“And you need a site in Dorchester?” I pulled my phone from my pocket and zoomed in on an area map.
“Around there,” she said, “and parts of Roxbury, and the surrounding neighborhoods. But at this point, Matthew, I’ll take anything you want to give me.”
“I’m thinking of three warehouses, and two vacant mills. The rehab on church complexes is through the roof. Extensive and expensive. Stick with mills.” I jotted notes on a damp cocktail napkin and pretended her last comment didn’t land right between my legs. “We could schedule time next week to walk the sites. Or…tomorrow. If you’re up for it.”
“I’m up for anything. If you are.”
A smirk pulled at her lips and I coughed to disguise my growl. She knew what she was doing, and she was enjoying it, too. “I don’t know what to expect from any of these.” I waved the napkin before tucking it into my pocket. “I won’t know much of anything until I walk the sites, but I can help with the architectural and structural sides of the project. If you want me, that is.”
Because I definitely want you. Anywhere you’ll have me.
And that shocked the shit out of me. She was cute and sensual, and short, and I didn’t like any of that. But I had to wonder: did I even know my type anymore? Did it matter? Weren’t the beasts just fulfilling a post-race adrenaline surge, and wasn’t I doing the same for them?
I didn’t actually like any of them, and I knew they didn’t give me a second thought. It was just sex, cold and mechanical, and I was intentional in choosing not to care about them. It was the most disconnected form of connection possible, and I liked it that way.
But right now, I couldn’t understand why I ever liked anything cold or mechanical when women like Lauren Halsted existed.
“I might.” Lauren nodded and reached for her drink. She met my eyes from behind the glass, and I swore I saw desire flicker in her gaze. Spending the better part of the past twenty-four hours swimming in my personal Lauren spank bank might have made me a pervy dickhead, but that one look told me I wasn’t there alone. “How did you get into this work?”
The Walsh history was the opposite of happy hour. It belonged with campfire horror stories.
“Birth. Let’s get some food. I can’t remember eating today.” I flagged down the waitress to order.
I was aware of all things Lauren in our shadowy booth. Her scent—like sugar and sweetness. Her skin—smooth and tanned, and sprinkled with just a few pea-sized dark brown freckles. Her smile—brighter than the sunrise, with just a bit of smirk. Her sparkle—a fucking force field I was powerless to resist, though I wasn’t sure why I bothered resisting in the first place.
Lauren asked, “You were just born into architecture and structural engineering?”
“Basically.”
“So, what?” she laughed. “I can drop my hot messery in your lap, but you’re empty-handed? Come on, Matthew.”
I turned my attention to the pulled pork sliders and fresh round of drinks when they arrived at our table. “Try one. They’re awesome.”
Lauren waved a hand. “I’m fine, thanks.”
She was on her third round of tequila, and looked as sober as a saint. “Have you eaten yet?”
Lauren squared her shoulders and sent me a firm stare. That expression probably brought most people to heel in an instant; I was halfway there myself. She didn’t need to be eight inches taller or bench two-twenty to kick my ass. I drank in the set of her jaw and decided I liked seeing her in control. She was intelligent and quick-witted, and bossy as hell, and I wanted to touch her again.
I also wanted to fuck her until she lost her voice from screaming my name, but I’d start with touching.
“No, but—”
“Please. Considering I’m the guy who figures out how to ignore the laws of physics on a daily basis, I’m not in the business of saying no very often, especially not to beautiful women. Drinks and bar food are the least I can do, and my sister would belt me for not taking you somewhere decent like No. 9 Park or XV Beacon.”
“You’re a little demanding,” she laughed while selecting a slider. “And you just rattled off the only two places in Boston with numbers in their name.”
Grinning, I rubbed the back of my neck. “There’s also 75 Chestnut, and Twenty-First Amendment, and 29 Newbury. And a few others.”
Lauren folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “So you’re a freak. This puts things in a new light.”
“Something like that, yeah.” I raised my beer to her glass. “Not sure I can compete with hot messery, but I’ll sure as hell try.”
We covered the basics—our siblings, our work, our general interests—but didn’t delve further. No fucked-up family stories, no exes, no hopes or dreams.
The history of Walsh Associates was fairly straightforward, mostly because it didn’t turn pear-shaped until recently. The firm dated back to the fifties when my grandfather and his brothers started out as architects preserving and restoring historic buildings in the Boston area. My father, uncle, and aunts carried on the work, but Angus wouldn’t play nice in the sandbox, and over the past two decades, my uncle and aunts left for greener pastures. I didn’t get into Angus’s preference for pissing his money away at the dog track or his day-drunkenness, and there was no talk of his screaming matches with Shannon or his tendency to throw things at people.
I opted for stories of us growing up surrounded by architecture, and getting conscripted into grunt work as children. It felt good talking about my love for building and designing, and creating ways to modernize within the constraints of restoration.
