But that gravity was never smooth. There were bumps and fumbles, and no one was safe from errant elbows. It was awkward, but an iteration of awkward for which we were uniquely suited. Gravity was where it stopped, too. The flirty texts with talk of—my god—spanking were nothing more than suggestion. I hadn't invited him back to my apartment since the night of the Chief's cocktail party, and he hadn't stared at my lips like he meant to taste them since theneither.
We were affectionate like an intramural softball team. Sloppy and a little silly, and with no real purpose beyond our own amusement. And I took no issue with this. I wasn't on a mission to figure out what it meant or where it was going because it wasn't going anywhere. It was good times and cannoli, and notmuchmore.
This arrangement, the fake-boyfriend-but-also-touchy-feely-friend thing, it wasn't the worst idea in the world either. I was getting a guided tour of Boston—including stops at all the best restaurants, bars, and bakeries—and as if the first domino had fallen, life at the hospital gradually stopped feeling like a scene fromThe Scarlet Letter. Within a few days of the Chief's cocktail party, things started feeling…normal? Or what my dusty old memories of normalresembled.
The Chief had refrained from dumping extra shifts and on-calls on me, and even nodded in vague approval after I'd led a group of residents through a complex technique in the skills lab last week. I was still annoyed that fabricating a relationship was the key to getting my career back in gear, but that annoyance didn't outstrip myrelief.
All I needed now was for the gala to go well, and then I could start looking for new jobs. In all likelihood, I wasn't busting out of Boston before the new year or even next spring, but I was finally taking steps in the right direction. That was all thatmattered.
"This was fun," I said. I stared off into the distance as we walked along Hanover Street in the North End. "We should do it again. I usually prefersalty—"
"Imagine that," Rileymurmured.
"To sweet, but bakery crawls should be a thing," Icontinued.
Fallen leaves crunched under my shoes and one thing was certain: summer was long gone. Somewhere in the past few weeks, long, sunny days had been replaced with early evenings, and the chill in the air promised that autumn was heretostay.
Another thing was certain: I enjoyed every minute I got with Riley Walsh. I enjoyed him more than I could manage, more than was appropriate for this arrangement. More than any one person should enjoy another without the influence of sex. I liked him, and I loved when he noticed my shoes and smiles. Even when he noticed my so-called foodmoods.
"Authentic cannoli from the best bakeries in the North End. Another item successfully crossed off your bucket list," he said, squeezing my shoulder. "Now we can move onto more complex offerings. Boston cream pies. Lobster rolls. Frappes. Clam chowder. But not in that order." He glanced at the time on his phone. "Or, we could head downtown fortacos."
"Let's not get carried away," I said. "I won't be hungry again forhours."
"More like forty-five minutes," he murmured. "Anhour,tops."
"That sounds like an insult," Imused.
Riley shook his head. "Hardly," he said. "You're a marvel, Shortstop. A bottomless pit, but a marvel as far aspitsgo."
We walked in silence as we wandered from the North End to the Waterfront and Financial District and then back toward my apartment on Beacon Hill. For all of our awkward exchanges, we could always manage the quiet without resorting to idlechatter.
Riley jerked his chin toward a narrow, cobblestone side street. "Sam has a new project around the corner. We picked it up as an investment property, so there's no client or homeowner, and we found a ton of random stuff in the basement," he said. "Old trunks and armoires. Windows from a million years ago. More doors than could've ever been in that house. A ping-pong table that we decided to keep at theoffice."
"Does that happen often?" I asked. "Finding strange thingslikethat?"
He murmured in agreement, nodding. "More than you'd think. Everything is saved for a reason. I'm sure of it. But no one ever plans to die suddenly and leave a home's secrets and stories for distant relatives or estatesales."
I continued walking but turned to face Riley. His words were laced with a whip of emotion that I'd never before heard from him. I started to respond, but he suddenly jerked me closer. With my chest plastered to his and an arm tight around my waist, the words dissolved on mytongue.
"Watch it, Alex," he said, coming to a stop on the sidewalk. "Were you trying to plow into that firehydrant?"
The hydrant was right there, just over his shoulder, all red and obvious. "No," I said as casually as I could manage with his heart thumping against my palm. Which was not casually at all. "I was just going to ask whether you wanted to get a drink and tell me about the things you find in oldhouses."
Riley loosened his hold on my waist and stepped back. "How about a game of ping-pong first?" he asked. "Winner buys thedrinks?"
* * *
Riley bouncedthe ball on his paddle and regarded me from across the table. We were at the Walsh Associates office, in a basement room that was home to ten metal filing cabinets and an ancient ping-pongtable.
This place wasnice. To start, the foyer was bigger than my entire apartment, and the chandelier hanging there looked like its life story could fill volumes. Everything was clean but it was also remarkably lovely, like a fancy furniture showroom or a feature fromArchitectural Digest. Even the garage and basement werepristine.
There was no rational reason why any of this was surprising to me. I knew from Nick that the firm was highly regarded, and though Riley never talked up his work, it was clear that his services were in demand. But seeing his office when we'd gone up there to retrieve some balls from his desk, filled with books and diplomas, and framed magazine articles featuring his designs, solidified itforme.
"I assume that standard strip ping-pong rules apply. Right?" heasked.
I reached for the paddle and examined it. "Define standard," I said. "Wait a minute. What the hell are you talking about, stripping-pong?"
He gestured to the table likeThat's how the game is played in these parts, missy. "It's quite simple, Alexandra. You score, I drop some clothes," he said. "I score, you drop someclothes."
