Tom mentioned something about buying a case of wine for a serious dinner at Matt’s place, though I was lost in concentration when he appeared in Patrick’s office with documents from Shannon. He knew everything about Walsh Associates and the inner workings of the Walsh family, and his ability to sniff out office gossip was disarming. I figured his role as Shannon’s taskmaster meant he was privy to all the juicy information.
I was still trying to determine whether Tom was wildly metrosexual or gay—I liked the guy either way, but I would not date someone who spent more time on eyebrow grooming than I did. He invited me out every day—coffee, brunch, dim sum, drinks. Tom could spare me the agony of another outing with Marley and the Tight T-Shirts, but a night with him didn’t interest me.
My phone’s screen faded, and my bedroom descended into darkness while the noise of cars on Storrow Drive and ambulances at Mass General offered a soothing soundtrack. Maybe it was a shoebox, but it was a gorgeous old shoebox, and it was mine. Patrick would understand—he knew the spirits of families past lived in the walls of these homes, and it was his responsibility to care for them.
Maybe it was our responsibility now and not just Patrick’s alone.
Mouthwatering visions of his abdomen filled my mind, and I longed to run my fingers along the ripples and indentations. His trim waist was a wonder to behold with all those notches and grooves, and I couldn’t imagine a sight more sexy than his jeans hanging low on his hips.
I even got a sneak peek at the black band of his boxers.
It was one thing to know his body was as cut as I imagined, but it was another to watch him repeatedly cross those strong arms over his chest. Keeping my hands filled with tape measures and flashlights averted awkward bicep-rubbing incidents. It was worse when he rolled up his shirtsleeves, and it was an accomplishment if he made it to ten in the morning with his cuffs buttoned.
My legs drifted apart on a sigh, and my fingers brushed over my chest. My nipples hardened in response, the delicate fabric of the sheets offering the right amount of texture. Scraping my nails along my skin, I went straight for my aching core and groaned when my fingers dipped into my arousal. Two fingers swept over my clit and I could feel my pulse hammering there. The quiet shattered with a loud hitch in my breath.
Reaching to the bedside table without so much as a glance, I retrieved my vibrator and spread my legs wider. Every day spent with Patrick left me hungry, and knowing he wanted me looking at him made the hunger more oppressive than before. I wasn’t in the mood for long, teasing play—not after a day filled with Patrick’s perpetually crossed arms, bared belly, and late night texts.
The arousal pooled at my opening, and the toy filled me with one smooth thrust that had me clenching my inner muscles and pressing against my clit. My body was ready—all systems go for a devastating orgasm—and I needed it. Since meeting Patrick, I searched in earnest for the muscle-weakening, brain-clearing orgasm to relieve the ache in my body, but I only found shallow, limping mini-orgasms that left me frustrated and edgy.
Turning to the lowest setting, I groaned in satisfaction as the pulsations radiated from my core and spread up into my clit. My fingers circled my throbbing bud in time with the vibrator, and my hips started rolling to find an outlet for the pressure building in my nerves. Small gasps and moans passed my lips, and I clicked to a higher speed.
I felt the quivering inklings of an orgasm deep in my core, and closed my eyes to focus on the sensations traveling through my body. My fingers quickened in their frantic circuit over my clit when my knees lifted off the bed to offer better access, yet I struggled to find the tipping point that would bring me closer to warm, pulsing release. So close, yet so far.
As the minutes ticked by, I fought my body for more—alternately pinching my nipples while running the vibrator over my clit and swiveling to rest my feet on the headboard to get a new angle. I was alwaysthisclose—and it darted away from me every time.
My elbow ached, and my fingers were numb around the toy’s base when I finally deposited it on my side table. My other hand continued circling my clit—after a week of nightly self-love sessions, the last things I needed were raw, chafed ladybits. That and a bout of carpal tunnel syndrome, and I’d be the spokeswoman for crimes against orgasms.
I laughed out loud at the prospect of telling Patrick I couldn’t sit down or operate a screwdriver because I tweaked my wrist and elbow after an hour of furious orgasm hunting. I could see him narrowing his eyes at me while he crossed his arms over his chest. He’d lift an eyebrow, letting the tension rise between us and waiting for me to explain myself.
Or he’d throw me on his desk and fuck me.
Groaning, I curled on my side and squeezed my eyes shut. My dreams would most certainly feature that new fantasy.
*
Two hours ofBikram yoga drained enough energy from my body to temporarily forget Patrick and his abs, though it also left me sweaty and starving. After a quick shower, I headed to the winter farmers’ market with the hope of finding a co-op or CSA opening to keep me supplied with local fruits and veggies.
I preferred unconventional pastimes—reading Patrick’s thesis and yelling at DVR’d HGTV shows came to mind—and farmers’ market shopping was no exception. It’s not that I didn’t love shopping for clothes or shoes—I did—it’s that I loved heirloom greens and discovering new produce from local farmers more.
Wandering through the stalls, my cloth bags rapidly filled with an assortment of goodies. I stopped at a table advertising community dinner parties to experiment with Persian recipes and practice Farsi. New town, new job, and maybe a new opportunity to explore my heritage. I added my name to their email list.
Only a few of the Farsi words and phrases my father taught me before he died remained in my memory, along with vague stories of his family and childhood. He loved Tehran yet preferred Isfahan, and promised we’d spend an entire week exploring the bazaar there. We were going to visit the ruins of Persepolis in Shiraz, and Qeshm Island and the Hara marine forests. We were going to go just as soon as it was safe for him to return to Iran.
Everything I knew about my dad’s culture and family came from the internet—my mother stopped talking about him after a year in Maine. She said it was too painful, and I didn’t want her to suffer.
When I buried my face in a bouquet of basil, I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder.
“I’d know that hair anywhere!”
Shannon Walsh stood before me, her arm linked with a petite blonde’s, both beaming at me with bright smiles. For a moment, I struggled with her friendly familiarity, but soon remembered I now worked at a third generation family firm where only a handful of outsiders joined the ranks. Of course she was friendly outside the office. I realized I should figure out how to do that, too.
“You’re so awesome…already found the farmers’ market and everything.”
I shrugged and gestured to her long, red waves. “They call to me, and I’d know that hair anywhere.”
“Hi, I’m Lauren.” The blonde offered her hand to me.
“Andy.” Remembering to be friendly, I added, “It’s nice to meet you.”
