“We probably should,” I murmured. “Shan, I gotta go. I’m late for a client and I’m lost in Dorchester. I’ll figure out how to deal with him later. Be a duck. Don’t let him get to you. He’s not worth it.”
“I don’t want to hear about your fucking ducks, Matt.”
After fifteen minutes circling the streets of Dorchester and some help from Siri, I scaled the steps of Saint Cosmas while pulling on the fleece vest embroidered with our new Walsh Associates logo—another in an endless line of changes to make the firm our own.
Weeds stood tall around the perimeter and vines roped up one side, over the roofline, and down the other. Small trees grew out of the parking lot, the roots leaving behind eruptions of concrete. The earth was repossessing the structure. A quick inventory of the church and the attached hall told me the work involved the two E’s: extensive and expensive.
“Oh, hi, over here.” I turned my focus away from the sagging roofline and stone pillars toward a female voice. “Hi, I’m Lauren Halsted.”
She came in about nine, maybe ten inches under my six-three, though the energy she projected made up for the small package. Tucked into a navy skirt and jacket with her rich blonde hair loose at her shoulders, she turned a slow smile toward me. The professional suit did nothing to disguise her curves, and for a moment, I stared at her, wondering what a pin-up girl was doing at a Dorchester church.
My expectations had run closer to a graying librarian or grandmotherly type. Who else would want to convert an aging church hall into an elementary school?
“Miss Halsted, hi, Matt Walsh. I apologize, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” I squeezed her hand, but it was the shimmers of gold in her green eyes catching my attention. I’d never seen anything like it before, and I couldn’t look away.
“Oh please don’t give it a second thought. And call me Lauren. Let’s get inside, and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking.”
I held open the heavy, warped door for Miss Halsted and found myself gazing at something even more captivating than her eyes: her ass. It was round and firm, and the craving to squeeze it—hard—left my fingers itching. And then her legs. Deeply tanned, natural and without a hint of that strange spray-on shit.
She was talking, but between her butterscotch-washed voice and the dark freckles on her calves, my brain didn’t have the bandwidth to listen. Angry creaks echoed from the floorboards and plumes of dust swirled around her ankles, and then I noticed the leopard-print Come Fuck Me heels.
Those looked good on her.
Finding myself admiring the lilt in Lauren’s voice and her sultry features was a surprise. She wasn’t my type. Not even a little bit.
I liked beasts—ass-kicking, whey protein-and-oatmeal-guzzling beasts who preferred compression sleeves and hydration belts to jewelry and flowers. I liked women who planned their lives around Color Runs, Tough Mudders, and the Ironman circuit. I liked women who could bench press my weight, and those within a few inches of my height, and even the ones who liked to remind me they could knock my ass into next Friday. I was about hard-core athletic women, usually ones from my marathon and triathlon circles, and always ones who wanted only fast, stringless sex.
Maybe I was irreversibly fucked-up, but beast mode worked for me.
Lauren was short and soft, with generous, real curves. Everything about her screamed sexy as fuck, yet innocent and warm. Not even within striking distance of beastly.
And this was an architectural consult, for Christ’s sake. I wasn’t here to think about her or types or freckles or sexy-ass shoes. And women like her married young. Anyone with sense would have snapped her up the minute it was legal. She had naughty schoolteacher written all over that sunny blonde smile, and I was willing to bet she was bent over someone’s knee every night.
Client, client, client.
Fuck, I needed to stop thinking about spanking this chick and get my head in the game.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I turned away and inventoried the hall’s structure. Rays of daylight shone through the ceiling. Crisp autumn air wafted in through broken stained glass windows. Beams listed at precarious angles. Water damage and wood rot long ago destroyed everything worth preserving. It was a train wreck—my favorite kind of project.
“…so this area could be divided into four classrooms and five small offices over there. I know the plumbing needs updating. What would it take to add another set of bathrooms down here?”
My phone’s structural engineering apps came to life under my fingers while I eyed the space. Perhaps train wreck was a gracious characterization.
I looked up from my phone to watch Lauren traversing decayed stairs to a small alcove—in the CFMs, no less. When she shot her left arm out to steady herself, there were exactly zero rings on those fingers.
Client, client, client.
Get through the consult, I thought. Plenty of time for thinking about fucking Little Miss Naughty Schoolteacher when she was out of sight.
I ran my hands along the pillars flanking the main room. The feel of an unstable load-bearing structure was unmistakable, and I stopped caring who Miss Halsted went home to at night. I jogged across the hall, slowing only when I reached her side. “Time to go.”
Eyes narrowed, she studied my grip on her bicep. “Excuse me? What’s going on?”
I yanked her outside and shook my head. “Miss Halsted. You need to stay away from this place. It’s not stable. Go across the street. Now.”
Lauren’s lips fell into a tight line. Maybe she was the one doing the spanking. “I’m fine right here, thank you.”
If this place wasn’t a breath from caving in around us, my dick would have been standing at attention and waiting for marching orders, and I would’ve had only that sharp look and bossy tone to blame.
