Millionaire nightclub owner Jake Lawson works hard, but executive concierge Ainsley Scott is showing him how to let loose...in the sexiest possible way!

I knew I was in trouble the moment millionaire Jake Lawson walked through the door of his swanky Tribeca loft. The definition of tall, dark and handsome, he’s hired me to take care of his parents’ Irish wolfhound. But one game of strip Scrabble later and we’re taking care of each other all night long...

Starting my concierge business was my way out of the rat race I ran as a lawyer until it cost me my fiancé. And Jake is a full-on workaholic, certain his high-end nightclub will fall apart if he loses focus for a second. We couldn’t be more different. But the chemistry between us is off the charts!

From drag-queen karaoke to movies at Hudson River Park, I’m showing Jake how to lighten up and enjoy everything New York City has to offer. But I can’t help wondering if blowing each other’s minds in bed is enough to make up for our different values. Can Jake step away from his smartphone long enough to give us a chance?

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

REGINA KYLE knew she was destined to be an author when she won a writing contest at age ten with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she writes dry legal briefs. At night, she writes steamy romance with heart and humor. She is a two-time winner of the Booksellers’ Best Award. A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives in Connecticut with her husband, daughter and two melodramatic cats. When she’s not writing, she’s most likely singing, reading, cooking or watching bad reality television.

Dirty Work

Regina Kyle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09952-3

DIRTY WORK

© 2020 Regina Kyle

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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To Jeanne-Marie, my road trip buddy, sommelier, Lindt-truffle supplier and plot partner extraordinaire (the penis party is all yours, babe). Come for the cheap wine, but stay for the good chocolate.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Ainsley

I’VE SEEN A LOT of strange things in my line of work. Manhattan is full of oddballs, and I seem to be a magnet for them. I’ve taken each and every one of their, shall we say, eccentric requests in stride. You know what they say. The customer’s always right. Well, almost always. I do have some hard limits.

And this may be one of them.

I get down on my knees and look my newest prospective client in the eye. The trendy Tribeca loft is big by Manhattan standards, but he seems to dominate the space, his massive frame making the Mad Men–style furniture look like it belongs in a dollhouse. He’s impeccably groomed and sleekly muscled, coiled and ready to pounce like a jungle cat at the slightest sign of weakness.

Honestly, I’m a little afraid of him. He’s more than a tad overwhelming. I’m not sure I can handle that much raw, unadulterated power. I wonder not for the first time what he’s doing here, in this apartment. With his bulk and brawn, he seems more suited to country living than city dwelling. I can’t help feeling he’d be happier somewhere with more room to roam.

“So what do you think, Ainsley? Can you do it?” an uncertain female voice asks from over my shoulder.

Brie Lawson. I’d almost forgotten she’s there, that’s how uncharacteristically rattled I am. In truth, she’s the prospective client, not Roscoe. We met at a spin class in the Village. I made the mistake of telling her what I do for a living, and she insisted I was the only one who could help her.

And Roscoe.

“Please, Ainsley. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t say yes.”

“I don’t know, Brie,” I answer, not taking my eye off Roscoe, who’s been surprisingly quiet throughout this whole ordeal. “This is totally out of my comfort zone.”

“I’ll pay double your usual rate. Triple. Well, Jake will. Lord knows he can afford it.”

That’s right. It isn’t even Brie who’ll be my client if I accept her crazy proposal. It’s her mysterious, heretofore unseen brother who’ll be footing the bill for my services.

The very exorbitant bill.

I make one last head-to-paw assessment of the Irish wolfhound sitting on his haunches in front of me, then get back to my feet with a crisp nod. This may be an exercise in insanity given my spotty history with dogs, especially large ones, but three times my going rate is too damn good to pass up. Odds & Errands—the concierge service I started out of my apartment a little less than a year ago—needs the business. And mama needs those Louboutin striped leather sling-backs she saw in the display window at Saks.

“Deal.”

Brie starts to squee, but I rise, cutting her off with a hand held palm out, Supremes style. “I’ll walk him twice a day. Make sure he’s got food and water. That’s it. No snuggle time. No cleaning up any of his little—or not so little—indoor messes. No hauling fifty-pound bags of dog chow up five flights of stairs.”

“The building has an elevator.”

I arch a brow at her. “Do you want me to take this job or not?”

“I want, I want.” Brie throws her arms around me and I instinctively tense up. Such effusive displays of affection aren’t the norm in my family. Hell, any displays of affection aren’t the norm for the emotionally stunted Scott clan, and I’m still getting used to my new friend’s tendency toward over-the-top exuberance. I make a conscious effort to relax as she continues to sing my praises. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously. I was dreading telling Jake I was dumping Roscoe on him. But he won’t take it half so bad now that you’ll be around to share the burden.”

I don’t like the sound of those words. Share the burden. But it’s too late now. I’ve already given my word, and that’s not something I take lightly. Besides, those Louboutins aren’t going to buy themselves.

The aforementioned burden trots on over and tries to worm his way between us, clearly wanting to get in on the action. I disentangle myself from Brie and take a step back from the pair.

“How did you get stuck with him anyway?” I ask.

She reaches down and takes hold of Roscoe’s collar, keeping him blessedly beside her and away from me. “My parents won a three-month cruise in some raffle fundraiser. They figured since I’ve been staying with Jake while making the audition rounds, we could take care of Roscoe together. I don’t think anyone—least of all me—considered the possibility I’d book something while they were gone. And certainly not something that was going to take me out of town for so long.”

Brie’s practically bursting with excitement, and I’m reminded what brought me here in the first place. I push aside my aversion to PDA—and Roscoe—and step back toward her to give her a quick squeeze. “Have I told you how jealous I am? Six months doing my absolute favorite musical—Les Misérables—in one of my favorite places, sunny San Diego? You’re going to kill it, girl.”

She totally is. Brie may be one of my newest friends—I’ve known her only a few months—but I had the pleasure of catching her semi-autobiographical one-woman show at Studio 54, and she’s damn good. I’ve seen enough Broadway musicals to know she’s got what it takes to make it on the Great White Way. That was one of the few perks of being a junior associate at Dwight, Kearns & Goodwin, attorneys at law. Free theater tickets when the partners didn’t need them to wine, dine and entertain clients. Yankees and Rangers, too, which Dale sure didn’t seem to mind.

No. I’m not going to think about Dale. And I’m not going to think about DK&G. I’ve left all that in the rearview mirror, on the side of the highway covered in road dust.

Brie blushes and returns the squeeze, pulling me back to the present. “Thanks, but I’m only in the ensemble. If it’s anything like either of the Broadway productions, the lighting will be so subdued I’ll be in shadow the whole time.”

“You know what they say.” I shake my finger at her. “There are no small parts...”

“Only small actors,” Brie finishes, and we bump fists. That much PDA I can deal with. Although I’m not sure fist-bumping in front of a dog counts as public.

She lets go of Roscoe’s collar and gives his head a pat, and he flops down onto the floor like a drag queen doing a death drop. He’s way more chill than I expected. Maybe not all big dogs are high maintenance. I’m going to have to read up on the breed. Research is key to everything we do at Odds & Errands. Like I always tell my army of two—Aaron and Erin, and yes, I really did hire two people with pretty much the same name, albeit different spellings and different sexes—preparation is more than half the battle.

“So.” Brie rocks back and forth on the soles of her Vans pink glitter high-tops. “What happens now? Is this a handshake agreement or is there some sort of paperwork we have to sign?”

This is the part I hate. The business part. At least with friends. It’s awkward and icky and it’s why I tend to shy away from mixing work with my personal life. But Brie seemed so desperate when she asked—no, begged—me to bail her out. She’d had a mini-freak-out worrying how her brother would react when she told him she was leaving him with the responsibility of caring for a dog the size of a small pony. Made him seem like a borderline tyrant.

Unfortunately, since the tyrant is the one paying my tab, he’s the one I need to be dealing with.

“There’s paperwork, but since I’m on your brother’s dime, he’s the one who has to sign.”

“Well...” Brie rocks faster, twisting the hem of her Florence and the Machine T-shirt in her fingers. “That might be a problem.”

Great. Not five minutes in, and already a wrinkle in this half-baked plan.

I plop myself down on a retro-chic chair that’s more comfortable than it looks, figuring this has the potential to be a long, drawn-out discussion. Roscoe takes this as an invitation to join me, lumbering over and sprawling across my feet. Christ, he’s heavy. He must weigh close to two hundred pounds. Still, I humor him, scratching behind his ears, which earns me a tail thump.

“How so? You said your brother’s a grade-A workaholic who doesn’t have time to deal with a dog on his own, right? And money’s not an issue for him.”

Brie perches on the arm of an equally uncomfortable looking sofa. “Yes and yes, but he’s in South Beach scouting a location for a new club. He doesn’t get home until late tomorrow night, and I have to be on a plane to California first thing in the morning.”

I frown. This definitely throws a wrench into the works. “I thought your contract didn’t begin for another couple of weeks.”

“The girl I’m replacing is leaving earlier than expected. They want me there as soon as possible.”

She at least has the good graces to look apologetic.

“So your brother’s just going to...what? Walk in and find me here with his dog?” Brie starts to correct me, but I whip out my “Stop! In the name of love” hand gesture again and the words get stuck in her throat. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Your parents’ dog.”

“Of course not. I’ll call him and explain everything before I go. And it if helps, I can take care of the paperwork. I’m an authorized user on his credit card in case of emergencies.”

“I’m not sure he’ll see this as an emergency.”

Brie rolls her eyes dramatically. Everything she does is dramatic. She’s what Erin would call extra. Part and parcel of being an actress, I suppose. I admit, it was a bit much at first, but now that I’m used to it, it’s more entertaining than exhausting.

“Trust me, if the alternative is him scooping dog poop in Hudson River Park, he’ll think it’s an emergency.”

I’m not entirely convinced, but Brie does her best impression of a damsel in distress, her amber eyes going wide as dinner plates and her full lower lip jutting out in a pathetic pout, and I cave.

Sucker.

“Okay.”

Stepping over Roscoe, I make my way to the kitchen area of the open floor plan, where I left my Kate Spade tote, one of the few holdovers from my DK&G days. Fortunately, I always keep a folder in there with a few blank copies of the standard Odds & Errands contract. When you’re in business, especially a business like mine, everyone you meet is a prospective customer.

I pull out a blank contract and a pen, make a couple of quick changes to the standard terms to reflect the specific services and higher rate we agreed on, then slide pen and paper across the mammoth marble-topped kitchen island to Brie. “Read it, print your name and credit card information in the spaces provided and sign on the line marked ‘client.’”

She grabs her ever-present messenger bag, whips out a credit card and fills out the form, signing her name with a flourish that’s as extra as she is. Then she pushes the paper back toward me. I tuck it safely in my tote and hold out my hand. “Pen?”

I hate asking, but I’ve lost so many it’s become a running joke with my employees. I’m almost positive Aaron and Erin have some kind of bet going. The loser probably has to buy the winner Starbucks for a week.

“Oops.” She hands it over.

“Thanks.” I drop it into my bag. “And I’ll need a key. Do you have a spare?”

“Jake keeps one in here somewhere.” She rummages through drawers until she produces a leather key chain with a pair of shiny silver keys dangling from it. She beams, holding it up like she’s found the holy grail. “The long one’s for the entrance to the building, and the short one’s for this apartment. Heads up.”

She tosses it to me, and I make a sweet one-handed catch. Ten years of tae kwon do as a kid, and I still haven’t lost my lightning-fast reflexes. I add the key chain to the growing collection in my tote, making a mental note to tag it later so I remember whose apartment it goes to. “That should do it.”

I give her a brief, semi-awkward parting hug. “Have a great time in San Diego. Work hard. Play hard. And don’t forget to slay.”

She laughs and hugs me back. “I’ll do my best.”

I start for the door, then remember one more thing and turn back to her. “Oh, I should probably have your brother’s cell number, since you’ll be like three thousand miles away.”

She nods. “I’ll text it to you.”

“Great.” I open the door, step through, then turn back one last time.

“But if this blows up in our faces, I’m totally throwing you under the bus.”

CHAPTER TWO
Jake

NORMALLY, I LIKE coming home after a too-long business trip. Sleeping in my own bed. Never running out of hot water in the shower. Binge watching the latest Marvel series on Netflix. My Tribeca loft was one of the first things I bought when Top Shelf started raking in the dough, and I spent a small fortune—or what seemed like a small fortunate at the time—making it the ultimate man cave, a place where I could relax, unwind and escape from the pressures of owning Manhattan’s trendiest nightclub with my best friend and business partner, Connor Dow.

So why the hell am I standing at my door, key in hand, afraid to go in?

Brie, that’s why.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m hugely proud of my baby sis for going after her dream and grabbing it with both hands. When she texted to tell me the news about her new gig, I let out a war whoop in the middle of a tense negotiation. And when I talked to her later, the excitement in her voice put a shit-eating grin on my face. It’s just that it couldn’t have come at a worse time.

I’m in the middle of trying to find the perfect spot for our new club in Miami. We’re looking at doing some substantial renovations in New York, expanding our square footage so we can add another VIP section and a first-run screening room for major motion pictures and live-streamed concerts. All of which requires us to secure some serious financing. The last thing I need is to be responsible for taking care of the giant, hairy, slobbering beast my parents think passes for a dog. I was counting on my sister and her way more flexible schedule to do the lion’s share of the Roscoe-related duties while they were on their cruise.

Odds are he’s destroyed my loft by now. By my calculations, he’s been alone for like eight to ten hours straight, depending on when this pet sitter person Brie hired was there last. More than enough time for him to have shredded my couch, peed on my bed and chewed my cross trainers to shreds.

I steel myself for whatever I might find inside and insert the key in the lock. Might as well face the music sooner rather than later. What damage has been done is done, and postponing the inevitable will only make it worse.

The lock clicks, and I push the door open, wheeling my carry-on in behind me. At first glance, nothing seems out of place. The couch is still in one piece. My cross trainers are intact, in their usual spot on the shoe rack by the front door. I can’t see my bed, but Roscoe’s lounging like the King of fucking Siam in front of the gas fireplace, snoring softly, so my best guess is that’s undisturbed, too.

Then I see her.

She’s on her hands and knees in the middle of the hand-knotted Persian area rug my decorator insisted was the perfect piece to “tie the room together,” scrubbing furiously and muttering something under her breath. I catch the words “damn dog,” “I swear to God,” “kill Brie” and “shouldn’t be doing this.”

But it’s not her words that have my cock doing a little happy dance. It’s the swaying of her perfect ass in those figure-hugging jeans as she continues to scrub away, blissfully unaware I’m watching her. Either she’s a hot burglar with a cleaning fetish or she’s Brie’s friend the dog walker.

Obviously, I’m hoping for the latter.

I clear my throat to let her know I’m there, and she jumps, almost spilling the pot of soapy water next to her. She wheels around on her knees, blue-gray eyes blazing.

“Jesus Christ.” She throws the sponge into the soapy water, sending up a spray of suds that float to the carpet, and stands, hands on her shapely hips. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to sneak up on someone like that?”

Roscoe lifts his head, surveys the situation, lets out a loud doggie yawn and promptly goes back to sleep. Good move, staying out of the fray. Maybe there’s hope for him after all.

“In my defense, this is my apartment. And I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here this late.” My flight was delayed, and it was almost eleven by the time we landed. It must be after midnight now. I set my messenger bag down and stick out my hand. “Jake Lawson. I assume you’re the pet sitter my sister hired to help with Roscoe.”

“Ainsley Scott, executive concierge and owner of Odds & Errands,” she says, ignoring my hand. “I don’t usually deal with dogs. I’m doing this as a favor to Brie.”

I pretend she didn’t just diss me and casually shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “And for a pretty hefty fee, so she tells me.”

She shrugs. “Fair compensation if you ask me. Plus, from the looks of this place, you’re not exactly hurting for money.”

I fold my arms across my chest and look down at her. The top of her head comes up to my chin, putting her at about five-two in her ballet flats. My mind quickly calculates how we’d fit together in bed, in the shower, against the wall. Complex calculations are more Connor’s thing, but this kind of assessment I can more than handle. It doesn’t take an actuary to figure out how fucking good it would be with her, wherever, whenever, however.

“So the richer the customer, the more you gouge him?” I ask. “Doesn’t sound like a smart business model.”

She glares at me like she can read my dirty thoughts. Which is impossible, of course. But even if she were the Long Island Medium, I’m not going to feel guilty. Any red-blooded male who found her in the middle of his living room on her hands and knees, her J.Lo booty undulating like she’s starring in a hip-hop video, would be thinking the same damn thing.

“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.”

“Are you saying you want to collar me?” I quirk a brow at her, unable to pass up the opening she’s unwittingly given me. “I never would have guessed you’re into that kind of stuff, but I’m game if you are.”

She rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised you went there?”

She spins on her heel to go hang Roscoe’s leash on the hook by the door where, until he showed up, I kept my keys. Her hair swirls around her face as she turns, and I catch a whiff of her. Even hot and slightly sweaty from being dragged around midsummer Manhattan by the quadruped from hell, she smells fucking fantastic, like sunshine and strawberries, with a dash of vanilla. The urge to lean in and inhale—or devour—her is strong, but I marshal all my powers of resistance and retreat behind the kitchen island, hoping a three-hundred-pound slab of marble between us will be enough to keep my hands to myself and my dick in my pants.

“Um, because I’m a guy?” I yank open the stainless steel sub-zero fridge and pull out a Gatorade. Cool Blue, my favorite. I crack it open, take a long swig, then catch Ainsley’s eye. My mouth engages before my brain, making me instantly regret what comes out of it next.

“Want one?”

It’s official. I’m a fucking moron. I’m supposed to be hustling this girl out of my apartment, not inviting her to stay for goddamn tea and crumpets. Or electrolytes. I mentally cross my fingers, hoping she’s got some superimportant engagement to run off to. Like getting her nails done. Or watching paint dry.

She pauses, then shrugs, pulls out a stool and takes a seat at the island, resting her forearms on the Calacatta marble my designer had flown in from Italy at a cost of I-don’t-want-to-know. “Why not?”

Fucking A.

I grab another Gatorade out of the fridge and slide it across the counter to her. “I hope blue’s okay. It’s all I’ve got.”

Another shrug as she twists the cap off. “I’m not picky.”

“Where were you?” I ask, finally getting around to the question that’s been nagging me since I opened my door and found my apartment dogless. “I thought you took Roscoe out hours ago.”

I sneak a glance toward the living room and see the dog in question occupying most of my designer leather sofa. Not the doggie bed, but at least it’s better than my California king. He’s out cold, his head lolled back and his eyes closed. Wherever Ainsley took him, she sure ran him ragged. I should probably be thanking her for wearing him out, not giving her the third degree.

“I did.” She tips her head back to take a sip, and I’m riveted by the curve of her lips and the long line of her throat as she drinks. Fuck, I’m turning into some sort of pervert, getting off on the simple but suddenly strangely seductive act of a woman swallowing. Fortunately for me, the sip is a quick one. Unfortunately, her next action—licking her lips—is no less sexually arousing. “My schedule was jam-packed this morning, so I took him along with me on a few errands. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You took him along with you?” I repeat like a robot. My brain seems to have short-circuited, stuck on the image of her downing that Gatorade.

“Yeah. He was a big hit with the crowd at TKTS. My mother was less enthusiastic, but that was fun, too.”

I don’t want to dig into what’s obviously a less than perfect relationship with her mom, so I opt for the next worst thing—guilt tripping her. “Next time shoot me a text and let me know if you’re going to have him out that long. I was about to call 9-1-1.”

Her face falls. “Seriously?”

“Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little.” I lean against the counter and swig my Gatorade. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned. My parents would kill me if anything happened to Roscoe. I’m convinced they like him better than me.”

“I’m sorry.” She sets her drink down. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Brie says you work pretty much 24/7.”

So she’s been talking to Brie about me. Interesting. I throw caution to the wind and take the stool next to her, sitting so close we’re practically touching from shoulder to thigh, her strawberry vanilla scent threatening to pull me in and drag me under. “Really? What other lies has my beloved big-mouthed little sister been spreading about me?”

Her breath hitches ever so slightly and her nipples look like they could poke holes through her romper, living proof that I’m not the only one feeling this crazy chemistry between us. When she speaks, her voice is a notch lower, huskier than before, confirming my not-so-scientific hypothesis. “You’re saying you don’t work all the time?”

“I work hard.” I lean in suggestively. “But I like to play hard, too. Did Brie tell you that?”

“Not exactly.” Ainsley wraps her fingers around the neck of her Gatorade bottle, which, naturally, has me picturing them fisting my semi-erect cock. “Just that on the rare occasions when you’re not working, you like to play the field. I think she was trying to warn me away from you.”

I’ll have to remember to kill my sister when she gets back from the left coast. But right now I’ve got more pressing concerns. Like my dick pressing against my boxer briefs.

“Did it work?”

She lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a deliberate, slow sip, almost as if she’s stalling for time, not sure whether she wants to continue our verbal foreplay. Because make no mistake, that’s what this is. And both of us know it.

“Did what work?” she asks finally, setting the bottle down.

“Her warning.”

With only inches between us, I find myself noticing new, intriguing details about her. The spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The gold flecks in her blue-gray eyes. The silvery glint of a stud in her tongue. And here I thought she couldn’t be sexier. Just the thought of her giving me head, that little silver ball flicking against my shaft... Damn. It’s almost enough to make me shoot my load.

She lifts her chin defiantly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Completely tossing what little good sense I have left into the goddamn trash can, I reach out and trace her lower lip with my thumb. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her lips part, giving me another glimpse of that sexy stud. The need to kiss her, to suck her tongue into my greedy mouth and play with that naughty piercing, is overpowering. I don’t even try to fight it this time, lowering my head to hers.

“What are you doing?” Her words come out on a whisper, her warm breath dancing across my thumb.

“Kissing you.” I slide my hand to the back of her head, anchoring it in place. “Unless you tell me to stop.”

“I should.”

Her ponytail is a distant memory now, and my fingers mesh into the silky strands of her free-flowing hair. “Give me one good reason.”

“Roscoe.”

“Sound asleep.”

“Your sister.”

“Thousands of miles away.” My gaze drops to her parted lips, plump and pink and practically begging for me to make good on my promise. That fucking stud provokes and entices me, making my already stiff cock impossibly harder. If she walks away from me now, I’m going to have to take the world’s longest, coldest shower just to be able to walk straight. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

A deep blush colors her cheeks and her eyes darken to a midnight blue. She puts a manicured hand to my chest, freezing my breath in my lungs. “You haven’t begun to see my best.”

“Show me,” I demand when I’m able to breathe again.

She hesitates, then leans in, brushing her mouth over mine in a move that’s more tease than kiss. But I’m not letting her get away that easy. Now that I’ve got her where I want her, I want more than a taste. I want that pierced tongue tangling with mine. I want her teeth nipping at my lips. I want her arms around me, her chest smashed against mine, her fingernails digging into my back.

Like that pain in the ass chick in Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory, I want it all. And I want it now.

I bury my fingers deeper in her hair and stand, moving so fast I kick my stool over. It lands with a thud on the hand-scraped hardwood floor. Roscoe stirs but thank fuck doesn’t wake from his sleep of the dead. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m not getting cockblocked by a damn dog.

“You call that a kiss?” I ask, wedging my leg between hers. “This is a kiss.”

I lower my head and slant my lips over hers. The kiss starts as a slow burn. I tease her with soft nips and light licks, stoking the fire, building up to the inferno I know is only moments away because there’s no way I’m going to last longer than that without losing control.

She moans into my mouth and wraps her arms around me, grinding against my thigh. Fuck that’s hot, the way she takes what she wants without asking, without apology. That’s all the license I need to take my foot off the brakes and go all in, kissing her harder, deeper. She tastes icy cool and raspberry sweet from the Gatorade, and her soft curves fit perfectly to my harder edges. I let my free hand roam up those curves to her breast, and she moans again as I find her nipple through the thin fabric of her romper and roll it between my thumb and forefinger.

I break off the kiss but only to slide my mouth down her neck, leaving a hot, wet trail to the hollow of her throat. I’d like to explore even lower, to discover if she’s a basic bra or lacy lingerie kind of girl. Unfortunately, skilled as I am in the art of getting a woman out of her clothes, I can’t for the life of me figure out the thingamajig she’s wearing. There’s a row of buttons down the front, but when I try to undo the top one it doesn’t budge.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I groan. I try the next button. No dice. I’m ready to rip the fuckers off. “These goddamn buttons are driving me crazy.”

“They’re for decoration only,” she pants, arching into me. “There’s a zipper. In back.”

I reach around her, find the tab, and inch it down, my fingers grazing her bare skin on the journey. A line of goose bumps sprouts in their wake and I get a thrill knowing I did that to her, that she’s as into this as I am. I push the straps off her shoulders and down her arms, and the torture device drops to her waist, leaving her in only a pretty pink bra that barely contains her pale, perfect breasts.

Lacy lingerie. Score.

“Please.” Her slow grind picks up steam and her eyes drift shut. Her arms band around me like a vice, my fantasy about her nails digging into me becoming reality. She’s hot and wet against my thigh even through a layer of denim, and my sexual Spidey sense tells me she’s seconds from coming.

“Fuck, yeah. That’s it, baby,” I murmur against her neck, encouraging her. I tweak one nipple through the lace of her bra, and she sucks in a sharp breath. “Let go.”

A few more hip rolls and she does, throwing her head back and calling out my name. She continues to spasm for a few seconds until her arms loosen their iron grip on my midsection and she collapses against me, spent.

I pull the edge of one bra cup down and free her breast from its frilly prison, hopeful she’s up for another round where we both get off. Those hopes die a quick and painful death when an bone-rattling thump from the living room startles us. Because I’m the guy with the worst luck in the five boroughs, Roscoe, back from doggie dreamland, has chosen that exact moment to fall off the couch. He lifts his head and lets out a low, mournful howl that pierces my very soul.

Shit. This has the potential to be almost as bad as if the beast had been dognapped. My parents are going to flip out if their precious baby has a boo-boo.

“Don’t move.” I peel her arms from around my waist and step back, planting a hard, fast kiss on her bee-stung lips. “He’s probably fine, but I should at least check on him. I’ll be right back.”

I sprint to Roscoe’s side, and the howling stops as I do a quick head-to-tail exam. I’m no vet, but nothing feels broken. My diagnosis is confirmed when the big drama queen gets effortlessly to his feet and trots off toward my bedroom, presumably to take up residence on my bed.

“See?” I stand, wiping my hands on my shorts. “No harm, no foul. Now how about we pick up where we left off?”

But when I turn back to Ainsley, expecting to find her half-dressed and ready for more, my door swings shut with a hollow, ominous click, and she’s gone. I tunnel my hands through my hair and glare in the direction of my bedroom, swearing under my breath.

Fucking dog managed to cockblock me after all.

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