Shannon shrugged. “It’s mostly a pain in the ass for me. But—”
“Do we have to talk about this?” I asked. Every time Shannon brought it up, I could hear my blood rushing through my head like a water cannon, and I had to talk myself out of imploding on the spot. Angus owned enough real estate in my head already. “Can’t you just let Andy keep working and not bring it up?”
“Shouldn’t we figure out how we’re paying for this?” Matt asked.
“I’ve only used a quarter of the budget,” Andy said.
I glared across the table at her, and hated her frugality.
“Sam’s right,” Patrick said. “As long as there isn’t a specific objection to extending the work, Andy and I can figure it out later. And we have an hour of agenda topics to get through in fifteen minutes.”
The project updates were quick, and focusing on my properties brightened my mood. I’d always been able to fall into my designs and block out the world, and right now I was hoping for that relief from the Turlan restoration.
Shannon recapped the non-disclosure agreement terms, and reminded everyone to keep quiet on that front. “And,” she said, “Roof Garden Girl officially agreed to work on this project with Sam. If this goes well, I think we should talk about developing a more formal partnership with her.”
“If I never hear about another roof garden, I’ll be a happier person,” Patrick said.
“I’m sure you’d find something else to bitch about,” Matt said while Andy laughed into her tea.
“I think everyone’s heard this by now,” Shannon said.If everyone knows, you don’t need to repeat it.“To support some of Sam’s work so that he can dedicate the time necessary to this, Riley is finished with Matt’s projects starting today.”
Riley tapped his coffee cup against mine and offered a crooked smile. “I feel like the village donkey. Everyone’s getting a ride.”
If someone had told me two months ago that I’d be stepping into a dusty attic in Allston for some bluesy piano on a rainy November night, I’d have told her she was crazy.
It wasn’t as if my original plans were much better. I’d been thinking about finally building the chairs I’d promised Riley for his new office, and maybe making some vegetable soup. It wasn’t winter until I made vegetable soup.
But Tiel called, and she insisted I couldn’t continue living without seeing this pianist.
So, regardless of my day from hell and whether I needed to be alone with my snarly mood and beat the shit out of something, I went to her anyway. In all deference to honesty, I rarely denied her anything.
Much to my displeasure, Shannon and I had ended up arguing over inconsequential details relating to the Turlan project’s PR schedule, and I was now an hour late meeting Tiel. My attitude was out of control and I was more interested in hitting the treadmill than learning to appreciate niche music. The drive was a nightmare, and I was prepared to leave after a quick drink and a long hug.
We spent an inordinate amount of time together these days. The city’s music subculture kept us hopping from venue to venue, and though I didn’t share her investment in the scene, I couldn’t help but get Tiel’s enthusiasm all over me like a bad case of chicken pox.
When we weren’t chasing down shows, we were watching movies at her apartment. There was no lamer approach to the weekend, but I was fucking addicted to our movie nights. The films themselves had nothing to do with my obsession; they were the gateway drug.
It started out with us falling asleep on her sofa over Labor Day weekend, but as the weeks and months passed, movies became the front for sneaky snuggling.
We’d start out on opposite ends of the sectional, the picture of platonic. Gradually we moved toward each other, and the reasons were seemingly legitimate: ottoman placement, popcorn distribution, air conditioner proximity when it was hot, quilt sharing now that it was cold, cowering during scary moments. It always transitioned to us lying together, and that was where the boundaries evaporated.
I mean, where the fuck was I supposed to put my hands when she was curled up next to me? Once my arm was around her shoulder, it was all too easy for it to slide down and rest on her hip.
God, those hips were sinful. The flare from her waist to hip was a perfect hourglass, and whenever my hand rested in that spot, I had to talk myself out of pulling back her clothes and running my teeth along her skin. It was bad enough that I found myself in that position on a weekly basis, but her fucking wiggling was endless. It was like receiving a goddamn lap dance without all the glitter and skank.
From there, it was a quick journey to her belly, and that was my favorite spot.
It sounded a little fetishy even to me, but I adored splaying my fingers out over her tummy. I’d always preferred waifish women, but I revered Tiel’s curves. Maybe it was her boundless confidence or complete comfort with her body. I wouldn’t want her any other way.
And I loved touching her. If it were socially acceptable to fuse my hands to her body at all hours of the day, I’d do it and I wouldn’t apologize for a damn minute. She was soft and beautiful, and I felt an unusually spectacular comfort when I was pressed against her. I could be content with a layer of clothing between us but it came with a dose of agony. I wanted to feel her skin under mine, and that was the greatest shock to my system of all.
The kissing was another issue. Since the elevator incident, I shared more kisses with Tiel than I had with all previous women combined. To her, the opportunities were limitless, and she seized plenty of them. It was always playful and sweet, and if she ever noticed the aroused state she left me in, she didn’t mention it.
And we were still friends.
Friends who kissed, friends who slept together on sofas, friends who woke up tangled in each other as if it were their last embrace.
Friends. Profusely affectionate friends.
