“What’s the story with Nick?” I asked.
Patrick cleared his throat and aimed a critical gaze at me, his hand clamping down on my leg. “Marathon training friend of Matt’s. Brain surgeon at Mass Gen. Texan. Matt and Lauren’s official third wheel. I hear they’ve met Nick’s parents.”
“And hotter than Houston in July,” Shannon said. “I’ve wanted to get my teeth on his ass since Christ was a cowboy.”
“Really?” Patrick asked.
“Oh yes. Yes. He’s not into me, not at all, and it’s not from my lack of effort. Are you interested?”
Patrick’s stare could have cut glass, and his grip on my leg tightened. “No,” I said. “Just curious.”
Shannon consulted her watch. “All right. I’m dragging these Planning Board boys to Last Hurrah. Time to grease some wheels.”
She talked to herself while she collected her things, and Patrick’s hand inched above my knee. I shifted, increasing the pressure against his leg. He squeezed in response. Five more minutes of soundless pressing and squeezing, and I’d have a blazing orgasm in the middle of the bar. My gaze boring into Shannon, I silently begged her to hurry the hell up.
“And don’t forget, Patrick,” she called over her shoulder. “You’re picking up the tab.”
Patrick watched Shannon for several minutes, his hand alternately stroking and squeezing my thigh. Not wanting to turn around to follow his stare, I responded to texts from Jess and Marley inquiring about my plans for the evening. Jess was over her snit from last night, and she wanted me to join them at a new club, but there was a hand on my knee and I intended to keep it that way.
“You seem to have a lot in common with my brother,” he commented.
“Sam? Yeah, I’d say that’s accurate.”
Patrick gestured for another beer and kept his eyes trained on the crowd. “Maybe you’d rather have drinks with him. Or Nick.”
“If I wanted to be somewhere else, I would be. I don’t think I need your permission for that.”
“What factors led to…cabernet? Pinot noir?” He lifted the glass and sipped my wine.
The intimacy of his gesture floored me. I felt my chest compress and my breathing quicken. Slanting a glimpse at Patrick, I finished a message to Jess inviting them to yoga with me on Saturday. His gaze wrapped around me, intense and unyielding. “Shiraz.”
Patrick balanced an elbow on the table, his fingers tightening on my leg as he leaned in. “When I say you don’t give me much, this is what I’m talking about.”
“What would you like me to give you?”
“Everything.” He laughed when I lifted an eyebrow, and glanced at my glass. “But let’s start small. What led to shiraz?”
“I think of red wine as my rabbi.” It felt exceptionally dangerous to invite Patrick into my unfiltered thoughts—a place where I allowed so few to tread.
“I can see that,” he murmured. “Spent the day praying over pipes, too?”
“Yeah,” I answered, shocked he understood. He reached under the table, dragged my chair to face him and angled my legs between his. Everything around us faded away. We were in our own bubble, just like my fantasy.
And goddammit, I should have worn a skirt.
“What do you think about minimalistic modern?”
“You want to talk about minimalistic modern?” he asked, his brow furrowed and his lips curling into a smirk. “Aren’t I supposed to be asking you questions?”
“Yes, but I want to know what you think about minimalistic modern,” I laughed. “I’ve spent some time hypothesizing about your preferences.”
“What else have you hypothesized about?” That quiet, rough tone did awful things to me. If he asked me to caulk his tub with that voice, I’d eagerly do it.
“Lots of things. I’ve been hypothesizing about you for a long time,” I said with a shrug. “Especially about this minimalistic modern thing.”
“Sounds like a lot of thinking when you could have asked sooner. Maybe we both need to ask more questions,” he suggested, his hand running through his hair. “I’m not coming out against it or saying it needs to die like McMansions do, but it isn’t my preference.”
“What is your preference?”
