The Space Between Read Online Free PDF Page B

more about managing subcontractors from Patrick’s twenty-minute conversation with his team than in any other field experience.
    It was equal parts humbling and horrifying. I was tempted to write a letter to Cornell requesting a refund.
    Standing in a brick Greek Revival off Newbury Street, I bit the inside of my cheek to prevent a monologue of questions and ideas from exploding out of my mouth and onto Patrick. I turned in a circle, taking in the Quincy brick fireplace and built-in shelving niches with ornate carvings and imagined walls where the studs stood bare.
    “The ceilings,” I said, gesturing above my head. “They’re low. Too low for this style. Off by three, maybe four inches yet the plans don’t call for an adjustment.”
    Patrick’s eyebrows lifted and he fought a smile. “Yeah, that’s right. You saw the plans?”
    “Yes.”
    I walked past him into the kitchen, and he narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t remember giving you this one.”
    While Patrick was in his partners’ meeting, I furiously studied the bluelines. I scribbled pages of notes and sketched drawings, and listed important design elements and preservation techniques. When Tom dropped by to say hello and warn me about Patrick’s revolving door of assistants, he mentioned their Monday meetings often ran closer to ninety minutes.
    I took it upon myself to flip through the other plans nestled beside Patrick’s desk. I might not have been a Girl Scout, but I knew a few things about preparedness.
    Since my interview, I cleared out my apartment in Ithaca—no more lake effect snow for me, thank you—and devised a plan to keep all thoughts about Patrick strictly PG while moving into my new place. Although the plan was limited to ‘don’t think about Patrick as Sex God or hot, sweaty rugby player,’ I was determined to succeed.
    I attributed most of my X-rated thoughts to the extra time on my hands since graduating in December. Once work consumed my time, I’d forget all about Patrick’s narrow waist and muscular arms. As soon as I got my hands dirty with projects, I’d forget about getting dirty with Patrick.
    I’d definitely stop looking at his ass, too.
    “Hm,” I murmured, measuring the distance between the countertops. “You didn’t give it to me. I read this one, and all the others, anyway. Can we talk about extending this island six more inches? Is that something you’re open to considering?”
    “You read them all anyway?” His voice rang with disbelief and he continued squinting at me.
    “Yes.”
    “You didn’t know we were coming here today.”
    “Hm.” I shook my head. “The island. Six more inches?”
    He stared at me before studying the empty shell of the kitchen. It materialized in his eyes—the keen awareness of space and dimension that allowed him to see the form and function of design before him—and it was exactly as magical as I hoped it would be. It was what I spent years imagining and it didn’t matter that I wanted to lick his entire body because I finally knew how design looked in his eyes.
    “I would agree with you, but I see this,” he gestured to the spaces marked off for cabinetry, “as a stress point in the flow.”
    Crossing the kitchen, I stood beside Patrick and tried to see the shapes.
    “If this is the primary route in from the mudroom,” he pointed between us, “and there is a breakfast bar coming to here, imagine barstools backing up to here.”
    While he described the kitchen, a picture formed in my mind and I saw everything. Three-dimensional shapes sprang from the ground, and I felt their presence in the room. It reminded me of the fuzziness between dreaming and waking where I was aware of my dreams and they still made sense.
    “Do you see it?” he asked, his voice deep and rough in my ear.
    I didn’t realize we were standing shoulder-to-shoulder until tilting my head to look up at him. I smiled, nodding, and his eyes brightened. My ‘no fantasizing about sex with the