Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (4 page)

I also believed at least half of what he said, although it was more than likely the spy novel half.

“Yes, Dad. Please remember I’m twenty-eight and I’ve lived in the city for—”

“None of that matters. Predators strike the moment you drop your guard,” he said. “Think about a Krav Maga refresher course. You need to keep those skills sharp. You never know what’s lurking when you least expect it.”

“Bill, stop with the dramatics. What’s new with you, sweetheart?” Mom asked.

“We’re having a party for Steph and Amanda this weekend, before they leave town. I’ve been busy finding a building, and meeting with an architect to get it ready for kids. I have meetings lined up for tomorrow with donors interested in funding some of the classroom research we’ll be conducting.”

“Be yourself, Lolo. They’d be fools not to donate,” Dad said.

“I know, Dad, but sometimes it’s a little more complicated than being friendly.”

“You tell me if you want me to make some calls,” he continued. “I have a lot of buddies from the service who want to see kids off the streets and getting a decent education. We’ve seen plenty of soldiers who coulda used a teacher like you to set them straight.”

“Thanks, Dad. I don’t want any favors, though—”

“Not a favor, Lauren. That’s how it’s done. It’s all about who you know and calling in the right contacts at the right time.”

“Bill, let me talk to my Lolo. Go play with your new binoculars,” Mom said. The speakerphone connection clicked off. “He’s outside now. Probably being a weirdo and spying on the other campers. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Mom, everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure? You sound a little ruffled, Lolo, a little off. It must be rough on you, with Stephanie and Amanda moving away.”

My oldest friends, Amanda and Steph, were my home away from home. The sisters I never had. The bitches in my back pocket. We roomed together in college then moved to Boston over six years ago, where we shared the darkest, dampest subterranean apartment in town. It earned every ounce of its nickname, The Dungeon. Over the years, we celebrated successes big and small, and endured heartaches in careers and friendships and relationships. We grew up together—the growing up you did when it was time to figure out life.

And now we were growing apart.

Amanda was engaged, pregnant, and moving with her fiancé, Phil. We always knew Phil’s job as lobbyist for a consortium of cutting-edge pharmaceutical firms took priority in their relationship, and that his work would eventually take him and Amanda to Washington, DC. Expecting it to happen didn’t mean it wasn’t leaving a cannonball-sized hole in me.

We also knew Steph and her husband Dan intended to return home to Chicago when they started a family, and I was surprised they stayed so long after Madison’s birth. Steph’s pregnancy was difficult, her labor was complicated, and baby Madison struggled with reflux and colic and ear infections right from the start. We pitched in to provide Steph with meals, help around the house, and babysitting, but Steph and Dan needed their big families back in Chicago, and I wanted them to have that.

But like I said: cannonballs.

And if I was being honest with myself, we’d been growing apart by feet and inches since moving out of The Dungeon. Marriage, careers, babies—these things changed us, and our relationships with each other were evolving, too. It wasn’t bad; it was just different.

“No, it’s not that,” I said. “I mean, yes, it’s going to be tough, but life is taking them on some new adventures. It’s what they need to do and I shouldn’t be sad about that.”

“Sounds like a new project would be good for you. Something to mix up your routine. You need a man in your life. Men are great distractions.”

I laughed at my mother’s suggestive tone but couldn’t ignore the image of Matt Walsh and his broad shoulders. Or that chest. Give me some dirty laundry and a shirtless Matt, and I’d happily spend my day testing out those washboard abs.

My mother would love his dark, wavy hair and blue eyes, and she’d make plenty of naughty comments about his lean body. He’d meet her criteria for beefcake status. I used to turn seven shades of red when she’d thumb through
People
magazine, telling my friends she thought Brad Pitt and George Clooney were hunky, and that she wouldn’t mind a weekend alone with either. Or both.

I didn’t understand the part about both until my twenties, and for everyone involved, that was probably best.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I murmured. “I do have a bunch of travel for conferences over the next few weeks, so I’ll be busy and finally spending some time in classrooms again.”

“Enjoy it! When I was your age, I was pregnant with Wesley. All I knew was the base, and the other wives in the unit. Will was crawling, and your father was deployed on one of his missions. I had no idea when he’d be back. If he’d be back,” she added, her voice turning somber. “You have so many options, so much freedom. Enjoy it.”

“I do, Mom.”

“Good. Now, if you do want to spend some time in Mexico, email us. Your father says we can’t rely on cell service in Mexico, but what does he know?”

I laughed. “Have you heard from Will or Wes recently?”

“Yeah, your father spoke to them when we were leaving home. He has some theories about where they’re stationed at the moment, but didn’t mention specifics. Says they’re both well, keeping their heads in the mission.”

“Okay,” I murmured. I couldn’t understand how my mother accepted the dangers my brothers confronted on a daily basis. I didn’t truly, deeply, fully understand the nature of my father’s work until after his retirement, and was shocked when my parents wholeheartedly supported Will and Wes when they joined the SEALs after graduating from UC-San Diego. “Let me know if you hear anything new.”

“Of course,” Mom said. “I’ll be updating our little website with photos from our journeys. I can’t wait to hear what you think of my new posts!”

“I will, Mom,” I laughed. My mother, the travel blogger. A few years ago, she kicked off their retirement road trip with a new camera, and hasn’t stopped photographing since. What started as Wes’s suggestion to post her shots to a blog rather than crashing our email accounts with a terabyte of attachments each week was now a thriving blog complete with voracious followers and advertisers.

“I’ll let you go, it’s late. Sleep tight, sweetheart. Love you. Daddy says he loves you, too.”

“Love you both.”

“Find a distraction, Lolo. Men are the best kind.”

I leaned back and drummed my fingers against the book’s cover, dismissing my mother’s comments. No time for men. No time for distractions. Not even time to read this month’s book.

The book club was a throwback to our days in The Dungeon, and grew over time to include Phil and Dan’s friends’ girlfriends and an assortment of colleagues and acquaintances. We came together each month but spent most of the time guzzling wine and catching up.

Was it crazy that I faithfully read the books—even if I hated them, even if I lurked in a few online forums to borrow insightful comments—or was it crazy that we didn’t simply retitle the event?

Hanging out and drinking wine without the pretense of literature sounded superb, but I doubted I’d continue going without Steph and Amanda. It was our thing, and without them it didn’t hold the same appeal.

And it wasn’t as if I needed anyone else trying to fix me up.

The old ‘always a bridesmaid’ adage wasn’t lost on me. I dated plenty but finding The One was the least of my worries. I was as single as single could be: not seeing anyone, no compatibility matches from dating portals, no singles mixer booze cruises on my calendar, and I liked it that way.

Regardless of sad-faced inquiries, the singleton life worked for me. It was my prerogative to shave—or not shave—my legs. I could go on last-minute trips to Martha’s Vineyard or New York City or back home to San Diego without including anyone else in those decisions. Dinner often consisted of sliced cucumbers and carrots dipped in chipotle ranch dressing, and there was no one to complain about that.

I was free to watch
Pretty Little Liars
and
The Vampire Diaries
and every other slightly ridiculous show. I was under no obligation to share the bed, closets, or bathroom. I decided how to spend my money, á la three hundred dollars on one incredible pair of shoes. If I wanted to dedicate my entire Saturday to researching elementary math programs or trying on every pair of peep-toes in Boston, I wasn’t cramping anyone’s style. And most importantly, I had the freedom to whip off my bra and pull on yoga pants the second I walked through the door of my apartment.

There was the crux of it for me: I didn’t like being told what to do or following anyone’s rules, and it was that kind of rebelliousness that uniquely suited me for opening a radically new type of school. Without a healthy supply of oppositional defiance to challenge the status quo, I wouldn’t be able to question long-held beliefs about teaching and learning, even if some of those questions were uncomfortable and disruptive.

Don’t get me wrong, I was a good girl at heart—I had the Type A personality straight from my father to prove it. I waited at red lights, even if it was two in the morning and the roads were deserted. I paid all of my bills on time. I never had one-night stands. I always sent handwritten thank-you notes. I religiously kept annual appointments for teeth cleaning and Pap smears—though never on the same day.

I was a rule-follower…and a rebel.

I wandered into my bedroom and gazed into my closet, waiting for inspiration to strike. The right look always kicked my confidence into high gear, and with the way tomorrow was shaping up, I needed the extra boost. The dry cleaner was holding all my favorite dresses hostage, and the go-to uniform of depressing skirt suits and statement necklaces was tired. Not even Jimmy Choo was changing that.

A shock of red toward the back caught my eye and I drew the fit-and-flare dress off the rod. A substantial amount of peer pressure went into the purchase, and I struggled to find the right opportunity to wear it these days. The retro styling reminded me of June Cleaver, but modern touches edged it toward Michelle Obama.

Hanging the dress on my closet door, I added a navy scarf with silver stars, my favorite stiletto Mary Janes, a funky little artisan necklace from a July trip to Provincetown, and those fancy new undies.

No one would see my panties, but I’d know about their sheer silkiness. And that? That was exactly the armor I required to conquer the battles ahead.

MATTHEW

“G
ot a minute
for me?”

I looked up from my double screens and rubbed my eyes. “Yeah, come on in,” I called to my assistant, Theresa. “What’s up?”

She dropped several thick folders onto my desk and settled into a chair. “Files on the new Bunker Hill properties. Angus asked me to pull the permit history.”

“And where would we be without his thoughtfulness?” I dragged my hands through my hair and grunted. There were enough problems with my Back Bay projects without worrying about Bunker Hill, too. “What else?”

“I need your signature on all of these.” She pointed to another file. “And these are draft bids. Patrick told Riley not to send anything without your approval.”

I met Theresa’s fake cheerfulness with a raised eyebrow. I didn’t know what I’d do without her blocking and defending my door most days. Numbers and shapes were my domain, and Theresa took care of the organizing, ordering, and scheduling. “That kid needs to get some shit done without me,” I said.

“I tried to tell him that, boss. But remember, he’s still learning and he knows he has some big footsteps to follow.” Theresa shuffled loose papers into neat piles and folders, and tidied the markers and mechanical pencils scattered over my drafting table. “Are you closing up shop for the weekend soon? Or should I order a sandwich for you?”

I ran a hand over the light scruff on my jaw and shook my head. I spent an extra nine minutes in bed this morning, forfeiting a decent shave to contemplate whether I’d ever had erotic dreams about clients prior to Little Miss Naughty Schoolteacher. None came to mind, and on further review, I was convinced the ‘wake me up with your mouth on my dick’ fantasy lived beyond the realm of the beasts, too. Not that I spent much time in beds with them, but that was aside the point. “Nah. I’ve got a client at five.”

“All right,” she murmured as she continued straightening my things. “I’ll stay until your client arrives. Get out of the office this weekend, please. As the kids say, get a life.”

Theresa’s Boston accent was everything I loved about her and this town, right there in a few garbled sounds. She was scrappy and didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought about her, or the threadbare Red Sox hoodies she wore as World Series good luck charms. She joined the firm years before any of us were born, and served her time under Angus. She didn’t take any shit from anyone—my father included—and knew every single Walsh secret worth keeping.

“I don’t think Patrick allows those,” I muttered before my attention snapped back to my assistant. “Theresa, one more thing. My afternoon appointment yesterday? The church hall in Dorchester? How did that get on my calendar?”

Thirteen miles this morning did nothing to slow the Lauren Halsted fantasy montage in my head. Despite Patrick’s rampant bitching, I had extended the route but there was no shaking that naughty schoolteacher sparkle.

“Halsted?” I nodded. “Last winter you were yappin’ about being tired of dealing with rich assholes all the time, and wanting a few community projects. First that came along. That young lady is also quite persistent.” After a shrug, she said, “And knows her pastries.”

I murmured in acknowledgement and turned back to my designs. Staring at the screens, I debated a handful of scenarios. I knew some of the client’s requests would have to go, or some of the restoration would; the structure couldn’t handle both. Neither made me happy, and the client would be less than understanding considering the amount of money he was paying to have it all.