Some lines are meant to be crossed.
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.
My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, sweaty 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.