Even though Patrick wasn’t one for chatty or overly formal emails, his “thanks—patrick” responses smacked of reticence. I didn’t have the words to explain why it hurt so much, but every time I thought about that one-word reply, it was like a rubber band snapping the fleshy part of my wrist—not exactly painful, but surprising and unpleasant.
I reveled in the knowledge Patrick trusted me enough to let me fly solo, but his absence meant I couldn’t think through problems with him, and my lunchtime conversations were radically less instructive. We traded a few curt texts and emails each day, but I missed seeing him, talking to him, being near him. The amount of time I spent each night typing out texts I never sent was shameful.
After spending nearly every working moment of the past month with Patrick, I felt adrift without him—and I promptly hated that emotion just as much as I hated the way my apprenticeship was turning into a slow-motion train wreck asterisked with a life-altering orgasm and a curiosity about being tied up.
I expected to see him Friday morning, but a pre-dawn text informed me that he and Shannon wouldn’t be in until the afternoon. I pouted over that message for a full five minutes and packed my reply of “ok” with loneliness, frustration, lust, and fear that I was losing an incredible mentor and friend.
“Did you hear the good news?” I glanced up at Tom as he sauntered into Patrick’s office and deposited several files on his desk. Setting my phone aside—willing it to produce a message from Patrick wasn’t working—I shook my head. “All four Bunker Hill properties sold this morning. There was a crazy bidding war last night. Ended up with a cash deal and it was far over asking price.”
“Is that where Shannon and Patrick have been all day?”
Tom nodded and started organizing Patrick’s desk. “Yeah, apparently the people buying those properties wanted to discuss some changes, and Shan didn’t like the idea of sending Riley, for obvious reasons, and Matt’s away for the weekend with Lauren, and Sam won’t set foot on those properties, so…they’ve been doing that. She just texted that they’re headed back from the title agency and she wants to go out for drinks.” He chuckled. “Her exact words were ‘It’s time to get rowdy.’”
That sounded exactly like Shannon—the woman was comfortable in Christian Louboutin heels and preferred to drink cheap beer from the bottle.
Tom continued straightening Patrick’s things—he either didn’t know or didn’t care that Patrick preferred some chaos on his desk. Was Patrick’s home like that too? Slightly disorganized yet completely logical to him?
I shook my head. That wasn’t helping the current situation.
Tom’s knowledge of all things Walsh was deep, and it was time to tap into that well despite the fact engaging him in conversation would result in more invitations. I was still unclear on Tom’s sexuality, but it was obvious he wanted a girl—one to dress up or one to date, I couldn’t be sure—and I didn’t want to be her.
It was misguided and terrible and foolish, and even though I fought like hell to avoid it, I wanted Patrick.
“Is that why they were busy earlier in the week?”
“No,” he murmured, flipping through documents on Patrick’s desk and relegating a few to the recycling bin. “They were in Maynard on Monday and they bought a farmhouse that’s going to fall over on the next breezy day, and paid off the loan on this building. Then they were in Boxborough and Acton on Tuesday and bought two more old places. Then they went to the old Walsh homestead, and according to the Widow, they yelled at each other and didn’t talk until the Bunker Hill buyers asked for a consult. They’ve both been hell on wheels this week, if you ask me. I’m thinking of getting a Taser.”
“The Widow?”
“Uh-huh,” he replied, shifting his focus to Patrick’s bookshelves and carefully lining up the spines. “Shannon’s nickname. You know, fromThe Avengers. The hot redhead who kicks a lot of ass? They all have nicknames. Mostly superheroes and comic book stuff. For all the time they spend screaming at each other and slamming doors, they’re really tight in non-sentimental ways.”
“Tom, you’ve let me work here for a month and not mentioned this? I’m hurt,” I said, pressing a hand to my heart. Getting information from Tom required some theatrics on my part—before the Orgasm to Rule Them All, I spent half an hour charming the details on the Wellesley property out of him, only to discover he didn’t know much or wasn’t willing to share.
“That is what a coffee date is for,” he teased with a wink. “It kinda makes sense, the nicknames.” He shrugged and continued organizing the bookshelves. “They’re like a little band of misfit street toughs. Shannon’s the Black Widow. Riley’s RISD because he went there and not Cornell like the rest of them. Sam’s the runt and that’s my favorite thing in the world, but he’s usually Tony Stark—not Iron Man. Appropriate in so many ways. They never agreed on one for Matthew, although I’m still rooting for Jugger. And Patrick is Optimus Prime. Obviously.”
TheArchitectural Digestfeature on Walsh Associates neglected those details. “Why were they arguing about the Wellesley property?”
“He wants to get rid of it and she wants to rehab it because she’s a sadist.” Tom adjusted Patrick’s diplomas to right angles and turned to me. “Youhaveto come out tonight. You’re the only one who can keep me from carbo-loading,” he said. “I just reserved half of Pomodoro, which isn’t saying much because it’s literally the size of a broom closet, but the food is the best.”
“He’s right, it is,” Patrick said from the doorway. “You should come. And she’s definitely a sadist.”
How Patrick always managed to sneak up on conversations, I will never know, but there he was, delicious as ever with his top button opened and his tie loose. I glanced at his dark trousers and instantly recalled his narrow waist and carved muscles, and salivated at the memory.
His eyes locked on me for a long moment while I studied him, and my body immediately betrayed me—my cheeks and neck flushed, my lips parted, and my nipples hardened—and Patrick noticed the subtle changes, smirking.
He dropped to his desk chair and motioned to Tom. “Are these it?”
I studied my plans—anxious to direct my thoughts away from crawling into Patrick’s lap to taste his scruffy jaw, and the way his eyes gazed right into me—and ignored their quiet discussion. They paged through the documents, pausing every few moments when Tom pointed, repeating “and sign here” until Patrick snapped that he could see the lines without Tom’s help.
“Any emergencies today, Asani?”
Looking up, I discovered we were alone and Patrick was skimming his email. “No,” I replied. “Everything’s fine. I sent you some notes, though. Updates.”
“Great, well…” He swiveled away from his screen to stare at me. “Thanks for taking care of everything. It’s been a long week. Head out for the weekend.” I nodded, overwhelmed with disappointment.
I wanted to go back in time, back to Shannon’s bathroom. There was the added benefit of reliving Patrick’s mouth on me, but I only wanted to retrieve my thoughtless, knee-jerk words.
Tucked into layers of outerwear, I waved goodbye and was at the threshold when he spoke again. “You really should join us tonight. Pomodoro, on Hanover Street. Eight.”
