Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (24 page)

“Matthew,” I laughed impatiently. “I can’t find room in my life to breathe right now. I thought if I kept my distance, if I only talked about the project…I thought it would be easier.”

“Was it?”

We both knew the answer. We knew it the second we kissed at the airport. We knew it every time our eyes locked. We knew it when he was so deep inside me that he took my breath. Finally I shook my head, and said, “No, but I didn’t see any other way.”

“Let me find one, Lauren. Just let me in and I’ll find one.”

I studied the brain throughout grad school: how it worked, how it stored and organized information, and how teachers could make instruction more accessible for all kids. While my focus was classroom-centric, I also learned how the brain perceived experiences and engaged the senses to form emotions and memories.

I knew the brain decided what it wanted to see. The rods and cones within the eye’s structure transferred images, but in the process, the brain morphed them, shifting and shaping and shading until they aligned with each person’s unique cognitive structures. The hard-wired neural pathways made eyewitness accounts unreliable, and meant we didn’t notice our keys were in their usual spot all along. Sight was belief’s most subjective, manipulative source.

I’d known this yet ranked myself above it. I thought I was the ultimate seer. I thought I could look beneath the layers, understand more than I saw, and read between the lines, but I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.

When had it stopped being just for fun, just for now? When had Matthew and I transitioned from drinking buddies to an
us
, an entity requiring care and communication? I paged through memories of Matthew while the humid air and rich fragrances of the Quarter rose around us, and realized it had never been casual. Not even once.

It was controlled chaos, and I needed to embrace it. Or running screaming.

Maybe it was the whiskey or the anise-flavored Herbsaint, or maybe just the sharp and sudden realization that I wasn’t in charge now, and perhaps I never was, but I wanted to close the distance between us. I wanted to get back to the place where I knew him, and with my head against his chest and his arms around me, I was close enough.

He pressed his lips to my hair and murmured, “I didn’t fly here for drinks. I flew here for you.”

He tipped my face up, his lips hovering over the corner of my mouth, and in that split second, life was perfect. I was perfect. There were no overdue action plans, no epic strangeness, no failing at entry-level life. Right now, with his hands in my back pockets and his lips on my mouth and those gazelles storming across my lungs,
we
were perfect.

And that was all it was—
now
.

I wanted to step outside of myself and snap a photo of us, and then I’d always be able to find that perfection when everything else fell apart.

MATTHEW

06:58 Lauren:
flight officially changed to Fri night.

06:59 Matthew:
good. I want you back in my time zone

06:59 Matthew:
and bed

07:02 Lauren:
your bed misses me now?

07:04 Matthew:
every piece of furniture in my loft. shower. dick. hand.

07:04 Matthew:
they all miss you

07:05 Matthew:
the next time im jerking off in the shower, id really like your tits there so I can come all over them

07:08 Lauren:
that’s very specific

07:09 Matthew:
you’re all about specific requests, sweetness. I learn from the best

07:22 Matthew:
…where’d you go?

07:23 Matthew:
I thought you’d be into that. it’s cool if you’re not, it’s fine

07:23 Matthew:
I want what you want.

07:25 Lauren:
just clearing my weekend schedule. wanted to block time on my calendar for these little shower adventures you’ve described

07:26 Matthew:
can I ask what you’ve titled that event?

07:28 Lauren:
hydraulics inspection

07:29 Matthew:
YES

*

It shouldn’t have
been that easy—a flight to New Orleans, a spicy meal, and two days buried in my hot blonde—but that was all it took to unwind the deep knot of tension in my neck and the numbers in my head.

“Look at this: clean-shaven, sharp clothes, no bitter scowl. What a difference a weekend makes. Speaking on behalf of the tribe, it’s delightful to see you’ve dislodged the steel I-beam that was in your ass, Matt,” Sam said as I took my seat around the attic conference table. “Even if you are ten minutes late.”

“Hells yeah,” Riley said. “Did you say hi to Miss Honey for me?”

“For everyone’s safety and sanity, it’s fair to say that Lauren isn’t allowed to leave town without you anymore,” Patrick said.

I indulged their ribbing with a self-deprecating shrug, busying myself with testing the temperature of my coffee and adjusting the volume settings on my phone. I knew her conference would keep her tied up through the evening, but I wanted to know immediately if she messaged, and I didn’t care if Patrick lost his shit over it either.

For once, the firm and this job weren’t coming first. Lauren was.

“So it went well?” Shannon asked.

I studied my screen as I formulated a response. I wanted to keep my weekend with Lauren in a private place far from the ravenous purview of my siblings. At times, I regretted holding Shannon at an arm’s length when I shared so much with Erin, but Shannon required more explanation, and she wanted to analyze everything beyond recognition. I knew last night’s quick text when I landed at Logan was inadequate, but it was the best I could give her then, and probably the only thing I could give her now.

Looking up, I met her glare with an even expression. “Yeah.”

“Christ almighty, you are impossible! What happened? What’s the deal with you two?”

“Not during my meeting, Shan,” Patrick said. “Today’s agenda is packed and I have a nine o’clock consult. We need to get moving.”

“Okay people, let’s get high-level updates on projects, whiz bang fast,” she said with a snap of her fingers. “Sammy, you start.”

I half listened as Sam walked through his current work, turning my attention to my weekend emails. I’d plowed through several hundred at the airport and during my flight last night, but many more appeared early this morning. All of my masonry contractors were working straight through the weekends wherever city regulations and building permits allowed, getting in as much time as possible before snow and frozen earth made their craft substantially more difficult. Famously unpredictable, Boston winter weather could bring my stonework to a grinding halt, and I needed to wrap up several projects before the first major snowstorm.

My thoughts turned to Lauren and I pictured her curled up next to the fireplace at my loft, watching a storm blow in off the water. The idea of being snowed in with Lauren landed in my chest, and my heart beat harder, heavier. I barely noticed when Riley leaned toward me and tapped my arm.

“Dude.”

I refocused on my siblings, quickly realizing that four pairs of eyes were staring at me. Sam pressed his fist to his mouth, a poor attempt at concealing his smirk, and said, “We need to take a minute to observe this. Many moons will pass before anyone else at this table shows up looking quite this love-drunk.”

“Updates?” Shannon prompted, her knowing smile a stark contrast to Patrick’s bland scowl.

“Back Bay properties are down to punch lists, and I’m going to spend most of the day sitting on the GC to get them knocked out,” I said. “Shan, plan to list them in a week or two. HVAC and flooring upgrades are finished at Trench, and framing and drywall are on track for this week. Newton is a mess because the homeowner has requested a fifth floor plan overhaul. North End needs a foundation rebuild, as I predicted two months ago, and we’re pouring concrete tomorrow.”

“Add an extra twenty percent to Newton. Call it the dicking around fee,” Patrick said, his eyes focused on his master spreadsheet of projects, timelines, and budgets. I envied no part of that. “What about Angus’s Bunker Hill buys?”

“RISD, you got this?” I glanced over to Riley, waiting for a confident response. I spent weeks coaching Riley through the process and overseeing the development of his proposal, and despite Angus’s pissing and moaning, I knew he had some strong, unique ideas for the four properties no one wanted to touch.

“Yeah,” he stammered. “I drafted a few different scenarios. Depending upon whether we’re going for single-family, multi-family, or mixed use.” He spread his designs over the center of the table, pausing while Patrick, Shannon, and Sam studied his work.

“That’s interesting,” Sam mused, pointing to one of the designs. Patrick nodded in agreement, and I sensed Riley’s anxiety multiplying as the minutes passed. He still couldn’t manage to zip his fly or make it to the office without spilling coffee on his perennially wrinkled clothes, and it didn’t appear he owned any socks, but I was starting to see some potential. His work clearly reflected a different approach than the one Sam, Patrick, and I shared, but after some fine-tuning, I liked it.

“What’s your recommendation?” Patrick asked.

Riley turned expectant eyes to me, and I nodded in encouragement. “That area’s coming up fast, but it’s mostly triple deckers and apartments. Not a lot of single-family. The data seems to indicate that the few single-family properties listed sell in days.”

Patrick studied the designs again. “Have you approved these?” he asked, pointing the papers at me.

“Yeah. Everything checks out.”

Patrick nodded and pushed the papers back toward Riley. “RISD, you’re still Matt’s shadow. Do this, do this well, do everything Matt says, and we’ll talk. Shan, look into the Charlestown market to be sure about the SFH demand and get some conservative sales estimates by midweek. Let’s look at bottom lines before we lift a hammer. And someone get Angus to decide how much we’re investing without letting him in the office, please.”

“I can do that.” Riley shrugged indifferently, but I noticed him biting back a proud smile.

“That’s all I got,” I said.

“Good,” Patrick murmured. “Nothing to report on the intern front. Shannon is meeting with accounting and payroll providers to get that off her plate, and we’re looking at candidates for another assistant for her. Someone to support marketing and publicity, and all that shit.”

“Nothing to report on the intern front because Patrick is literally impossible to please,” she said. “We’ve met nine perfectly pleasant candidates.”

“We’ve met nine morons,” Patrick said, scowling. “Bring me someone who can spell sustainable preservation, and I’ll consider it. We’re not talking about this right now, Shannon.”

“Wow. Shit just got real,” Riley said.

“You have a decent design. Now you have to stop with the quippy catchphrases,” Sam said. “Expand your lexicon.”

“Hate the game, not the player,” he scolded with a wink.

*

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: October 13 at 11:25 EDT

Subject: answer your phone

E –

I need you sorting me out right now. Call me. Whenever.

M

*