Or something along the lines of:Sorry for leaving but I need to go burst into flame now.
Or maybe this:I’m actually off men right now, even though I spent the night all over you.
Instead, I had cast a quick glance at his place, realizing I allocated no part of last night to observing my surroundings. The Commodore wouldn’t have been pleased—it was important to identify multiple escape routes upon arrival—but he wouldn’t be getting wind of this.
The loft was cool and open, and surprisingly modern for a guy who spent his days restoring historic homes. His furniture was dark and angular, and everything was positioned for maximum ocean viewing. My eyes had swept over the living room and white marble kitchen, and back again, but I couldn’t find any hints of Matthew. No photos or books, no magnets on the refrigerator, not even a messy dish of keys and coins. Aside from the suit coat in the hallway and black messenger bag by the door, no trace of him existed there.
And I removed every trace of me, too.
I tiptoed into my apartment and headed straight for my bedroom. I lived alone but the Beacon Hill brownstone was at least one hundred years old and I didn’t need to wake the downstairs neighbors at this hour.
I was still a good girl, even with the dirty, dirty sex and…oh God, the things I did.
Whowasthat person? And what the hell had shesaid?
I stripped off my coat, dress, and what was left of my underwear, and tossed them in the dry cleaning bag. While the bath filled, I scrolled through emails and text messages about Steph and Amanda’s going away party this evening to divert my mind. Analyzing last night further would only lead to stress-eating a brick of chocolate before six in the morning.
I dropped into the apartment’s original claw-foot tub and, as if I didn’t have enough reminders of Matthew, every inch of my body felt supremely used. My hips were dotted with fingertip bruises from his unrelenting hold. Stinging bite marks throbbed against the bath salts. Overextended abdominal muscles shrieked in protest, a reminder that I’d effectively avoided sit-ups of all manner since high school gym class. I groaned at the aching in my center from Matthew’s insistent pummeling and the introduction of his fingers to my rear end.
I wasn’t ready to think about that particular moment.
Okay, fine, I loved it, and much like rest of that night, I didn’t know what to do with that information. I didn’t want to think about the ways in which everything with Matthew was natural, if not enormously shameful. I wanted to disregard the moments when our bodies met, our eyes locked, and the electricity between us was the only thing that mattered.
But I had real priorities—finding a facility, educating children—and I couldn’t let some electricity or hormones get in the way. I didn’t have time for one-night stands or boys with ridiculous policies on biting and growling.
And I didn’t do this sort of thing. It was untidy and sticky and awkward, and not at all for me.
Neither were relationships. I made my choice when I joined this fellowship, and I knew I couldn’t have it all right now.
I didn’t know how or when, but I knew a future version of me would be able to manage my school masterfully, and I’d find the time to meet the ideal guy and build a healthy, normal relationship. It would happen when the time was right for those pieces to fall into place.
And the time just wasn’t right.
Chapter Eight
MATTHEW
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: September 24 at 11:03 WEST
Subject: RE: Back from the Azores
Kid, if you think I’m having Christmas or Thanksgiving with the tribe, you have lost your ever-loving mind. Surely, you’re asking for comedic purposes only. Yep. That’s what I’m going with.
And I’ve told you before: I can walk on lava. It’s one of my superpowers. All gingers have them.
I picked up a Portuguese translation ofFlowers in the Attic. I discovered two things. One, my Portuguesa is no bueno. Two, I prefer my campy novels in American. >
Keep scraping damsels-in-distress off the sidewalk, or whatever the hell you’re doing.
–e
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
