times, and those moments when my fingers connected with her raven strands launched a new batch of fantasies.

Seated for a late lunch at a farm-to-table sandwich joint in Arlington, the curly mass was secured in a messy knot. I itched to loosen it, and feel her strands on my fingers again. The image of her hair wrapped around my fist as I took her from behind fueled my arousal, and if I didn’t get this situation under control, my dick was going to be hard enough to hammer nails all night.

Andy sent me a concerned look when I groaned and missed the window for a decent cover-up. “The pork belly is…really good,” I stammered.

“Hm.” She continued dotting her roasted vegetable wrap with spicy mustard.

She met my every maneuver with chilly indifference, and it left me more rankled than before. It wasn’t about the texts now. I wanted her attention, and I knew that was beyond fucked up considering I was her boss. I still wanted it, and I was long past worrying about professional boundaries.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Andy looked up, her eyes wide, and I plowed ahead to fill the silence. “I was thinking about getting out of the city. Maybe heading up to the North Shore, or New Hampshire. It’s not far. Only forty-five minutes or so.” I shrugged. “I think I’ve hit my limit of gray Boston days, and there are a few dives in New Hampshire with incredible seafood. Legit dives. And the best part is they’re totally empty this time of year.”

Andy nodded while she chewed, and I held my breath, worried than another “hm” was headed my way. “Have you been to that area?”

“Yes and no.” Shaking her head, Andy sipped her tea. I wanted her to give me an opening. No matter how small, I’d run with it. “That is, I’m familiar with the region but probably haven’t been to the dives in question. Seafood is…not for me.”

I was going to make an opening out of seafood if it killed me. “That’s blasphemous. You’re in New England. We take seafood seriously in these parts.”

“Trust me, I know. I grew up surrounded by seafood worship.”

Some Neanderthal part of my brain failed to register until then that Andy’s life didn’t start at Cornell, and there was more to her than the finer points of her résumé. “Where are you from?”

“Maine. Wiscasset.”

“Shit, that is up there,” I murmured.

I tilted my head and stared at the loose corkscrew curls escaping her bun. I heard no trace of the Down East accent in her voice.

Imagining such a sophisticated woman living on the rugged, barren coast of Maine wasn’t an easy throw. I didn’t doubt she could survive up there. I got the sense Andy was capable of turning an actual cave into a two-bedroom condo. Maine just didn’t fit her.

“And you don’t like seafood? That really is blasphemy.”

“What can I say?” She dragged a brussels sprout through the spicy mustard and popped it in her mouth. There was nothing specifically sensual about it but I was adjusting myself at the sight.

Anything
involving Andy’s mouth turned me on.

“Come to the seacoast with me this weekend. I’ll change your mind,” I vowed, snatching a few pickles from her plate. “Think of it like a dive tasting menu meets pub crawl.”

She shot me an unimpressed glance. “Maybe—”

“Do you have other plans?”

I looked away when she speared another brussels sprout. Between her hair and the sprouts, my balls were on the verge of becoming a new shade of blue.

“Yoga and the farmers’ market. And an advisor from the architecture school might be in town. We’ve been meaning to connect and get drinks.”

“Yeah? Anyone I’d know?”

“Probably not.” She smiled at her tea. “You could say that Charlotte is…new at Cornell.”

“Fine, so you can get a lobster roll with me on Sunday,” I said.

“Hm. We’ll see.”

Smiling, I nodded in agreement and finished her pickles.

*

For all of
my successes with keeping my hands to myself, staring was becoming a problem. I found myself gazing at Andy while she ate lunch, talked about restaurants she wanted to try, and worked in my office.

She frequently caught me looking though it didn’t seem to bother her. Nothing rattled her cool, and that made the challenge of ruffling her more enticing than ever.

I realized that made me a creepy bastard. Add it to my list.

I also realized everything I knew about Andy outside of architecture was the result of observation and foodie conversations. While food seemed to be a good discussion starter for us, I couldn’t figure her out based on her enchilada sauce preferences alone. I needed to spend time with her away from work and our lunch routine. And I needed to finally apologize for the drunken texting.

“So my recommendation is tearing the joint down and building a laser tag arena,” Riley said. “See? He’s not listening.”

“What?” I blinked, looking between Matt and Riley. I was on the cusp of figuring out what to say to Andy before Riley barged into my thoughts.

“We were going over the JP property,” Matt replied.

I glanced at the plans on my screen, nodding. “It’s fine.”

“Are
you
fine?” Riley asked.

“No. Yeah. I mean, I’m just trying to figure something out,” I muttered, snapping my laptop shut then jogging up the stairs to my office.

I was going to apologize for the drunken texting, and see where that took us. With any luck, a drive up the coast for some divey seafood, and conversation that didn’t revolve around architecture.

The words melted on my tongue at the doorway to my office. I reached a steadying hand to the doorframe and stared at Andy. She was kneeling over a set of plans on the floor beside my desk.

Head bent and hair spilling over her shoulders.

Skirt riding up her thighs, exposing her long, stocking-covered legs.

She was the picture of sophisticated sin, and I was hard the moment she lifted her eyes to mine and parted her lips.

“This seems to have some chaotic roof forms—”

Gazing at her for a moment, I licked my lips before biting down. She looked obedient, docile. I needed to explain the texts and convince her good clam chowder could be life affirming, but more than anything else, I wanted to know if she liked that position and would consider spending some time in it at my apartment.

Staring at the physical embodiment of my recent sex-filled dreams would end badly for everyone.

“I can’t talk about that right now,” I snapped. “Figure it out.”

After stumbling down the stairs and striding across the building, I stormed into Matt’s office and slammed the door behind me.

“Told you he wasn’t fine,” Riley said. They regarded me from the drafting table and Matt slapped some bills into Riley’s hand.

“Andy needs her own office.”

Riley and Matt launched into individual, simultaneous arguments, and while being on the receiving end of their annoyance was one of my least favorite things, it was far preferable to thinking about the fucked up situation I had with Andy.