*
A happy perkof subletting from a colleague of my brothers’ was living a block away from the Boston Common and the Public Gardens. It was my spot. I loved the Swan Boats, theMake Way for Ducklingsstatues, and the skating rink constructed over the Frog Pond every winter.
Not that I was cut out for ice skating, but I did enjoy the hot chocolate sold nearby.
I entered the park at the Charles Street Gate and adjusted the plaid scarf around my neck, my clothes strategically selected as an extra layer of confidence. Power heels and fancy panties didn’t jive with weekend wear, so I need every scrap of fashion armor I could find.
Who did he think he was, showing up with my freaking underwear in his hand? And announcing he intended to keep my necklace? I was going to have some words with him.
Matthew was easy to spot, pacing in front of the pond, his hands perched on his hips and his long legs eating up the path. I watched him for several quiet minutes, trying to piece together why I agreed to this. I didn’t get involved with this kind of drama, and I didn’t let beautiful boys take over my life.
Just when I convinced myself to stop this ridiculous flirtation and leave, Matthew looked up, his eyes giving it all away. He was confused and annoyed and relieved, and behind that was a twinge of hurt. And I was responsible for all of it.
The distance between us evaporated, and he reached for me, running his hands from my shoulders to my fingertips and back up again. It was a decent response, considering I kicked him out of my apartment. Regardless of what he said in his texts, I expected to hear I was an awful hook-up and he was dumping me as a client and telling all his architect-engineer friends to steer clear.
“Miss Halsted,” he sighed. He studied me, shaking his head while his hands skimmed up and down my arms.
“Mr. Walsh.”
“Do you have any idea what you put me through? You leave in the middle of the night, then you don’t respond to my texts? What the fuck happened?”
His sharp tone didn’t align with his gentle hands as they pulled me closer, working over my shoulders and down the planes of my back, settling on my waist. He was a demanding little shit, but at least he was sweet about it.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I rolled my eyes. “You don’t think this is all a bit much? Showing up at my place? The texts? My panties, my necklace? Aren’t you coming on a little strong?”
Matthew tilted his head and shot me a measured glance. “I think last night was a little…strong.”
It didn’t matter whether I agreed with him—I did—but what I really wanted to know was whether last night was normal. What he liked, what he wanted, what he fantasized about. And perhaps the question wasn’t about last night so much as it was about me: wasIwhat he liked, what he wanted, what he fantasized about? Or was I convenient? Was it possible he did this, this whole crazy production, on a regular basis?
Or was it something else? Something different?
“Don’t do this, Matthew. Don’t go all caveman on me. You do not get to call the shots. I didn’t mean to scare you, however you cannot send me, like, three dozen texts. I don’t carewhathappened last night. It’s ludicrous and overbearing and suffocating, and I don’t put up with that shit.”
“Are you kidding me? You actually believe I shouldn’t freak out when you disappear from my bed in the middle of the night after promising to stay and you don’t respond to my texts?”
“Well, yes.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me. “Miss Halsted, that’s bullshit and you know it.”
I gazed at his long-sleeved Cornell t-shirt, and my argument dried on my tongue. I didn’t know why he generated such strong reactions in me, but there was no in-between.
I told myself to stop analyzing, stop dissecting. The day was crisp and sunny, and these jeans did amazing things for my legs, and this scrumptious man wanted my attention. It didn’t have to fit into an agenda, and it didn’t have to mean anything.
“Do you like croissants?”
“Hmm?” He squinted at me.
“Croissants. One of my favorite bakeries is over on Charles Street, and they have the best croissants, and I’d rather have a croissant than yell at you in the middle of the Common.”
“Fine, but you need to promise me you’ll never do that again.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Fine, but you need to promise you’re not telling me what to do, or blowing up my phone with obsessive and stalkery texts again.”
“Fine, and just so you know? All that eye rolling is adorable. Keep doing it.”
“Fine, I will,” I snapped, my voice cracking into a laugh at the end. “You’re a caveman.”
“You’re bossy. I have to keep up.”
