“Early Tuesday morning. That’s part of my urgency around getting this building squared away.”
“Remember how I said I know what you need?”
“Theory of the Caveman? Yes, you’ve mentioned this before,” I laughed. My hand moved under his jacket and settled on his back, my fingers urging him closer.
“It’s a pressure-tested proof, Miss Halsted,” he said against my neck.
I slipped my hand lower, between his shirt and jeans, savoring the feel him, his heat. Being with him felt exquisite, or maybe it was that despite all of my single-minded, mission-focused days, I wasn’t totally lost in my work. At least not tonight.
“And here’s my addendum to that proof: if you’re leaving in a few days, we need to get your designs finalized and approved. Stay with me this weekend, and I’ll get it done. Then come to the office on Monday so my sister—”
“The one with the volcanoes?”
“No,” he laughed. “Different sister—the CFO—and she handles all the real estate. She’ll work on getting a clean title so we can order permits and start the work. This is the one thing I can take on for you. You have enough shit going on already so I want you to let me, even if that makes me a caveman.”
My fingers continued traveling along his waist while I processed his words. I could spend the next couple of days indulging in Matthew, and then time zones and miles would separate us for weeks. This crazy, sexy pull would fizzle, and our demanding lives would take over again, and this would become a beautiful memory of a wild weekend.
It was no tiny cheat—more like a binge—but a three-week cleanse would balance it all out.
“You’ve thought of it all,” I said, and tugged at Matthew’s lapels to draw him closer. He smiled against my lips. “Come on. There are some friends I want you to meet, and I need another beverage, and ifyoucan promise not to scream, we might go find that dark corner.”
*
Fog wafted overAtlantic Avenue as Matthew and I embarked on the short walk to his building. Dipping my toes in the coupled pond—even if it was just for tonight—was wonderfully satisfying. I expected some relief from the constant fix-up attempts, but I never expected to feel so whole, so completely and thoroughly myself standing next to Matthew. But for every ounce of satisfaction, there was an equal amount of hesitation.
“I like your friends.” Matthew shrugged, and he couldn’t hold back a smug smile.
While most of my friends expressed some appreciation for the beauty that was Matthew Walsh, only Elsie set my teeth on edge. She went in for the hug instead of the handshake, and wrapped her hands around his bicep while she talked about some remodeling she and her husband, Kent, were considering.
I had no business being possessive or territorial or even jealous, but I was. At this moment, Matthew was with me, and she was a little too grabby for my liking.
I rolled my eyes. “My friends liked you, all right. They wanted to drag you out back and take turns on you. Do you always have that effect on married women?”
Matthew stopped in front of the marina outside his building and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, his face taking on a happy, serene quality that seemed unusual for him. “Marry me and find out.”
“For the love of tiny purple ponies, Matthew.”
I laughed and pushed out of his arms. If I didn’t get out of these shoes soon, I was taking them off and walking down the street barefoot. According to the Commodore, that was the best way to pick up gangrene and lose a foot, and a girl needed both feet and all ten toes. He was also fundamentally opposed to my heels (too difficult to flee when the situation demanded it), necklaces (an invitation for strangulation), and long hair (something else attackers could grab).
“Is that a yes?”
“You really are a caveman,” I said. “I’m tired, I’m cold, my feet hurt, I have to pee, and I want to be out of this dress and eating this cake”—I held up the leftovers from the party—“in the next ten minutes, and we agreed to drinks.”
“And my cock in your mouth.” He stretched his arm and peered at his watch. He nodded, and said, “By the way: when will that be starting?”
“Sometime after I change and go to the bathroom. And I really do want this cake.”
He sighed. “Then we need to talk about citrus fruit.”
Grabbing his hand, I towed him inside. “I’m not even going to ask what that means, Matthew.”
He leaned against the elevator walls and crossed his arms, his brows pinched in thought. He didn’t speak again until we reached his floor. “But I’m a little wounded you turned down my proposal. That shit was heartfelt.”
Chapter Twelve
MATTHEW
Monday morning arrivedtoo soon. The last thing I wanted to do was leave the protective bubble of my loft, but Lauren was awake and dressed before me, and if her clipped tone told me anything, it was that the bubble had long since burst. Even though we were heading in the same direction—she lived around the corner from my office—she invented some reason to leave before I hopped in the shower.
