Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (16 page)

And then a hand wrapped around my wrist, and I noticed the TAG Heuer watch and its cobalt face. I knew that watch. I’d looked at that watch at the party, when the needy ache between my legs was too overwhelming and I wanted to be done with mindless chatting.

“Oh shit, it’s you, I’m sorry!” I stepped back, my hands flying to my mouth.

I suppose attacking Matthew was one way of ending our little arrangement.

Matthew bent at the waist and coughed, his eyes flashing in my direction. “It’s nice to see you too,” he rasped. “What just happened?”

I rubbed his back as he coughed again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was you. You caught me off guard.”

“Where the fuck did you learn that?”

“My father, mostly.” I shrugged and offered an apologetic smile. “And my brothers, and the Navy SEALs my dad used to train.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you, Miss Halsted,” he coughed. “Like your badass motherfucker training.”

Straightening, he approached me, his hands outstretched in surrender. His lips hovered over mine for a moment before capturing my mouth in a kiss far too passionate for a Monday afternoon, for an office vestibule, for any part of my life.

His fingers moved beneath my suit coat and he yanked the satin blouse from my waistband, diving under to knead my lower back. His gaze was curious, confused, and though I knew I should tell him to stop, I wanted this one last treat.

“I don’t know what that look means, sweetness.”

“Nothing,” I said. I enjoyed his chin stubble on my neck too much. This was getting too comfortable, too fast. “Just a lot to do before I leave. A lot on my mind. Let’s…let’s go upstairs.”

Walsh Associates looked different after spending the weekend with Matthew. He offered limited details about his siblings—their birth order, areas of specialization, and the bizarre, semi-awful nicknames they had for each other.

It all made a little more sense when I noticed an artfully framed magazine spread on the wall reading ‘Samuel Walsh: Beantown’s Next Great Architectural Visionary.’ Around the corner, I spotted another glossy print, this one featuring a petite redhead with her arms crossed over her chest and the headline ‘The Hand That Holds It Down.’ On the landing, I noticed an
Architectural Digest
spread filled with sweeping photos of a restored home and the heading ‘Patrick Walsh’s Midas Touch.’

Climbing another set of stairs to Matthew’s office, his hands shifted from my waist to cup my rear end. Stopping, I turned to slide a glance over my shoulder, and his mischievous grin whipped that herd of butterflies in my chest into action. “What are you doing?” I asked, a laugh infused in my words.

“I’d rather you make it upstairs injury-free, although now I’m a little afraid of you. Please don’t blind me with your heel.”

“I’d wager you’ve stopped worrying about whether I can handle myself on the streets.”

“Let’s not talk about that,” he murmured. He steered me toward his office and stopped at the desk outside his door. “Theresa, this is Lauren Halsted. Lauren, this is Theresa Sherill. She’s the brains behind this operation.”

“We’ve met,” Theresa said. “Nice to see you again, Lauren. What, no Mike’s? You spoiled me with those sfogliatella.”

“Next time.” I smiled at the plump, white-haired woman, but I wasn’t convinced there’d be a next time. Once the construction on my building started, I wouldn’t need to visit his office, and once things ended with Matthew…well, I could always drop off some pastries without seeing him.

“I’m holdin’ you to that,” she said.

“Let Shan know we’ll be ready for her in about fifteen minutes,” Matthew said. Theresa nodded in response while she eyed his hand on my back, and if I still cared whether he regularly fucked clients, her astonished expression shut it all down.

Inside his office, Matthew kicked the door shut and wrapped his arms around my waist, his chest warm against my back. “All I could think about last Friday was bending you over my desk and fucking you until you screamed. You in that little red dress? I was hard the minute you walked in. It was torture, and this isn’t much better.”

Okay, new plan: all fizzling out to begin tomorrow.

I reminded myself it wasn’t wrong to enjoy the feel of his hands on my body or the heat of his words, and that I’d get my life in order after this. Until then, there was something hard and thick pressing against my lower back, and I wanted him bending me over that desk.

“Mr. Walsh, that sounds very inappropriate,” I murmured.

“Let me show you how inappropriate,” he growled. “I know you can feel me. How much I want you.”

A throat cleared on the other side of Matthew’s office and my eyes snapped open.

“I’m gonna go. I don’t think you need me for this meeting,” the young man said from the conference table.

I stifled an uncomfortable laugh and smiled, my face reddening. Matthew’s arms locked around my body, and with a low snarl rumbling through his chest, I sensed he was devising ways to murder the man who bore more than a passing resemblance to him.

Whispering into my ear, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to grope you in front of my little brother.”

“Well at least I didn’t let you fuck me in front of him,” I said. Matthew laughed, his body vibrating against mine, and his grasp tightened around my waist.

“Hey. I’m Riley. What’s up?” he called, his fingers winging from his forehead in a casual salute.

“Riley, this is Miss Halsted. We’re working on her project at Trench Mills.”

“Nice,” Riley trilled, his grin growing until a twinkle lit his eyes. That smirk was unambiguous—he heard every word—and if it was possible to feel blood pressure rising, I was feeling Matthew’s. I busied myself in my tote bag, ducking out of the way of Matthew’s death stare.

“Read this.” He collected a file from his desk and slid it across the table to Riley. “Figure out where the collar ties are located, and which you think should be replaced. Determine how you’d do it without destroying the eaves. And in case you haven’t heard, there are three vacant conference rooms in this place. Camp out in one of them.”

Matthew motioned to the chairs and leaned against the edge of his desk while I sat. My foot grazed his trousers as I crossed my legs, and his gaze locked on my red patent leather platform stilettos. “Whose ass did you kick today? Other than mine, of course.”

“Perseverance and a few extra inches. And the help of a good architect. It’s all I need to rule the world,” I laughed. “It was hard to believe, actually. I couldn’t have imagined a smoother, more perfect sequence of events. Everything was approved, contingent upon all the usual—”

“Fucking hell,” he sighed.

The door opened and I immediately recognized Sam and Patrick from the magazines in the hallway. And when they pulled up chairs to join us, I noticed fine threads of family resemblance tying them together. Where Riley and Matthew were nearly identical, they shared only a sharp, defined jaw with Sam and Patrick.

Patrick’s short reddish-brown hair shone in the afternoon sunlight and his hard hazel eyes flashed with interest as he sat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing a long stretch of freckled skin over rippling forearms. He came in around Matthew’s height but his presence seemed larger, definitely unapproachable and certainly intimidating, and I figured he preferred it that way.

Where Patrick was aloof, Sam oozed trend and charm. His auburn hair was strategically sculpted into the perfect tousled look, and I was positive I saw his entire outfit—light gray glen plaid trousers and matching vest, crisp white shirt with funky cufflinks, and hot pink tie—in a boutique window on Newbury Street. He adjusted his cuffs, exposing two silver medical alert bracelets. Sam’s frame was shorter and slimmer, a contrast to his brothers’ broad, sculpted bodies, and though he most resembled Patrick, his look was all his own.

Matthew’s expression turned impassive but I felt waves of tension radiating off him. “Sam. Patrick.” Eyes rolling, he absently waved at his brothers. “This is Miss Halsted.”

“Hello,” I said, offering my hand with a smile. “Call me Lauren.”

“She’s from the Trench Mills project,” said Riley.

“This meeting involves neither of you,” Matthew said. I was waiting for him to sit down, but he continued leaning against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest. “And we have a critical timeline today.”

“I’d like to hear more about that,” Patrick said. “It’s not every day we work on schools.”

“As would I,” Sam said.

His eyes traveled over my body in obvious appraisal and though it should have felt degrading when he studied my cleavage, it was clear he spent a few years smoothing it down to lightly obnoxious. But I was used to it. I stopped worrying about the boob ogling not long after my pair of hefty grapefruits came in, and my brothers taught me to execute a clean groin kick and broken nose combo around the same time. Sam—and anyone else who was interested—could look, he could appreciate, but he wasn’t getting on the short list of those approved to touch.

“I know incredible things are possible, and I know not every school is right for every kid, and that’s where it all starts.” I gave them my standard pitch—all kids deserve an excellent education, innovation in structured settings often leads to significant, breakthrough results, and growing this school in a green facility was essential to truly embracing a transformative approach to learning.

Patrick glanced to Sam and Matthew, and then back at me. “And you’re doing this by yourself?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I have some strategic support from my fellowship program, and they provide access to funding and researchers and people doing similar work in other parts of the country, but yeah…just me.”

“That’s extraordinary,” Patrick murmured. “Really extraordinary. Do you need any help?”

“I really need a building,” I said, laughing. “Preferably one that isn’t home to a colony of possums—”

“Raccoons,” Matthew said.

“Raccoons,” I repeated, sharing a smile with him over my shoulder. “Though I wouldn’t turn away prospective board members or donors.”

“We can handle that,” Sam said. He leaned forward, smiling. “I’d love to consult on this. Now that Matt’s worked out the structural elements, let’s talk about sustainability.”

Matthew shifted beside me, sliding his hand to rest on the edge of my chair. I heard the brush of his fingers as they moved against the leather, and then felt them just beneath my shoulder blade. Sam, Patrick, and Riley tracked the movement, and though it was far less intimate than the moment Riley witnessed earlier, that quiet, loaded statement screeched across the room.

“I’ve got it under control, Sam,” he said.

There was a decadence behind his softly possessive touch, a wonderful weight that brought a smile to my face and an unstoppable pack of gazelles—forget about the butterflies—charging across my chest.

But then my phone vibrated in my hand, signaling a new email, and I remembered this thing with Matthew wasn’t for me, not really. My mission was opening a school and hiring teachers and fielding board members, and indulging in any degree of coupledom wasn’t part of the operation. Not right now.

I caught Matthew’s eye and nodded. “But thank you, Sam. You should come and talk about sustainability when we have our first college and career days.”

“Sorry I’m late.” The elfin redhead—Shannon—strode into the office and slammed the door behind her. “This day has been a special kind of clusterfuck.”

“You know, Shannon, most professional adults don’t enter a room that way,” Patrick said. His teasing tone told me we were no longer in business territory, but firmly planted in family. I recognized it as a small victory, an acceptance into Matthew’s private world that I never anticipated wanting but found I was thrilled to achieve.

“And lucky for you, I’m not most professional adults,” she said.

Riley cleared his throat and jutted his chin toward me.

“Yeah, RISD, I got the text. You’re free to stop being such a gossipy seventh grader.” She scanned the room and braced her fists on her hips. Gesturing to Sam and Patrick, she sighed. “While this looks all nice and civilized, the two of you better get back upstairs. I know why you’re here, and you’re assholes. Get the fuck out.”

Commodore Halsted would have liked her immediately, and I wasn’t far behind. I could see him hiring her to yell at his sailors during Hell Week, and I could see her enjoying that.

“Splendid to meet you, Miss Halsted,” Sam said as he shook my hand again.

“You,” Shannon pointed at Riley. “You can stay as long as you keep your mouth shut. That includes tattle-tale texts, too. Don’t do shit like that.” Turning to Matthew and me, Shannon’s irritated grimace transformed into a pleasant smile. “Hi, Shannon Walsh.”

“Shan,” Matthew started, “this is Lauren Halsted. We’re handling her project at Trench Mills.”

I extended my hand to Shannon. “Hello, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All lies,” Shannon laughed. “You know what?” She tapped her shellacked fingertips against her plum pencil skirt. “We’re writing an offer? Let’s take this to my office. Matt, you stay and deal with Bunker Hill. RISD, try to be useful.”

“I don’t mind. I have time,” Matthew said.

Shannon held up a hand and shook her head once. “Bunker Hill. Don’t argue with me today.” Her diminutive frame forced her to tilt her head to look up at Matthew, but that didn’t minimize anything about her orders. “Angus and I just screamed at each other for fifteen minutes so I am not having it right now. I promise I won’t break your…friend.”

*