The Space Between (8 page)

“They’re fucking exhibitionists.” Riley jutted his chin toward Shannon. “I’ve seen this show before. Want to a hit a frat party?”

“Why do you know about these things? It’s not in Rhode Island, is it?”

“You’re lucky I don’t hit women,” he replied. “No, it’s not in Rhody, but you’d be in for something special at an Ocean State frat party. And don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”

“Won’t I be the oldest person there by…ten years?” she asked.

“Yeah. Some guys are into that.”

Shannon shrugged. “Good enough for me.” She gathered her things before touching my forearm. “Will you check on him?” I nodded, and she bit her lip. “He drank a lot and barely ate. His insulin pump won’t work as well.”

“I know, I got it. Go.”

She smiled and headed out with Riley while Matt articulated his unquestionably filthy intentions for the night with Lauren. Was
that
what love looked like?

“I’m takin’ you to bed, sweetness,” Matt said when he released her from the refrigerator, his hands deep in her back pockets.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Lauren offered as Matt marched her toward their bedroom.

“Thanks, Lauren. Let him sleep wherever he falls. A night on the floor never hurt him.”

“If you only knew, Patrick,” she laughed.

I stared at the ocean before turning off the lights and locating Sam’s messenger bag. I grabbed his medical kit and headed toward the spare bedroom. Unsurprisingly, he was fully dressed and snoring. I rolled him over, expecting him to wake up and launch into a long-winded argument, but he went on snoring.

Opening the kit, I retrieved the supplies and knelt beside the bed, conjuring the last shreds of sobriety. He didn’t flinch when the lancet punctured his skin, but after all these years with type 1 diabetes, I suspected he was immune to it. His levels were low, but not dangerous. I inserted a new canister in his insulin pump and waited for the screen to register it.

Sam grunted and turned to his side, and I pulled the blankets over him before flopping beside him. I set the alarm on my phone to wake me when he needed his levels checked again, and scrolled through my texts and emails.

The sight of Andy’s name attached to six emails with updated designs brought a smile to my face. She worked hard and didn’t call it a day until the work was done, and done well. I admired that and I wanted her to know.

The wine and whiskey left my brain muddy, not to mention Angus’s shitshow will and unsolicited reminders of her soft skin against mine, but I fought it all off and typed a text message to Andy.

Exhaustion hit my body like an avalanche, and the phone slipped from my fingers when I tried to place it on the table. I reached out as it skittered away, only to grasp at air. Sighing, I rolled back and wondered what she was doing.

My eyes heavy, I thought about the shock of the will. Nothing would have changed the blunt force trauma of it all, but my arms wrapped around Andy and her head on my shoulder wouldn’t have hurt.

ANDY

“W
ho’s that?” Marley
peered over my shoulder. Sugary lemon drop martini spilled from her glass and splashed down my shirt, a puddle dammed against the underwire of my bra. Sticking with my original plan of staying home and criticizing all the design shows on HGTV sounded heavenly right then.

“Girl, you need to watch yourself,” Jess yelled. “That drink is everywhere but your mouth.”

“Nice.” I shook the droplets from my arms and wiped my phone on my leg. “I need to clean up.”

“Sorry,” Marley squealed, and I replied with a halfhearted smile.

My tolerance for Marley was still a work in progress, and her ability to find the douchiest bars in Boston was worthy of an Urbanspoon entry. An extensive conversation over dinner about a ‘welpy’ guy that she met on OkCupid—who she was considering seeing again primarily due to the fact he drove a 2004 Lexus—convinced me I needed to put more effort into finding friends in Boston.

The bathroom was vacant when I entered, and I wiped the syrupy alcohol from my body without an audience. Salvaging my silk shirt and bra, however, wasn’t happening.

The pounding adrenaline of my first days at Walsh Associates was gradually subsiding, and lemon drop disaster aside, life was magnificent.

I was impressed with how quickly Patrick transitioned from wordless scowls to full, decipherable words and sentences—my mere existence wasn’t wasting his time anymore, and I was beginning to think he actually tolerated me.

Learning from Patrick was more amazing than I expected, and I was blown away by the amount of responsibility he entrusted in me. I kept my inner fangirl in check, but she was primed for an explosion, especially when I discovered we were both starving foodies.

Leaning against a stall, I stared at the unopened text message from Patrick. Our texts were rare since we spent the majority of our time together during business hours. When we were separated, our messages were limited to quick questions about projects and contractors, and photos from jobsites.

Wanting to get lost in work, I spent my evenings combing the plans for weaknesses and issues standing in the way of true restoration, and researching techniques that might work for Patrick’s projects. Though I loved the rush of solving unworkable problems, Patrick still engulfed my thoughts even after hours of poring over research.

My apartment was fortified with a wall of unopened boxes and I couldn’t find a spoon to save my life, but my vibrator was unpacked and stowed at arm’s reach. But after five days of concerted effort and nights spent draining my toy’s batteries, I abandoned Project Don’t Fuck the Boss when those abs entered my line of sight.

Resisting Patrick Walsh required an iron chastity belt, not a self-control initiative.

We could agree the first glimpse of his torso was accidental, but there was no doubt in my mind the second was premeditated. His demanding stare was too intense, his stretch too long.

I knew enough about him after a week as his shadow to know he followed his own playbook and answered to no one, but his freely offered abs were still shocking.

I didn’t take him for the flirtatious type, what with all his scowling, growling, and intimidating glares, but that was as far as it could go. Just flirting. My finger hovered over the message for a moment, and a vision of his beautifully sculpted body entered my mind. The artful spattering of freckles across his abdomen was unlike anything I’d ever seen, and I wanted to play Connect the Dots.

“There you are! Is it ruined?” Jess breezed into the bathroom and brushed her hand over my shirt. “Holy moly. My dry cleaner might be able to help…or you can wear it under cardigans, if you button up.”

“Hadn’t considered the cardigan angle.”

She turned to the mirror to wipe away some smudged mascara. Meeting my eyes in the mirror, she said, “Last call’s coming up. Do you want to come back to my place for a sleepover? We have some salted caramel gelato.”

I chuckled, remembering our fondness for Friday night sleepovers back home in Maine—the good old days when we didn’t curse the deities after gorging on ice cream and sleeping on the floor.

“Tempting as that sounds, we’re pretty close to my place. I’d invite you guys to stay, but…”

“But you live in a shoebox, I know. That’s what you get for living on Beacon Hill.”

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.

01:51 Patrick:
really want to tell u that your grant and

01:53 Patrick:
shane was right your fucking awesome

01:55 Patrick:
u work hard as I do and thirst great and year so smart

01:56 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.

*