Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) by Kate Canterbary

arms.
    “Mr. Walsh.”
    “Do you have any idea what you put me through? You leave in the middle of the night, then you don’t respond to my texts? What the fuck happened?”
    His sharp tone didn’t align with his gentle hands as they pulled me closer, working over my shoulders and down the planes of my back, settling on my waist. He was a demanding little shit, but at least he was sweet about it.
    “Nothing. I’m fine.” I rolled my eyes. “You don’t think this is all a bit much? Showing up at my place? The texts? My panties, my necklace? Aren’t you coming on a little strong?”
    Matthew tilted his head and shot me a measured glance. “I think last night was a little…strong.”
    It didn’t matter whether I agreed with him—I did—but what I really wanted to know was whether last night was normal. What he liked, what he wanted, what he fantasized about. And perhaps the question wasn’t about last night so much as it was about me: was I what he liked, what he wanted, what he fantasized about? Or was I convenient? Was it possible he did this, this whole crazy production, on a regular basis?
    Or was it something else? Something different?
    “Don’t do this, Matthew. Don’t go all caveman on me. You do not get to call the shots. I didn’t mean to scare you, however you cannot send me, like, three dozen texts. I don’t care what happened last night. It’s ludicrous and overbearing and suffocating, and I don’t put up with that shit.”
    “Are you kidding me? You actually believe I shouldn’t freak out when you disappear from my bed in the middle of the night after promising to stay and you don’t respond to my texts?”
    “Well, yes.”
    He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me. “Miss Halsted, that’s bullshit and you know it.”
    I gazed at his long-sleeved Cornell t-shirt, and my argument dried on my tongue. I didn’t know why he generated such strong reactions in me, but there was no in-between.
    I told myself to stop analyzing, stop dissecting. The day was crisp and sunny, and these jeans did amazing things for my legs, and this scrumptious man wanted my attention. It didn’t have to fit into an agenda, and it didn’t have to mean anything.
    “Do you like croissants?”
    “Hmm?” He squinted at me.
    “Croissants. One of my favorite bakeries is over on Charles Street, and they have the best croissants, and I’d rather have a croissant than yell at you in the middle of the Common.”
    “Fine, but you need to promise me you’ll never do that again.”
    I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Fine, but you need to promise you’re not telling me what to do, or blowing up my phone with obsessive and stalkery texts again.”
    “Fine, and just so you know? All that eye rolling is adorable. Keep doing it.”
    “Fine, I will,” I snapped, my voice cracking into a laugh at the end. “You’re a caveman.”
    “You’re bossy. I have to keep up.”
    Matthew smiled, and brushed his lips against mine. A hot blush stole across my cheeks and I studied the wash-weathered lettering on Matthew’s shirt.
    “I’m sorry I freaked out, Miss Halsted. I kept thinking you’d trip into the harbor and be swept out to sea. And then pretend you did it on purpose.”
    Another eye roll. “Can we talk about that croissant now?”
    Matthew’s fingers laced with mine as we walked to the bakery, and they stayed that way while we ordered and chose a sun-drenched table outside. He tore into his sandwich as I slathered apricot jam on my croissant, and from the right angle, we were a regular couple out for brunch. The unlikely history of us fell away, and we weren’t trying to formulate the right words without the shelters of night and alcohol.
    “You’re not from around here,” he said.
    I unwound my scarf and dropped it to my lap. “Why do you say that?”
    Matthew watched as I adjusted my chair in the direction of the sun’s rays. “I know Boston people. You’re not Boston people.” He rubbed