I pointed to his pocket. "That wasn't very nice."
"Oh?" he asked, a grin pulling at his lips. "I thought it was outstanding."
Rolling my eyes, I shifted my skirt back into place but the damp spots had me cringing. "You know what I'm talking about." I waved at my clothes. "When you rip my undies at home, I can get another pair. But we'rehere, and now I'm a mess. I'm all—you know—wet, and I have to walk around like this for the rest of the day."
"Let that serve as a reminder that you need to talk to me," he said, and fire was back in his eyes. "Total honesty, my wife."
I ran my fingers through my hair and adjusted my clothes again, nodding. "And that goes quite well with food," I said when I finally met his eyes. "And wine. We should sample some of it before you buy a case. Or two."
We spent the remainder of our time Down Under exploring the local arts scene—my heart was overflowing with live music—and incredible eateries. The entire city pulsed with a culture so vibrant and diverse that we were gobbling up every garden, gallery, and artsy laneway by the armful.
Sam went hog-wild for the Flinders Street Station clocks, and had full-on architecture boners every time we turned down a new street or discovered another gorgeous park. One afternoon, Sam was so enamored with one nineteenth-century home that he insisted we ask the owner for a tour. He turned on all the Sam Walsh charm, complete with enough incendiary smiles to melt bricks…and panties.
The little old lady who answered the door not only invited us in, but also served us lunch and dragged out a scrapbook tracing the home's history back nearly two hundred years.
Sam was in architect heaven, and he was sharing that heaven with me.
It was all Ineeded, but there were a few more things Iwanted.
11
Sam
February
Isprintedto the attic conference room on the thin hope that I'd bought myself a few minutes with the tribe before Riley caught up with me.
"Listen up," I said when I reached the landing. Patrick, Matt, and Shannon turned toward me. "I hid Riley's hot sauce on Tom's desk. We have three or four minutes, max."
"Yeah, that's exactly what we need," Matt said. "He's a pissy bitch if he doesn't have hot sauce with his breakfast burrito."
"I'm aware of that," I said. "Seriously though, he's freaking out about Turlan. He's not going to ask for help, but he needs all of us, all week."
"Is this intended as new information?" Patrick gestured to the color-coded project management spreadsheet. "I've already planned for everyone to be on site, supporting the wrap-up work at that property."
"That's not the point," I said. "It's that he doesn't need to think we're expecting him to fail. We need to show up for him, and not give him any shit about it, either."
Riley's voice boomed from the stairwell. "Fuck you very much, Thomas. How'd you like it if I borrowed your almond milk? No? You wouldn't enjoy it if I decided to help myself to that creamy nut water you call milk? Then don't kidnap my sriracha, sir."
He stomped up the stairs, grumbling as he made his way to his chair, a bottle of sriracha and a foil-wrapped burrito cradled in the crook of one arm, his laptop, notebook, and water jug in the other.
"How's it going, RISD?" Matt asked easily.
"Fantastic, Jugger, fuckin' fantastic," he said. "The Bruins lost last night. I dropped my coffee on the goddamn sidewalk just now. Your assistant stole my sauce, Mrs. Halsted." He pointed at Shannon with his burrito. We were all still miffed about her no-invites wedding. "That's punishable by death in some parts of the world."
"Probably not," Shannon said.
"Where's Andy?" Riley asked. He clutched the bottle to his chest like a security blanket. "She'd agree with me on this."
"Home," Patrick said, his eyes cutting to the iPhone beside his laptop. He tapped it to life. "Stomach flu."
"Is that code for pregnant?" Matt asked. "I mean, half of us are married now, and even if you haven't sacked up and made it legit with her, it wouldn't be illogical to expect some babies around here soon. You know, mathematically speaking."
"Tryin' to tell us something, Jugger?" Riley asked as he tore into the burrito.
Matt shook his head as a chunk of scrambled egg broke free from the tortilla and tumbled to Riley's leg. "No, dude. Just…a question," Matt said, staring at the fallen clump of egg.
"And your attempt to dismiss my question raises my suspicions," Riley said.
