I was free to watchPretty Little LiarsandThe Vampire Diariesand every other slightly ridiculous show. I was under no obligation to share the bed, closets, or bathroom. I decided how to spend my money, á la three hundred dollars on one incredible pair of shoes. If I wanted to dedicate my entire Saturday to researching elementary math programs or trying on every pair of peep-toes in Boston, I wasn’t cramping anyone’s style. And most importantly, I had the freedom to whip off my bra and pull on yoga pants the second I walked through the door of my apartment.
There was the crux of it for me: I didn’t like being told what to do or following anyone’s rules, and it was that kind of rebelliousness that uniquely suited me for opening a radically new type of school. Without a healthy supply of oppositional defiance to challenge the status quo, I wouldn’t be able to question long-held beliefs about teaching and learning, even if some of those questions were uncomfortable and disruptive.
Don’t get me wrong, I was a good girl at heart—I had the Type A personality straight from my father to prove it. I waited at red lights, even if it was two in the morning and the roads were deserted. I paid all of my bills on time. I never had one-night stands. I always sent handwritten thank-you notes. I religiously kept annual appointments for teeth cleaning and Pap smears—though never on the same day.
I was a rule-follower…and a rebel.
I wandered into my bedroom and gazed into my closet, waiting for inspiration to strike. The right look always kicked my confidence into high gear, and with the way tomorrow was shaping up, I needed the extra boost. The dry cleaner was holding all my favorite dresses hostage, and the go-to uniform of depressing skirt suits and statement necklaces was tired. Not even Jimmy Choo was changing that.
A shock of red toward the back caught my eye and I drew the fit-and-flare dress off the rod. A substantial amount of peer pressure went into the purchase, and I struggled to find the right opportunity to wear it these days. The retro styling reminded me of June Cleaver, but modern touches edged it toward Michelle Obama.
Hanging the dress on my closet door, I added a navy scarf with silver stars, my favorite stiletto Mary Janes, a funky little artisan necklace from a July trip to Provincetown, and those fancy new undies.
No one would see my panties, but I’d know about their sheer silkiness. And that? That was exactly the armor I required to conquer the battles ahead.
Chapter Four
MATTHEW
“Got a minutefor me?”
I looked up from my double screens and rubbed my eyes. “Yeah, come on in,” I called to my assistant, Theresa. “What’s up?”
She dropped several thick folders onto my desk and settled into a chair. “Files on the new Bunker Hill properties. Angus asked me to pull the permit history.”
“And where would we be without his thoughtfulness?” I dragged my hands through my hair and grunted. There were enough problems with my Back Bay projects without worrying about Bunker Hill, too. “What else?”
“I need your signature on all of these.” She pointed to another file. “And these are draft bids. Patrick told Riley not to send anything without your approval.”
I met Theresa’s fake cheerfulness with a raised eyebrow. I didn’t know what I’d do without her blocking and defending my door most days. Numbers and shapes were my domain, and Theresa took care of the organizing, ordering, and scheduling. “That kid needs to get some shit done without me,” I said.
“I tried to tell him that, boss. But remember, he’s still learning and he knows he has some big footsteps to follow.” Theresa shuffled loose papers into neat piles and folders, and tidied the markers and mechanical pencils scattered over my drafting table. “Are you closing up shop for the weekend soon? Or should I order a sandwich for you?”
I ran a hand over the light scruff on my jaw and shook my head. I spent an extra nine minutes in bed this morning, forfeiting a decent shave to contemplate whether I’d ever had erotic dreams about clients prior to Little Miss Naughty Schoolteacher. None came to mind, and on further review, I was convinced the ‘wake me up with your mouth on my dick’ fantasy lived beyond the realm of the beasts, too. Not that I spent much time in beds with them, but that was aside the point. “Nah. I’ve got a client at five.”
“All right,” she murmured as she continued straightening my things. “I’ll stay until your client arrives. Get out of the office this weekend, please. As the kids say, get a life.”
Theresa’s Boston accent was everything I loved about her and this town, right there in a few garbled sounds. She was scrappy and didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought about her, or the threadbare Red Sox hoodies she wore as World Series good luck charms. She joined the firm years before any of us were born, and served her time under Angus. She didn’t take any shit from anyone—my father included—and knew every single Walsh secret worth keeping.
“I don’t think Patrick allows those,” I muttered before my attention snapped back to my assistant. “Theresa, one more thing. My afternoon appointment yesterday? The church hall in Dorchester? How did that get on my calendar?”
Thirteen miles this morning did nothing to slow the Lauren Halsted fantasy montage in my head. Despite Patrick’s rampant bitching, I had extended the route but there was no shaking that naughty schoolteacher sparkle.
“Halsted?” I nodded. “Last winter you were yappin’ about being tired of dealing with rich assholes all the time, and wanting a few community projects. First that came along. That young lady is also quite persistent.” After a shrug, she said, “And knows her pastries.”
I murmured in acknowledgement and turned back to my designs. Staring at the screens, I debated a handful of scenarios. I knew some of the client’s requests would have to go, or some of the restoration would; the structure couldn’t handle both. Neither made me happy, and the client would be less than understanding considering the amount of money he was paying to have it all.
“This motherfucker is going to be the death of me,” I moaned.
“I hope that’s not my project.”
Blinking at the sound of Lauren’s voice, I shot out of my chair and heard it crash into the wall behind me. If yesterday’s suit was an attempt to disguise her curves, today’s dress was an ode to them. Every step toward her increased my desire to touch her. I didn’t want her falling down stairs again, but if the opportunity presented itself, I was going to be there to catch her.
“Miss Halsted. I’m sorry, no, another project entirely.”
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday? You’re only required to call me Miss Halsted in my classroom.” Her tone teased, offering access to an inside joke and ignoring our narrow knowledge of each other. “Here, Lauren is fine.”
She extended her hand toward me, but I didn’t notice, instead standing there and staring at the golden hair tumbling softly around her shoulders. Before this moment, I hadn’t given women’s hair much thought. It was nice enough, but I never wanted it gliding through my fingers or tickling my chest. Not until I imagined burying my face in Lauren’s hair while I buried myself inside her.
