Dirty Work

“I don’t gouge my customers, Mr. Lawson,” she says all stiff and formal, and fuck if that doesn’t turn me on even more. My filthy mind goes down a dom/sub wormhole, and I’m not sure which fantasy is hotter, her standing over me in leather and latex or me with her blindfolded and bound, at my mercy. It takes me a second to realize she’s still talking. “I’m good at what I do. I’m prompt, reliable and discrete when called for. My clients appreciate what I have to offer, and they’re willing to pay top dollar for it.”

She bends down to pick up the pot, which draws my eyes back to her butt. I’ve never considered myself an ass man—boobs have always been my personal kryptonite—but for this girl, I could change. Not that her tits are bad, either. From what I can see under her T-shirt, they’re pert perfect handfuls, not too big and not too small. Like in that bedtime story with the three bears—hers are just right.

She breezes past me to the kitchen area. Naturally, I follow, like she’s the Pied fucking Piper and I’m a rat, under her spell.

“I suppose you’ll expect extra for working after hours,” I say, leaning against the counter.

Christ. Why did every word out of my mouth sound like I was in a low-budget porno?

“No.” She dumps the soapy water into the sink and rinses the sponge. “My fee is negotiated up front. I never charge overtime unless agreed upon in advance. I only stopped by tonight because your sister texted me that your flight was delayed. She was worried about Roscoe being alone for so long. With good reason, it turned out. But now that you’re here, you can finish up.”

“Finish up?”

“Your dog peed on the rug. I soaked it up with paper towels and used dish soap to clean it. This should help neutralize the ammonia.”

She fills the pot with fresh water and adds a splash of vinegar. Where the hell did she find that? I feel a little violated knowing she’s been through my cabinets. Not that I’ve ever really been through them. It’s not like I do much cooking, and what little I do need my once-a-week housekeeper makes sure to stock.

“He’s not my...”

“Save it.” She cuts me off, tossing the sponge back into the pot and shoving the whole thing at my chest. I have no choice but to take it, warm water sloshing onto my Henley. “I know. He’s not your dog. But he’s your responsibility for the next three months. Which means you’re on cleanup duty.”

“I don’t know.” I scrub a hand through my hair and fight back a yawn. The adrenalin of walking in on my sexy pet sitter—correction, executive concierge—is starting to wear off and the fatigue of flight delays, a packed plane and what had to be the slowest Uber driver in the tristate area is settling in. “It seems to me if you had walked him like you were supposed to, he wouldn’t be peeing on my Persian rug. Which, in a way, makes it your responsibility.”

“Two times a day,” she says, holding up two fingers in case I’m a slow learner and need visual reinforcement. “That was my agreement with your sister. I walked him this morning at eight and this afternoon at four.”

“Hey, I couldn’t help it if my flight had mechanical trouble.”

“I know.” She grabs a denim jacket from one of the high-backed stools flanking the kitchen island and shrugs it on. “That’s why I rushed over here when I got your sister’s text. This was your one freebie. In the future, I’d appreciate a heads-up if you’re going to be out late. That way I can adjust Roscoe’s schedule. My number’s on a sticky note on the fridge, along with a copy of our service contract.”

She slings a purse that looks big enough to hide a body in over her shoulder and starts for the door, turning as she reaches it to throw one last parting jab. “And trust me, if I have to come over here at this hour again, you will pay extra.”

I watch her sassy ass sashay out of my apartment and sigh, my body finally giving in to exhaustion and collapsing onto the closest stool.

I have to hand it to her. She’s right about one thing, that’s for sure.

I’ll be paying. For the next three months. In spades.

CHAPTER THREE

Ainsley

“OKAY, SO ERIN, you’ll drop off Mrs. Harris’s dry cleaning, return Mr. Albertson’s cable box and pick the Barton kids up from rock climbing at Chelsea Pier at three.”

She gives me a mock salute. “On it, chief.”

“And Aaron...” I scroll down to the next page of the beautiful color-coded spreadsheet that’s our virtual bible at Odds & Errands, keeping us organized and running smoothly. “You’re waiting for Hästens to deliver the Stillwaters’ new mattress. They should be there sometime between ten and two. And don’t forget to make sure they take away the old one. When you’re done with that, you can take Mrs. Vincent’s Mercedes to be detailed.”

“Can I switch with Erin?” He wrings his hands together and pouts, hitting me with his best puppy dog eyes. “Pretty please? I’ll pick up the Barton kids if she takes the Mercedes. I hate driving in the city. And Mrs. Vincent gives me the creeps. She’s always looking at me funny.”

“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with the boss lady,” Erin offers, ever the amenable employee. “I like to drive. And Mrs. Vincent’s not looking at you funny. She probably just misplaced her glasses again.”

“Done,” I say, forestalling any further debate on something that should have been settled the second Erin uttered the words “it’s okay.” Doesn’t matter to me who does what, as long as it all gets done. I make the appropriate changes to the spreadsheet, hit Save and review it one more time. “That leaves me with picking up groceries for Mr. Perkins, standing in the TKTS line for the Ackerman twins and...shit.”

The dog.

“What’s wrong?” Erin asks.

I look up from my computer. “We have a new client.”

A white lie. Truth be told, I’ve been taking care of Roscoe for the better part of two weeks now. I just haven’t had the stomach to add him to my spreadsheet, which would mean explaining to the Bobbsey Twins why I broke my absolutely-no-dogs rule. But I can’t keep it a secret forever. And now seems like as good a time as any to confess.

Aaron frowns. “Since when is that a problem?”

Since our new client found me on all fours on his living room carpet.

I’ve dealt with all kinds of customers without losing my cool, but something about Jake Lawson—all manly and broody and judgey—had run me off the rails. Maybe it was the way he’d made me feel, hot and bothered and defensive as hell at the same time. I cringe inside remembering how rude I’d been to him, shoving the pot of water at him and waltzing out the door. So much for the customer is always right.

I blame Brie. She should have warned me her brother was pantie-meltingly gorgeous. Tall and dark-haired, with piercing russet brown eyes, a strong, square jaw dotted with sexy eleven o’clock stubble, and a build that made my mouth water—perfectly sculpted, like he’d earned his muscles through manual labor and not hours at the gym, even though logic told me it was probably the latter. Just the way I like my men. Well, except for the whole broody, judgey thing.

Then again, Jake is Brie’s brother. She probably doesn’t think of him that way. At least, I hope she doesn’t. So I guess the blame rests solely on me and my overactive hormones.

“Since I forgot to add him to the spreadsheet,” I lie again, crossing my fingers behind my back and keeping my long internal monologue to myself.

“You? Forgot something?” Aaron rushes to my side, feels my forehead with the back of his hand, then turns to Erin. “She’s not running a fever.”

“Maybe not, but she looks pale.” Erin joins him, grabbing my wrist, and pretending to search for my pulse. “I think she needs medical attention. Should we call a doctor?”

“Very funny, Key and Peele. Sit back down and give me a second.”

They take their seats opposite the repurposed five-panel door that serves as my desk as I type, making a few hasty mental calculations while I amend the almighty spreadsheet. Thinking on your feet is an essential skill in the concierge business. Things are always changing, often with little to no notice.

Let’s see... Mr. Perkins is on the Upper West Side, TKTS is in Times Square, which is in Midtown, and Jake’s down in Tribeca...

I snap my fingers. “Got it. I’ll take care of Mr. Perkins’s groceries first, grab the tickets at TKTS, then shoot down to Tribeca to take care of Roscoe.”

With any luck, I’ll be done by noon and on time for my lunch date with Mom in the Meatpacking District. Her treat, natch. The only way you’ll catch me at Fig & Olive is if someone else is paying the tab.

“Who’s Roscoe?” Erin asks. “Our new client?”

“His dog.” I give the new and improved spreadsheet a final once-over before hitting Save. “Or his parents’ dog, to be more accurate.”

“A dog?” Aaron practically screeches. I swear, he could give Brie a run for her money. His picture should be next to the word drama in the dictionary. Well, his and Brie’s. “I love dogs. But I thought you said pets were off limits.”

“That’s right,” Erin chimes in. “You said we were a concierge service, not pet sitters.”

“It’s a favor for a friend.” I don’t bother telling them about the hefty fee we’re getting. If things keep looking up, I’d rather surprise them with a nice Christmas bonus.

“A friend, huh?” Aaron waggles his eyebrows. “Let me guess. Is this friend a male?”

“Maybe a tall, dark and eligible male?” Erin throws in for good measure.

Nope. So not going there with these two. I knew hiring grad students as my part-time labor force was going to bite me in the ass. They’re both way too interested in my love life.

Or lack thereof.

“I think we’re done here.” I close the cover on my laptop. “Unless either of you has actual work to discuss, this meeting is adjourned.”

We agree to regroup back at my place at four and go our separate ways. I catch an uptown 1 train and take care of Mr. Perkins’s grocery shopping without incident—his list isn’t too long, and I’ve got his fridge stocked by ten. I’m not so lucky with TKTS, though. The app tells me the wait at the discount ticket booth is already over an hour and a half. Damn summer tourists. There’s no way Roscoe’s going to wait that long before going out, and I’m sure as hell not risking another accident.

I do a little more of that quick thinking, decide I’ll have to try to kill three birds with one stone, and stick out an arm to hail a cab. Pricier than the subway, especially since I’ve got a monthly pass, but I’m pressed for time, and I figure with what Jake’s paying me I can swing it. Plus, like everything else work-related, I’ll write it off as a business expense.

I slide into the back seat and give the cabbie Jake’s address, simultaneously whipping out my phone so I can shoot my mother a quick text to push our lunch date back to one and let her know we’ll need sidewalk seating. I don’t dare tell her why. She’ll freak if she finds out I’m bringing a d-o-g. Pets were strictly verboten in the Scott household, especially large, hairy ones. Too much fur on the stuffy French Regency-style furniture.

Text sent, I dump my phone back in my bag and lean forward so the cabbie can hear me. “There’s an extra ten spot in it for you if you get me there in under fifteen minutes.”

He does, and there’s a big smile on his face as he drives off. I fish Jake’s key chain out of my bag, trying to remember which key I need first. Is the long one for the building, or the apartment? I get a temporary reprieve from having to figure it out thanks to the Boho-chic chick in a floppy hat, white eyelet dress and cowboy boots who bursts through the door at just the right moment.

I catch the door and slip inside. The doorman gives me the evil eye until I flash Jake’s keys and explain that I’m there to walk Roscoe. Then his suspicion changes to sympathy and he waves me up.

Forty-five minutes, one epic battle to get Roscoe’s leash on, and a harrowing cab ride later—the first three that stopped bailed once they realized how damn big the dog was, and I had to bribe the fourth with the promise of a twenty-dollar tip—and Roscoe and I are in Times Square, an area of the city I usually avoid like the plague. It’s crowded, touristy and as an added disincentive Dale’s office is half a block away. Not that I’m likely to run into him in the throng of Broadway lovers lining up for discount tickets at the TKTS box. Dale is to theater as my mother is to the discount rack at Bergdorf Goodman. A total no-go.

Or at least he was when he was with me. Lord knows what he and Una do for shits and giggles. I mean, she was his secretary, for God’s sake. Excuse me. Administrative assistant. Either way, a total freaking cliché. But at least he can’t complain he never sees her because she spends too much time at work. Lord knows I heard that refrain often enough. The fact that it was true didn’t make it any easier to hear. Long office hours are a given when you’re trying to make partner at a prestigious New York law firm.

I give myself a mental bitch slap for letting my mind wander back down the Dale-and-DK&G road as Roscoe and I take our place in line. My life has taken a complete one-eighty in the year and a half since Dale dropped his bombshell on me, breaking our engagement. And while I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t still sting a little, I don’t regret it one bit. Getting unceremoniously dumped on the eve of my wedding was exactly the wake-up call I needed.

Despite what my bitterly disappointed parents think.

“Can I pet your dog?” the girl in front of me in line asks. She looks to be about eight or nine, her Aladdin T-shirt a dead giveaway as to what show she’s hoping to see. A woman who’s obviously her mother hovers over her shoulder.

“She loves dogs,” the woman says. “But I’ve taught her always to ask before petting one. You can’t tell just by looking if a dog is friendly, right Hannah?”

“Right.” The little girl—Hannah—nods vigorously, her pigtails bouncing.

“Go ahead.” I step to one side and nudge the dog forward with my knee. He’s almost as tall as she is. “Roscoe’s as friendly as they come.”

Sure, I haven’t known him long. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist—or the hours I’ve spent on the internet researching Irish wolfhounds—to figure out this guy wouldn’t hurt a flea. My first impression was way off. He’s more of a gentle giant than a vicious beast.

“Hey there, Roscoe.” Hannah holds her hand out to him, palm flat. Her mother really has taught her well. He sniffs it, then licks, and the next thing I know the two of them are thick as thieves while Hannah’s mom and I chat about shows we’ve seen and want to see. It makes the hour or so we wait to get up to the ticket window—during which another fifteen or twenty people stop to pet my big, slobbery, overly friendly companion, drawn in like flies to honey by his dopey doggy grin and fiercely wagging tail—fly by.

I have definitely underestimated the power of the pooch. I start thinking of other errands that might be more enjoyable with Roscoe along. Going to the farmer’s market in Union Square for Mrs. Black. Dropping off Mr. D’Ambrosio’s library books. Depositing Mrs. Matos’s Social security check. (No matter how many times I try to convince her, she refuses to sign up for direct deposit. Says she doesn’t trust computers. I don’t have the heart to tell her I usually go to the instant teller machine.) Maybe it won’t be so bad having a dog in our care after all.

When I’m ten people from the head of the line, I text one of the Ackerman twins, and she rushes over from Restaurant Row, where she works as a hostess, to take my place. I say goodbye to Hannah and her mom, check my phone and see I’ve got about forty-five minutes before I’m due to meet my mother. Rather than risk another cab ride, I decide to walk the High Line. Yet another one of Manhattan’s many pleasures I hadn’t had the time to experience when I was chained to my desk at DK&G. The elevated park on an abandoned freight railway, with its lush greenery, historic buildings and quaint overlooks, never fails to calm my nerves and soothe my senses.

The feeling doesn’t last long. At least not for me. I can’t speak for Roscoe, who doesn’t seem to be phased by much of anything.

“You’re late.” My mother purses her perfectly painted lips—Casablanca by Tom Ford, her day shade—and crosses her legs, not bothering to do anything so drastic as to, say, get up and give her own flesh and blood a hug.

“I’m right on time.” I pull out the chair opposite her and sit, not needing to check my phone since I’ve kept meticulous track of the time throughout our walk, doing my level best not to upset Mommy Dearest. Like I stood a chance of that happening. I think my mere existence pisses her off. She swears I wasn’t an “oops” baby, but it sure seems that way sometimes.

“On time is late.” She takes of sip of her sidecar—all she ever drinks, and only after noon—and gestures to Roscoe, who’s made himself comfortable at my feet under the table. “What is this monstrosity? And why are you so sweaty?”

I flag a waiter. I don’t usually drink on the job, but one beer won’t hurt. There’s no way I’m getting through this meal without a little liquid courage, especially with my mother already well into her first drink. “It’s good to see you, too, Mom.”

She doesn’t say anything, just gives me a judgmental stare over the rim of her glass. Eventually, I give in. Like I always do.

Well, almost always. I’m not going back to my old way of life, no matter how much she and my father guilt trip me.

“This is Roscoe.” I reach down to scratch the top of his big ole head. “He’s a who, not a what. I’m helping take care of him for the next few months. Or Odds & Errands is. And if I’m sweaty, it’s because we walked here from Midtown on the High Line.”

“Ah, yes. Your father and I donated to that project when it was first getting started.” Guaranteed that was the closest she’d ever get to it. My mother and the great outdoors did not mix well. Her idea of roughing it was staying in a hotel with fewer than five stars. “You couldn’t have left him at home?”

Yeah, I could have. I had time to get him back to Tribeca. But a little, rebellious part of me wanted to bring him to our lunch date, knowing it would get under my mother’s skin. Not that I’m admitting any of this to the woman sitting across the table from me, her judgey stare still intact. “You know how it is. Busy morning. I had a to multitask.”

The waiter finally makes his way over to us. I order a craft beer I’ve never tried—I like to experiment—and we both order our meals, kale and quinoa salad for Mom, naturally, and a thick, juicy burger with a side of fries for me. Her lips form an all-too familiar pout, making her disapproval evident. I ignore it and take a slice of warm, crusty bread from the basket in the middle of the table, dipping it liberally in their signature basil-infused olive oil. If I’m feeling really rebellious, maybe I’ll even order dessert. The crème brûlée cheesecake here is fantastic.

“Your little gopher business is going well, then?” my mother asks.

It’s the same conversation we’ve had hundreds of times. I tell her—for the hundredth time—that Odds & Errands is doing just swell, thank you, fend off the rest of her questions with the most banal, general answers I can give and make the expected polite inquiries about my father, aunts, uncles and cousins—all doing heaps better than me, of course—until our meals arrive and we eat in silence.

“So,” I say, sneaking the last bite of my burger to Roscoe, who thumps his tail in appreciation. “Was there a reason you summoned me here?”

“I did not summon you.” My mother sets her fork down, leaving half her salad uneaten, and dabs her mouth with her napkin. “I merely thought it would be nice if we spent some time together.”

Right. My mother never does anything without some sort of ulterior motive.

“It’s just that Martin Fletcher—you know Martin, he’s the president of our co-op board—well, he thought you might want to come to one of our tenant meetings,” she continues. “Talk up your services. I know you say you’re doing fine, but some new business couldn’t hurt, right?”

And there it is. My mother the white knight, swooping in to save what she perceives as my pathetic failure of an ass.

“Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to go. Roscoe should have been back home by now.” I push my chair back and stand, unraveling the dog’s leash from the table leg, where I’d tied it to keep him secure.

My mother lowers her napkin. “What about Mr. Fletcher’s offer? I can text you his number so you can set something up.”

“I’ll think about it,” I toss over my shoulder, already halfway down 13th Street.

Spoiler alert: I won’t. Not one little bit.

CHAPTER FOUR

Jake

FOR THE SECOND time this week, I’m standing in the doorway of my apartment, shitting bricks. Only this time I’m inside, not in the hall. And I’m not freaking out because I’m afraid the monster my parents call a dog has wreaked havoc on my apartment. I’m freaking out because, as far as I can tell, he’s not there. He’s nowhere to be seen, and the place is as quiet as Grant’s Tomb. No whining. No tail thumping. No obnoxious, window-rattling canine snores.

Roscoe and I may not be best buddies. On good days, we tolerate each other. But the parental units are inordinately attached to him—a fact I find especially ironic seeing as they refused to get a dog when Brie and I were kids, no matter how much we begged. The thought of telling them their pride and joy has been dognapped or is lost in the big, bad city gives me the willies.

I drop my gym bag on the floor next to the couch and walk through the loft, calling his name. The silence is deafening. Where the hell is he? Sexy pet sitter—and yeah, that’s what I put Ainsley in my phone as—texted hours ago to let me know she was taking him for his morning constitutional. She should have had him back by now.

I pull my cell from my pocket to make sure I haven’t missed another text from her. Nothing. I’m about to call her when the door opens and Roscoe bursts through, dragging Ainsley behind him. She kneels down next to him to take off his leash, obviously unaware of my presence, and I take the opportunity to study her unobserved.

She’s beautifully bedraggled in one of those short, strappy denim one-piece things women seem to love and classic white Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops, her hair half-escaped from its ponytail and her cheeks flushed and shiny with a thin sheen of sweat. My cock surprises me by standing at attention. I adjust the waistband in my thankfully roomy gym shorts, wishing I still had my bag in hand to use as a shield, and fight the sudden, overwhelming, irrational urge to cross the room and kiss the ever-loving shit out of her until we’re both desperate, panting and ready to fuck like oversexed monkeys.

My reaction is like a virtual smack upside the head. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a damn saint. I like women, and they sure as hell seem to like me. But this instant, visceral, almost primal attraction? This burning need to be inside Ainsley, who I’ve known all of fourteen days, to hear her scream my name as I make her come again and again? That’s something entirely new—and more than a little bit unsettling—for me. So I shove it way, way down deep and adjust my shorts again, thanking my lucky stars that the object of my fantasies is preoccupied with the damn dog.

It takes her only a few seconds to free Roscoe. She gives him a pat on the head and shoos him into the living room area, toward the hideous corduroy doggie bed he seems determined not to sleep in, preferring to sprawl his gigantic body across my California king. Then she stands, our eyes meet, and she lets out a cock-teasing little gasp that has me wondering why I’m not following through with my initial instinct and kissing the shit out of her.

“Is this going to be a regular occurrence, you sneaking up on me?” she asks, breathless. One hand flutters to her chest, drawing my attention to the dark shadow of her cleavage. “Because if it is, maybe you could put a bell around your neck or something. Give a girl a little advance warning.”