Free Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) by Kate Canterbary Page A

shut and stood, sending the chair careening into the brick wall behind me. “You’re being a dick, Shannon,” I called as I stormed down the stairs.
    They’d talk; they always did. Either it was my outbursts or my obsessive tendencies or my whoring, but regardless of the topic, they’d hide the sharp objects and nominate someone to check on me.
    Back in the comfort of my office, I set out my projects for the day. After an hour of hectic, unfocused work, I was prepared to storm into Shannon’s office and put my issues on the table.
    I was halfway down the stairs when my phone chimed. I’d snapped a picture of Tiel reclining on the grass this past weekend, and seeing it on my screen had me stopping mid-step.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey,” she said. “There’s an AC/DC cover band performing tonight. They’re acoustic, and I think there’s a banjo involved, but I hear good things. You should come with me.”
    I laughed and hustled down the stairs, bypassing Shannon’s floor and heading outside, onto Derne Street. “Should I?”
    “Yes, you should. You need more banjo in your life. In fact, the shortage of banjo in your life is a rather dire situation.”
    I hiked to the top of the street and watched the Beacon Hill traffic. I didn’t have a creative reason to decline the invitation, and I was struggling to concoct one. I was comfortable being the guy with the booked calendar, but it dawned on me that Tiel didn’t give a damn about any of my bullshit posturing.
    “All right, Sunshine, but I need to put my head down and get some shit done.”
    “Wise decision. I’ll text you the address,” she said.
    I jogged down the street and up to my office, closed the door, and dug into my projects with newfound urgency. Hours passed without my notice as I plowed through designs, emails, client calls, and some scheduling conversations with my preferred contractors.
    A knock sounded at my door, and I pulled my glasses down my nose before looking up from my drafting program. Shannon stood outside and dangled a bottle of pale yellow juice between her fingers.
    “I come bearing gifts,” she said. “You have to be hungry.”
    Glancing at the clock, I realized it was nearly four in the afternoon, and I’d been working on this design straight through since eleven. I was hungry.
    I nodded and stood, stretching to work the kinks out of my neck and back. She was careful to shut the door quietly, knowing I hated the way everyone else slammed everything around here.
    Did they not remember the hell we went through to restore this building? Or the shit we took from Angus when we bought it? This brownstone was a labor of love, one that owned actual blood, sweat, and tears from each of us. The least we could do was handle the doors with a bit more care. I wasn’t going to be the one repairing those hinges.
    “I wanted to apologize about Friday. There’s nothing else I can say other than I’m sorry.” She set the bottle on my desk along with a bag of raw pistachios, and sat. “Carrots, honey, lemon, and celery. Andy said you were loving all things carrot.”
    Andy was my partner in juice crimes. She was the only one who appreciated a decent cold-pressed juice in this office, and she often spoiled me with some of her homemade creations.
    One glance at the label on the bottle and I knew Shannon dropped at least ten dollars on this juice. She probably sent her assistant, Tom, to get it from the Kendall Square café, but it was the thought that counted.
    “Thank you,” I said. A glance at my glucose monitor showed I was damn close to setting off the low blood sugar alarms, so I dug into the juice first. “I was going to stop for lunch soon.”
    “You can’t be skipping meals. I’m going to have Tom start placing a lunch order for you every day. You’re going to get yourself sick,” she said.
    I hadn’t been taking care of myself, not the way I should. But Shannon didn’t need to know that.
    “Save the nutrition lecture for