I definitely heard a smile.
She was contagious. It was viral, her juju, her mojo, her sparkle, her hip-swiveling swagger. Whatever it was, it was on me.
I needed a little swagger for the deluge ahead.
Seventeen messages from sub-contractors, all requiring immediate attention.
Five budget updates from Shannon, plus a rundown on Angus’s new Bunker Hill properties and the associated screaming match, but I knew those issues would keep for another day. He liked to disrupt our work with time intensive, expensive properties, but he usually managed a few drunken rounds of golf in between the surprise attacks.
Eleven designs requiring structural analysis from my brother Sam, the sustainable design specialist. If that runt continued accepting new work without getting the entire team’s approval first, I was drop-kicking his skinny ass into the harbor.
Six frighteningly basic questions on restoration projects from my brother Riley, the youngest architect on the Walsh Associates team and Patrick’s slave.
Twelve one-line messages from my older brother Patrick, the senior architect and de facto chief executive, all bitching about progress on my Back Bay brownstone restorations. Bitching suited him. He liked freaking out over minute details.
I spent two hours deep in calculations for Sam, and updated my partners on the brownstone issues.
And that left one message from my little sister, Erin, with a photo album from her research trip to São Jorge Island, off the coast of Portugal, and its trio of volcanic complexes on the Azorean archipelago. I saved her for last.
Me and Erin, we got each other. We were the youngest, in a way, and being at the bottom of our respective heaps always brought us together. Patrick, Shannon, and I were born one after another, inside three years. Sam came along about two years later, then Riley, and finally Erin.
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: September 23 at 22:43 EDT
Subject: RE: Back from the Azores
E–
Good to hear you’re back on the mainland. The pictures of that lava flow are sick. How do you even get close enough to take those shots?
Crazy, crazy day here today. I just about dislocated a client’s arm when she tried to take a header down some stone steps. I think I’ve seen you do the same.
Miss you. We need to Skype soon.
Find a way to get your ass back here for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. Pick one and show up.
M–
I reread the message before clicking Send. I didn’t know why I mentioned Lauren; I just knew I wanted to tell someone about her and Erin was my most trusted someone.
Chapter Three
LAUREN
Isat cross-leggedon my antique velvet sofa, staring at the cover of my latest book club selection. Another meeting with Matthew A. Walsh.Matt.I was more than happy to give him an hour of my day, especially if it involved good news. I needed good news, and sharing his company was no hardship.
He was one of those guys you met and immediately thought, “Wow. Let me take off your pants. And yeah, the shirt too.”
Or, in my case, “Let me throw myself down some stairs and rub up against your chest.”
Given his kindness in keeping me from becoming a sidewalk stain, I was tempted to thank Matt with coffee after our meeting, but I’d hesitated, and the moment had slipped away.
I was curious about him. He wasn’t the type of architect I had expected—no tweed jacket, no suede elbow patches, no tortoiseshell glasses, no ill-fitting pleated khakis. Instead, he was an architectural superhero, all muscles and dark hair and throbbing annoyance at the building for failing to meet his expectations. His smile was scorching, but his intense gaze hit me hardest. When those blue eyes landed on me, serious and heavy, it was as if he was sifting through my every thought.
My phone vibrated across the table, and my heart leapt just as quickly. I rolled my eyes, laughing at myself and shaking free from my daydream. Time to shut down all thoughts of Matt Walsh’s chiseled chest.
