“This is thebest taco truck in Boston,” Patrick said, gesturing to the van parked between Harrison and Concord in the South End. “The best. No pickled beets or arugula. Real tacos. You like tacos, right? If you don’t, this isn’t going to work out.”
“Haven’t met a taco I don’t like,” I replied from the passenger seat of Patrick’s Range Rover.
“If you tell anyone about this, or put it on Twitter, and then everyone and their uncle shows up and I can’t get a taco? You’ll be pulling permits at City Hall for the next six years.”
“I can handle that.”
With a nod, we headed toward the van. We ordered the day’s special, barbacoa de costilla, and he inclined his head toward the park across the street. It was cold but the late afternoon sun seeped through my skin, and I turned my face toward it when we settled on a stone bench.
The tacos were delicious, and when I told Patrick as much, he grunted in agreement. It was a raw, beautiful sound that annihilated Operation Don’t Think About Patrick Walsh Naked.
I wanted to hear that sound again. I wanted tocausethat sound. I ate my tacos, staring at a bronze statue of a rider on horseback, reminding myself to stop thinking about sex.
“Any other food trucks you’d recommend?”
Patrick nodded as he chewed. “Plenty. There’s a Vietnamese truck that I could hit every day. The best banh mi ever, and there are a few awful banh mis in town. And this one truck that only does grilled cheese, but wicked amazing grilled cheese.”
I offered him an appreciative smile. Patrick was speaking in complete sentencesandwe were talking about the only thing I liked more than architecture: food. “You’re quite the foodie.”
“Nah,” he laughed.
“Anyone who can distinguish banh mi quality is a foodie,” I said, directing a raised eyebrow at Patrick.
“There’s a sriracha fried rice and braised beef dumpling truck I’ve been meaning to try,” he said, his hazel eyes hard and reserved despite his light tone.
“Sign me up for that.”
Taking the last bite of my taco, I nodded enthusiastically while he stared at me. I needed sriracha fried rice in my life, and it sounded like Patrick did, too. Sauce dribbled over my lip, and his eyes darkened when my tongue scooped it up.
“All right, Asani.” He stood and started toward his car, his steps urgent. “Back to the office.”
He navigated traffic while I made notes about each jobsite we visited, recording unique characteristics of each home and specific restorations I wanted to observe. Though I was comfortable with the silence, I felt Patrick glimpse at me every few minutes and I caught his scowl in my peripheral vision.
I was growing accustomed to the scowling. It appeared to be his default setting and I didn’t let it bother me. Considering I didn’t feel it was necessary to smile all the time, my default setting wasn’t much better.
We rolled to a stop in the underground garage. I loved this garage. Parking my MINI Cooper alongside the row of black Walsh Associates Range Rovers induced a squealing giggle this morning.
And those werenota regular element of my repertoire.
When we approached his office door, I reached out at the same time as Patrick. His hand covered mine, his fingers layering between my fingers. He was warmer than I expected, his large hand simultaneously soft and rough as we held the antique glass knob. Pale freckles dotted his skin, and I doubted ever seeing such freckled fingers before. Electricity coursed from his touch into my veins, and despite every voice in my head, I couldn’t pull away—I didn’t want to pull away.
I lifted my eyes from the knob to look at him, and his face was inches from mine. If I rose to my toes, our lips would meet. His expression was tight and I couldn’t read beyond the seriousness in his eyes. A shiver built between my shoulder blades when his fingers rubbed over mine, our eyes locked on each other. The shiver rolled down my arms and shook my fingers, and Patrick blinked, breaking our connection with a step backward.
“Sorry,” he stammered, shaking his head quickly. “I have to go find sin—I mean gin—uh,fuck,I mean Sam.” He paused, both hands running through his hair. “I have to talk to Sam. About something. You should…make those changes we discussed. Head out when you’re done.”
Inside Patrick’s office, I softly banged my head against the door. I needed a mild headache to distract me from the fact I embarrassed the hell out of my boss by gazing at him like a smitten teenager wanting nothing more than her first kiss.
Project No Sex For You needed an overhaul. Fast.
Chapter Six
PATRICK
“Do you stillhave that case of gin in here? From the people with the Chestnut Hill project?”
Sam pulled his glasses down his nose and propped his elbows on the drafting table, frowning at me as I burst into his office and slammed the door.
“Sure. I don’t often drink entire cases of liquor inside a season.”
