The Space Between (11 page)

Matt waved at the office. “We don’t have room for—”

And her kneeling at my desk.

Riley interrupted, “If anyone gets a goddamn office around here, it’s me—”

And her full lips, open and waiting.

Matt held up a hand, silencing Riley. “I don’t know where you want that to come from, but unless we’re redrawing—”

And the skin of her thighs underneath those thick stockings. I just knew it would be soft and smooth.

Riley pushed Matt’s hand away. “I’ve put up with both of you assholes since May—”

And the sounds she’d make when I wrapped my hands around her hair and pulled.

“Shut. Up,” I yelled. “One. If we cannot figure out how to find some space, we aren’t nearly as good at this as we think. That’s a problem. Figure it out and don’t bother me with the details. Two. Deal with it, Riley. Andy is ten times more capable than you, and she’s been here for two weeks. Three. I’m going to work here for a few hours, and unless you have a solution to our office space problem, we’re not talking about this. Or anything else.”

I dropped into a chair at Matt’s conference table and opened my laptop, staring blindly at my email program while Matt and Riley exchanged loaded glances. I still wanted to apologize for the texts, but the thought of Andy on her knees blew my control to hell.

“Challenge accepted,” Riley murmured.

He started rifling through the long, wide flat file drawers along the wall before producing the plans for our office. He gleefully paged through the plans and scribbled notes. His murmurs helped me focus on the major issues in my inbox, and the afternoon slipped into evening.

She departed for the day before I emerged from Matt’s office. The rough slap of disappointment at my inability to draw Andy out lingered while I walked home. It was my own fault, I knew that, but I didn’t know how to interpret or manage the frantic energy that spiraled through my veins in her presence.

Climbing the stairs to my apartment, it hit me. This all started with a text, so why not keep it going with a text? The distance allowed me to construct my thoughts without her tongue or her hair or her scent overwhelming my system.

Stowing my cold weather gear and quickly changing into fleece-lined sweats, a thermal t-shirt, and dry socks, I grabbed a beer and turned on the recording of Manchester United’s game. I drafted several text messages before selecting the most straightforward.

21:11 Patrick:
I was drunk last Friday night when I texted you. Was I an asshole?

It felt like an eternity before my phone signaled a response, but the timestamp indicated it was only minutes. Yet more evidence a padded cell was in my future.

21:15 Andy:
No

I sighed and typed another message. When she responded quickly, I felt relief surging through my veins.

21:16 Patrick:
Do you make a habit of offering to put drunks to bed?

21:18 Andy:
No

21:19 Patrick:
Just me?

21:20 Andy:
Recently, yes

21:21 Patrick:
I managed to put myself to bed that night

21:22 Andy:
I heard

Slamming the phone down on the couch, I stalked across the living room and stared out the doors at the snow-covered deck and icicles hanging from the pergola. Her painfully concise responses were fucking infuriating.

Was my game so rusty that she couldn’t decipher flirting when it was ringing in her hands? What I wouldn’t do to spank her ass until it was hot and pink, and she was all mine.

21:28 Patrick:
Am I bothering you?

21:30 Andy:
No.

21:31 Patrick:
You don’t give me much

21:32 Andy:
How much would you like me to give you?

Eyes wide, mouth open, I stared at the screen. I felt my heart thumping up my throat.

21:32 Patrick:
More than you think you can

21:33 Andy:
That seems like a lot of responsibility for you

21:34 Patrick:
If you haven’t noticed, taking on a lot of responsibility is my thing. It’s either an incredible strength or massive weakness.

21:35 Andy:
Let’s go with strength

21:35 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.

21:37 Andy:
May I ask why you’re texting me tonight?

21:38 Patrick:
You can ask me anything, anytime

21:39 Patrick:
I realized that we spend 60 hours a week together and only talk about work

21:40 Andy:
I like talking about work with you.

21:41 Patrick:
me too

21:43 Andy:
we talk about food. A lot.

21:44 Patrick:
ok, so work and food. but I don’t know much about you even though we spend all this time together

21:45 Andy:
that would require you to ask me questions

21:45 Patrick:
I can do that

21:45 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.

21:46 Patrick:
I’d suggest tomorrow…but I know you have plans

21:47 Andy:
And how do you know that?

21:48 Patrick:
I noticed a text on your screen when you were going over the Capriossi designs

21:50 Andy:
You’re very observant

21:51 Patrick:
I try.

21:52 Andy:
Some people might see that as early stalking symptoms

21:53 Patrick:
But not you?

21:54 Andy:
no…I just know you’re thorough

21:55 Patrick:
I can be very, very thorough

21:56 Andy:
promise?

21:56 Patrick:
swear.

21:57 Andy:
ok stalker, what about that drink?

21:58 Patrick:
I could ask you questions over a drink and fried clams in nh

21:59 Andy:
I’ve seen plenty of nh and i could do without the clams

22:00 Patrick:
you haven’t had the right clams

22:01 Patrick:
what if we talked about the possibility of clams?

22:02 Andy:
I would be open to that

22:03 Patrick:
I think everyone’s going to 21st amendment. At 6 on fri

22:03 Patrick:
it’s near the office

22:04 Andy:
that sounds like asking questions with everyone

22:05 Patrick:
doesn’t have to be

22:06 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.

22:08 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

22:09 Andy:
Yes. He does.

22:09 Patrick:
it’s his new thing

22:10 Andy:
I’ll have a drink with Matt. Then you can ask me questions

22:10 Patrick:
If I’m getting you a drink, what am I ordering?

22:12 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.

22:15 Patrick:
Factors?

22:16 Andy:
Yes

22:17 Andy:
I’ll tell you Friday night

22:18 Patrick:
You’re not giving me much

22:20 Andy:
I’ve given you quite a bit

22:22 Andy:
Probably too much

22:23 Patrick:
I don’t think so

22:26 Andy:
That’s just it, Patrick

22:30 Andy:
I get the sense that there will never be enough for you

ANDY

M
ore 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.”