Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (47 page)

Lauren’s fingers moved over the plans and she studied them carefully, and it was all I could do not to grab that hand and press it to my crotch. It was absurd and wrong to obsess over her this way, and I knew it, but there was no beating back the hunger surging through my veins, overtaking me. She did something to me, something I didn’t understand, but I definitely wanted to figure it out.

Book Two in The Walsh Series

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Some lines are meant to be crossed.

Patrick

That hair.

That fucking hair.

It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and
pull.

And that would be fine if she wasn’t my apprentice.

Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins. Outside my siblings, she was the only person I could name who shared my obsession with preserving Boston’s crumbling buildings.

Andy

My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, hot yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn’t part of the original plan. Apparently he was part of the package.

Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I needed plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.

An excerpt from
THE SPACE BETWEEN
:

“THIS IS THE best taco truck in Boston,” Patrick said, gesturing to the van parked between Harrison and Concord in the South End. “The best. No pickled beets or arugula. Real tacos. You like tacos, right? If you don’t, this isn’t going to work out.”

“Haven’t met a taco I don’t like,” I replied from the passenger seat of Patrick’s Range Rover.

“If you tell anyone about this, or put it on Twitter, and then everyone and their uncle shows up and I can’t get a taco? You’ll be pulling permits at City Hall for the next six years.”

“I can handle that.”

With a nod, we headed toward the van. We ordered the day’s special, barbacoa de costilla, and he inclined his head toward the park across the street. It was cold but the late afternoon sun seeped through my skin, and I turned my face toward it when we settled on a stone bench.

The tacos were delicious, and when I told Patrick as much, he grunted in agreement. It was a raw, beautiful sound that annihilated Operation Don’t Think About Patrick Walsh Naked.

I wanted to hear that sound again. I wanted to
cause
that sound. I ate my tacos, staring at a bronze statue of a rider on horseback, reminding myself to stop thinking about sex.

“Any other food trucks you’d recommend?”

Patrick nodded as he chewed. “Plenty. There’s a Vietnamese truck that I could hit every day. The best banh mi ever, and there are a few awful banh mis in town. And this one truck that only does grilled cheese, but wicked amazing grilled cheese.”

I offered him an appreciative smile. Patrick was speaking in complete sentences
and
we were talking about the only thing I liked more than architecture: food. “You’re quite the foodie.”

“Nah,” he laughed.

“Anyone who can distinguish banh mi quality is a foodie,” I said, directing a raised eyebrow at Patrick.

“There’s a sriracha fried rice and braised beef dumpling truck I’ve been meaning to try,” he said, his hazel eyes hard and reserved despite his light tone.

“Sign me up for that.”

Taking the last bite of my taco, I nodded enthusiastically while he stared at me. I needed sriracha fried rice in my life, and it sounded like Patrick did, too. Sauce dribbled over my lip, and his eyes darkened when my tongue scooped it up.

“All right, Asani.” He stood and started toward his car, his steps urgent. “Back to the office.”

Kate Canterbary doesn’t have it all figured out, but this is what she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on the ocean—Pacific or Atlantic—is the closest place to perfection, and writing smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing people—be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane—ever since. Kate lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn’t writing sexy architects, she’s scheduling her days around the region’s best food trucks.

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