Page 7 of Dirty Work

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

FORTHESECONDtime 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?”