Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (23 page)

“You stopped talking to me, and I don’t know why,” he murmured. He tucked my hair over my ears, running his fingers through the strands and down my back. “But I do know you should stop pushing me away.”

I shouldn’t have crept out of his bed that foggy Saturday, and I shouldn’t have left town without telling him it was time to fizzle out, but maybe—just maybe—I always wanted to leave those doors slightly ajar. To find out what I was sacrificing. To sample something I shouldn’t have. To break some rules.

“Tell me what
you
want, Matthew.”

“I want you to let me hang out with you this weekend. I want you to stop disappearing,” he said. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he were trying to withstand a tremendous discomfort or repress a gruesome memory. “And I want to stop calling it drinks. I want you. Just…you. We’ll see what happens after that. Okay?”

I didn’t want to pretend I could find a way for this to work without my life running off the rails, but I didn’t want to say no either. My hands roamed over his chest and shoulders and I nodded. “Fine,” I said. “But you suggested I was using you, and I’m not okay with that. I hate that you entertained that thought for more than one hot second, and you entertained it so hard you came down here to ask.”

“I never believed it,” he murmured. “Never. But when you don’t talk to me I invent my own stupid explanations.”

“Just to clarify, you’re
not
saying I’m a slutty whore?”

“Sweetness, you can be my slutty whore whenever you want, and I’m telling you right now, I’ll worship you for it.” His thumbs brushed under my eyes and he frowned. “I already worship you. You get that, right?”

“I think so.”

“You should.” He inclined his head toward the bed. “This was exhausting, and I just want to hold you because I said tremendously douchey shit and you don’t deserve that. And I haven’t seen your fine ass in two weeks, and that’s far too long. Snugglenap?”

“Mmm,” I sighed. “Yes please.”

We crawled into the bed and curled around each other, our fingers laced together. My body melted into him, and the tension skittering between us seemed to dissipate. It was a struggle to keep my eyes open, but the pressure of Matthew’s stiffening shaft against my bottom kept me from falling asleep. “You probably want me naked and telling you all my deep, dark desires.”

“I just want you.” Matthew pulled a blanket up to my chin and circled his arms around me again. “This is all I need.”

“Me too.” My head bobbed against Matthew’s chin, and I dropped over the edge of sleep.

*

The room felt
cool, and when my eyes peeked open, I noticed darkness pouring through the windows. There was tapping over my shoulder and I yelped, scrambling to my knees and ready to strike. My heart pounded as I stared at Matthew, his laptop open on his thighs and his hands folded in his lap, an inquisitive expression on his face.

“This is new,” he said, gesturing to my defensive stance.

My fingers landed on a wet patch on my cheek, and I tried to brush away evidence of drool. I glanced at the clock and combed my fingers through my hair. “You let me sleep for six hours?”

Matthew shrugged and powered down his laptop. “Isn’t that the point of the snugglenap?”

I grabbed my toiletry kit and headed to the bathroom to deal with the drool remnants and brush my teeth. “Just figured I’d wake up naked with your cock in my mouth and your head between my legs.”

Matthew vaulted off the bed and I saw him braced against the doorframe. “Can I interest you in that now?”

I smiled to myself as I applied a fresh coat of mascara. “Maybe if you woke me up an hour ago, but I’m starving.”

I breezed past him to rifle through my bags for clean clothes, which were in short supply after two weeks away from my washing machine. Tossing his t-shirt to a chair, I slipped a gauzy kimono-style shirt over my head and stepped into a pair of jeans. Matthew’s chest pressed against my back, his hands skimming under the shirt and cupping my breasts.

“Give me ten minutes,” he said, his lips hovering over my ear.

“I could give you ten minutes,” I said, my body softening into his. “But it’s never ten minutes. And I’m hungry.”

Matthew rained kisses along my neck and shoulders, his fingers brushing the soft undersides of my breasts while his hips bumped in a lazy rhythm against my ass. He groaned, squeezing my breasts before walking away. “Hard to believe someone so heavenly could be so fucking evil.”

“You love it,” I said. I dropped a scarf into my bag and headed toward the door.

“Something like that,” he murmured.

As we walked down Chartres Street toward the Jackson Square restaurant, Matthew pointed out the blend of French, Spanish, and Creole influences in each building, and contrasted the architectural styles we saw: Greek revival, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Renaissance Colonial, Gothic, Victorian, Italianate, Queen Anne, Postmodern, Mid-century Modern. He knew with a glance which predated the Civil War, which survived the Great New Orleans Fire in 1788, which had been restored.

When we settled into the bistro’s cozy patio, he described the Pontalba Buildings, the matching block-long red brick apartments flanking two sides of the Square, and explained the four-story structures launched the wrought iron balcony trend in New Orleans. He paused to order drinks, then continued, so charming and animated, about the complex geometry of mansard roofs.

We never talked like this. It was either sex or work or squabbling about who was bossy and who was a caveman, but it was never ordinary conversation about our interests, our passions, our places in the universe. And it was my fault. I spent so much time trying to shut him out, shut
this
out.

The waiter delivered our cocktails and I stirred my glass to study the contents of the New Orleans specialty, the sazerac. “To dinner outside in October.”

Matthew murmured in agreement and our glasses clinked together.

I stifled a cough after sipping and my eyes flashed to him. “That is
strong
. Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Of course not.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling and mischievous. “I’d be happy with tipsy.”

We opted to share three authentic Creole dishes, and spent the meal talking and laughing. Like everything else with Matthew, it was natural. Was this what he wanted when he asked me to stop calling it drinks? Did he want us sharing meals and stories, and hanging out together without crumbling under the need to rub up against each other? Did I want that?

Then his fingers tightened around my hand, and I realized my foot was sliding over the back of his calf.

So meals, stories, and some light rubbing?

We discovered a mutual love of many restaurants and bars, and realized we’d been daily patrons of the same obscure coffeehouse for nearly two years. Once that peculiar shock wore off, we agreed hands down that autumn was the best season in Boston. Those fools who loved springtime were kidding themselves—Boston in the spring was cold and wet and muddy, save for the odd week or two of perfection around the end of May.

I mentioned an affection for
The Avengers
,
Iron Man
, and the first
Transformers
, and Matthew brought up the origins of his siblings’ comic-book-inspired nicknames. They referred to Sam as Tony Stark but never Iron Man—brilliant but a womanizing manwhore in the business of collecting obsessive-compulsive tendencies—and I laughed so hard my drink sprayed out my nose.

We both admitted feeling like we’d accomplished a barrelful of nothing since college, and insisted the other was insane to think so, but that didn’t stop us from comparing ourselves to others in our fields. I couldn’t understand how he saw his work as anything short of extraordinary—especially after the dissertation I got on New Orleans architecture—and he argued that point right back to me until we accepted each other’s compliments.

Matthew divulged a small addiction to running, and for him that was a gateway to biking and swimming, and occasionally doing all three for about one hundred and forty miles.

I told him about my treats: baked goods of all varieties, shoes, and disgustingly expensive lacy things. I didn’t offer explanation other than saying the shoes and the lingerie made me feel stronger, more capable when everything was complicated, and people would be happier if they ate more cake. He feigned disbelief when I mentioned the lacy things, demanding proof even though he had watched me dress and knew plenty about my undies, and I might have slipped my panties into his pocket on my way back from the ladies’ room.

Matthew inquired about my fondness for velvet pillows, and I confessed an obsession with wandering through farmers’ markets and random little shops, and that my favorite place in the area was Cape Cod. I loved walking along the shore, gazing out over the Atlantic, and feeling like I was teetering over the edge of the earth and absolutely, totally free from everything else in the world, where no one expected anything from me, and I could just
be.
We realized we frequented the same beaches, and quite possibly the same quiet cove at the same time, but never noticed each other until I went ass over elbow down the stairs at Saint Cosmas.

When Matthew’s eyes flashed with vulnerability, I shifted closer, and he told me about the hot July day twenty-two years ago when he and his siblings found their pregnant mother on the floor of her bedroom, clutching her belly while blood pooled around her. The memories poured out, and my heart broke for the little boy who watched his mother die.

A heaviness settled between us, and before the waiter could present the dessert menus, I held up a hand and said, “One of everything, and another round.”

We sampled the crème brulee, flourless chocolate cake, and pain perdu, and I set the pecan pie aside for the morning. My position on pie for breakfast brought him to the origin of his family’s famous butternut squash pie recipe—his mother substituted squash after he and Patrick climbed the roof of their childhood home for a pumpkin-smashing experiment—and that it was the only thing Shannon was allowed to cook, ever.

As a transplant to New England, that was a new one for me, and I filed it away with the frappes and fluffernutters, and whoopee pies and Indian pudding.

With a fresh sazerac in hand, Matthew leaned forward and said, “I actually need to hear this from you, Lauren. I need to understand why you stopped talking to me because I don’t. I don’t understand any of it.”

Licking chocolate from the fork’s tines, I shrugged. “I’ve had a really hectic few weeks.”

My words sounded flimsy and hollow, and while we both knew I
was
busy, we also knew there was more to the story.

He folded his arms on the table, his hands circling the tumbler, and I watched his fingertips as they tapped the glass. I liked his hands. Long fingers, light freckles all over, and a dusting of hair near his wrist. His watch was the size of a puppy’s head, but on him, it was almost proportional.

“And you thought I wouldn’t want to hear about that?”

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” I said.

Eyebrow lifted, Matthew leveled me with a sharp look. “Yes, you did.”

Instead of trying to fill the most awkward silence in the history of humanity with empty babble that certainly wouldn’t make him happy, I finished the crème brulee. He signaled for the check, and snatched it up when I reached across the table.

“You’re a caveman,” I murmured.

“You’re bossy.”

He didn’t look up when he said it, and it wasn’t the same loving quip without his usual smirk and sarcastic tone.

Is this what I’ve been doing all this time? Is this what it feels like to be shut out and pushed away?

The return trip to the hotel was quiet, and he didn’t reach for me. The French Quarter was vibrant and pulsating, and I wanted more than anything to feel that way with Matthew right now, to banish the prickly energy between us. He stopped at the corner of Bourbon Street, gesturing to lively venues boasting jazz and bourbon, voodoo and hurricanes, and asked, “Will rum bring you back to me? Or is it just tequila?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I sighed and wrapped my scarf around my shoulders. Armor. The thin, flowery fabric was the best shield I had, and I needed it to protect me right now.

“Tell me why. That’s all I want.”

Partiers spilled onto the streets, laughing and singing, and I shrugged. “The past two weeks have been…awful. I mean, I’ve learned things and met people, but awful. It’s been ridiculous and shameful and appalling how much I’ve missed you. We had an incredible weekend, and that should’ve been the end of it. But I can’t get you out of my head. Okay? Was that what you wanted?”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing my hair over my shoulder. “Keep going.”

“I never sleep and all of this travel is kicking my ass. And it’s really obvious I only have half a clue of what I’ve gotten myself into with opening this school. I’m pretty sure I’m failing at life.”

“And if you’d mentioned any of that to me, I would’ve told you it was bullshit. I would’ve said dirty things over the phone to make you feel better because I missed you too and I want to solve these things for you.”