We walked through Beacon Hill, discussing the current glut of flipper-abandoned properties, on our way to The Paramount for lunch. Once we were seated, Matt waved away the menu the server offered. “I already know what I want,” he said. He glanced over as I yawned into my menu. “But she might need a minute. You need some coffee, Shan?”
“That would be great,” I said.
The server retreated, and Matt eyed me from across the table. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said, stifling another yawn. “Tired.”
It wasn’t as if I had a better explanation. My mind was a battlefield, and every contradictory emotion I could conjure went to war when Will showed up at my door last night. I stared at the ceiling for hours, desperate to formulate a plan for handling the unwelcome visitor down the hall. But…he wasn’t entirely unwelcome, and that knowledge fired the first shot in this war.
There were so many things I felt for Will—most of which I wasn’t prepared to admit—and no amount of anger could bury those feelings. But it wasn’t like they were neat or organized. No, they were a jumbled mess of fondness and concern and belonging, and even as the sun rose over the city, I couldn’t grab on to anything more than stomach-twisting confusion.
The Will I knew never pleaded with me to stay anywhere, he never let me go, even when I demanded it, and he never accepted sleeping arrangements that didn’t involve sharing a bed.
At first, I thought his hesitant reaction was due to Gerard, but then I remembered the calm fury I saw brewing in Will, and the warning to stay away from Mr. Pemberton. On most days, I found Will’s possessiveness to be nothing more than obnoxious, misplaced jealousy, but last night awakened a part of me I hadn’t known was dormant.
Matt cleared his throat, and I realized I’d been staring at the menu, too lost in the memory of Will’s arms locked around my body to notice his expectant gaze or the server beside our table.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumbled. “Can I have a grilled chicken panini, but no chicken?”
“You just want the mozzarella and tomato?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, and held out my hands when Matt turned an arched eyebrow in my direction. “What?”
“Why do you do that? The chickenless chicken sandwich?”
“I’m particular about chicken,” I said, working hard to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. “I prefer it grilled, on a real grill, and not restaurant kitchen grills. I never feel like it’s cooked through all the way, and it always tastes like it was cooked right next to meat. Like, that greasy, griddly, beefy flavor. I hate that.”
He tapped his phone against the tabletop, smiling. “It’s funny because my greasy, griddly, beefy burger never tastes like chicken.” He gestured toward me and opened his mouth, but paused, as if he couldn’t select the right words.
“Let’s talk about these properties,” I said, more hurried than necessary. I knew where Matt was headed—straight back to my mind-wandering weirdness—and I knew I was too exhausted to build an excuse that sounded valid. “If you want this project, I’ll get a cash offer out before your lunch arrives, but you have to be certain. This is a long, messy, expensive restoration, and I’m not about to continue the conversation unless you’re fully behind this.”
He nodded and sipped his water. “Why doyouwant it?”
“It’s a gorgeous pair of brownstones,” I said, “and you secretly love hot messes.”
“Whyelsedo you want it?” he asked.
I shrugged, turning my attention to my phone. Tom was bombarding me with several thousand quick questions in the form of texts and emails, his version of punishment for me spacing out during our regular Tuesday morning check-in meeting.
We kept that time sacred. In all the years we’d worked together, I could only remember a few occasions when we didn’t meet, and it was a result of Angus dying or Tom taking a week off to climb Denali. My late arrival—I didn’t want to go home and run into warm, sleep-rumpled Will after my barre class but I still hadn’t mastered the art of showering and dressing for the day in the communal locker room at my gym—and complete lack of focus meant we only discussed my schedule for the week while I signed another mountain of checks.
“Those are completely adequate reasons,” I said. “But for the sake of argument, let’s add a few more, Matt. How about one less garish, modern townhouse where a sustainably designed restoration belongs? How about a kick-ass Beacon Hill location? How about giving you a project uniquely suited to your skill set? How about a fifteen-million dollar price tag when this is all said and done, or better yet, the cover stories and awards that will absolutely come your way?”
“Paramount burger, extra bacon,” the server said as she slid Matt’s plate in front of him. “Grilled chicken panini, hold the chicken. Can I get you anything else?”
“All set,” Matt said. “I don’t know that I want a huge project right now, and I don’t mind running the engineering while Patrick and Sam handle the design on big restorations.”
I took two bites from my sandwich before fishing the sliced tomatoes out. “Lean in, Matt. Don’t tell me about how you and Lauren are thinking about getting a dog again, or that you want to start building that house you promised her, or any of that shit. This isyourtime.”
He eyed the abandoned tomatoes and shook his head. “I’m not even going to ask what that tomato did to you.”
“I like the flavor of tomatoes with mozzarella, but not the watery sliminess of tomatoes,” I said. “And if you’re serious about not wanting this project, I’ll drop it. I mean, Idolive in that neighborhood, and a part of my soulwillshatter every time I walk by those brownstones. I don’t know what I’ll do if a development firm buys them only to tear them down or—God forbid—rip out the brick and replace it with stucco. Fucking stucco. And honestly, this isn’t about money or awards or recognition for you, and that’s fine. I’m sure Patrick and Sam will have plenty of projects to keep you busy. One of these days, Riley is bound to stir up some business of his own. You could help him with that.”
Matt set the remaining portion of his burger on the plate and wove his fingers together, propping his chin on his clasped hands. “You play dirty.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I pushed the plate away and reached for my coffee. There was an inverse relationship between the number of complicated issues I could manage at any given time and my appetite: the more stressed I was, the less I ate. Those three bites, plus a nonfat latte, were the only things I’d managed to consume today. Lauren liked to make noise about that being some sort of blessing, but I hated when people noticed my erratic eating habits. I did the best I could.
