But I didn’t think I wanted it to stop.
*
I went acouple more rounds with the inspector on the Back Bay brownstone restorations that were giving me hell, but after six hours of fixing mistakes and chewing some general contractor ass, all I had to show for it was a pounding headache. Making tracks on at least ten miles of pavement was the only answer, but at the rate my day was going, I’d be running at midnight. Exhausted, I climbed the stairs to the Beacon Hill headquarters of Walsh Associates and waved to Shannon and Patrick when I passed her office. Inviting myself into their weekly budget-and-sushi meeting was the last thing any sane person needed.
Settling into my desk, I stared out the eyebrow dormer windows at the night sky. Why did I do this? Insane hours, impossible expectations, bitch-ass inspectors. Why did I put up with this?
There was always Lauren Halsted.
If pulling a bubbly blonde from an unstable building and subsequently preventing her from eating concrete were the highlights of my day, I was calling it a memorable day. The full-body embrace put an interesting spin on things. A scarf camouflaged the finer aspects of her chest, but the second she was up against me, her full breasts were unmistakable.
Something else unmistakable? The semi I got from those tits and the vision of my hands all over them while she rode me. I couldn’t remember the last time my hands explored a body like Lauren’s, if ever. She wasn’t sculpted or race-hardened. She was real, all feminine, and completely foreign to me. And a client and not my type and I needed something else to occupy my mind.
Fast.
I demolished a Reuben sandwich while listening to voicemails, and sighed—and couldn’t repress a smile—when her voice filled the room.
“Hi, Mr. Walsh, this is Lauren Halsted. From the Saint Cosmas property. Touching base to see if you have any updates for me. Looking forward to hearing from you.”
I pulled up the specs of her project on my laptop.
“Mr. Walsh, this is Lauren Halsted again. Please feel free to reach out with updates. I’m free anytime. Looking forward to hearing from you. About the Saint Cosmas project.”
I checked the timestamp on her calls. Thirty-five minutes apart. “She wasn’t joking when she said it was her life,” I murmured.
“Mr. Walsh, this is Lauren Halsted calling. Sorry to trouble you. I’ve emailed some information gathered from a feasibility study completed on the site a few years ago. Again, please call me. Anytime. Looking forward to hearing from you.”
I crumpled the sandwich wrappings and turned my attention to the Saint Cosmas project. The calculations were quick, and confirmed everything I suspected: the site was completely unstable. The costs of rehab far exceeded Lauren’s budget, and that was before we started talking about restoration or turning it green.
Annoyed, I rolled my eyes at the screen. I probably would have been prepared with that information before this afternoon’s meeting if I wasn’t managing a ridiculous project load and incapable of seeing more than four minutes ahead at any given time. Regardless, I wanted another visit with Miss Halsted, and I wanted to touch her again.
And I figured she’d want to go through the data in person, piece by piece. She seemed thorough like that. Flicking a glimpse at my watch, I decided it wasn’t too late to call.
“Hi, this is Lauren.”
Fuck, I wanted to know what she was wearing. In detail. The conservative suit made me think of cotton panties in safe, subtle colors, but those heels said red thong. And I wanted to get to the bottom of that controversy.
Client, client, client.
“Miss Halsted, Matt Walsh. How are you this evening?”
“We’re not in my classroom, Matt. Lauren is fine,” she laughed, but her tone was no nonsense. It went in my ear and straight down to my dick. “So great to hear from you so soon. Any news on the site?”
We were pushing and pulling against a strange layer of formality. Was she still Miss Halsted because I was imagining her underwear, and fighting like hell not to? Or because she was my only full-body contact since the triathlon chick in July? Or was it the naughty schoolteacher thing?
If anyone asked, I was totally down for exploring the naughty schoolteacher thing.
“Still running scenarios. Can you meet me tomorrow?” I toggled to my calendar. “Around five?”
“Of course. At Saint Cosmas?”
“No!” I cried, imagining the floor dissolving into splinters under our feet. “Can you make it to our Beacon Hill offices? Off Cambridge Street?”
“Definitely. Thank you again for everything, Matt.”
A smile spread across my face as I sat back in my chair. “Goodnight, Lauren.”
She paused and I thought I heard her smile. Was that possible? Toheara smile? “Goodnight, Matt.”
