Free The Space Between by Kate Canterbary

decipherable words and sentences—my mere existence wasn’t wasting his time anymore, and I was beginning to think he actually tolerated me.
    Learning from Patrick was more amazing than I expected, and I was blown away by the amount of responsibility he entrusted in me. I kept my inner fangirl in check, but she was primed for an explosion, especially when I discovered we were both starving foodies.
    Leaning against a stall, I stared at the unopened text message from Patrick. Our texts were rare since we spent the majority of our time together during business hours. When we were separated, our messages were limited to quick questions about projects and contractors, and photos from jobsites.
    Wanting to get lost in work, I spent my evenings combing the plans for weaknesses and issues standing in the way of true restoration, and researching techniques that might work for Patrick’s projects. Though I loved the rush of solving unworkable problems, Patrick still engulfed my thoughts even after hours of poring over research.
    My apartment was fortified with a wall of unopened boxes and I couldn’t find a spoon to save my life, but my vibrator was unpacked and stowed at arm’s reach. But after five days of concerted effort and nights spent draining my toy’s batteries, I abandoned Project Don’t Fuck the Boss when those abs entered my line of sight.
    Resisting Patrick Walsh required an iron chastity belt, not a self-control initiative.
    We could agree the first glimpse of his torso was accidental, but there was no doubt in my mind the second was premeditated. His demanding stare was too intense, his stretch too long.
    I knew enough about him after a week as his shadow to know he followed his own playbook and answered to no one, but his freely offered abs were still shocking.
    I didn’t take him for the flirtatious type, what with all his scowling, growling, and intimidating glares, but that was as far as it could go. Just flirting. My finger hovered over the message for a moment, and a vision of his beautifully sculpted body entered my mind. The artful spattering of freckles across his abdomen was unlike anything I’d ever seen, and I wanted to play Connect the Dots.
    “There you are! Is it ruined?” Jess breezed into the bathroom and brushed her hand over my shirt. “Holy moly. My dry cleaner might be able to help…or you can wear it under cardigans, if you button up.”
    “Hadn’t considered the cardigan angle.”
    She turned to the mirror to wipe away some smudged mascara. Meeting my eyes in the mirror, she said, “Last call’s coming up. Do you want to come back to my place for a sleepover? We have some salted caramel gelato.”
    I chuckled, remembering our fondness for Friday night sleepovers back home in Maine—the good old days when we didn’t curse the deities after gorging on ice cream and sleeping on the floor.
    “Tempting as that sounds, we’re pretty close to my place. I’d invite you guys to stay, but…”
    “But you live in a shoebox, I know. That’s what you get for living on Beacon Hill.”
    Shoebox apartment, yes. Presentable apartment, no. Unpacking was climbing higher on my to-do list.
    She turned, and noticed the phone in my hand. “Did you get a number?”
    “That wasn’t my objective,” I laughed, wincing at the memory of the Tight T-Shirt Brigade’s most recent appearance. “No, I got a text from my boss.”
    Jess frowned. “On a Friday night? What an asshole. I know you said he’s intense and all, but slave driver much? What does he want?”
    I shrugged, and slipped the phone into my clutch. “It’s nothing. Should we close out the tab?”
    We located Marley grinding on an alleged European prince, forced the dregs of the lemon drop down her throat, and huddled on the curb for cabs. I hugged them both, and savored the relative quiet of the cab as the highlights from the evening’s Celtics game blasted, and the driver’s radio squawked with dispatch alerts.
    Back at my