Page 25 of Dirty Work

I try to interrupt their little heart-to-heart before Jake can spill the beans about how we met, but he’s too quick.

“She’s helping me take care of my parents’ dog while they’re on vacation.”

“So you’re the guy who got Ainsley to break her no pets policy.” Erin shoots me a knowing glance.

“You have a no pets policy?” Jake asks.

“Had,” Erin clarifies. “Past tense.”

“I made an exception for a friend,” I insist. “That’s it. No big deal.”

“A friend.” Erin puts air quotes around the last word. “Right. Now I understand why she’s been hiding you.”

“I have not been hiding him.” I haven’t. Not really. Although right now that sounds like a freaking fantastic idea.

“Really?” Erin says, echoing my thoughts. “Then how come you’ve never asked me or Aaron to walk Roscoe?”

Jake cocks his head and squints at me. He’s enjoying this way too much. “That’s a good question.”

One I don’t have a good answer to. So I do what any rational person in my situation would do.

Punt.

I pick up the piñata and start shoving packs of gummies back inside. “We’re almost done here. We just have to finish hanging Willy Whack-It and get rid of the garbage.”

Erin takes the piñata from my hands. “I can handle that. You and Jake should get out of here.”

I glance at the clock above the trendy white stone fireplace. “The bridal party will be arriving soon. I should stay and meet the maid of honor. Make sure everything gets her stamp of approval.”

“What’s not to approve? This is gonna be a kickass penis party.”

Jake waves a hand around the room, and my eyes follow it, landing on penis straws, penis balloons, penis headbands. Yep. These crazy broads are actually going to wear tiny dicks on their heads. And around their necks, too. I know for a fact there’s a package of necklaces with little pink plastic peckers around here somewhere. The place is packed with penises. I don’t think there’s a schlong-shaped favor in the tristate area we haven’t got.

“Jake’s right. You guys have done a great job. I doubt anyone will have any complaints, especially once they’ve had a drink or two or three, but if they do, I’ll deal with them.” Erin sets the box down on a chair and shoos us toward the door. “Go have some fun. You know what fun is, right?”

My eyes practically roll to the back of my head. There’s nothing more infuriating than having your own words used against you, even if the person using them doesn’t know you said the same thing not ten minutes ago.

I sneak a glance at Jake to see if he’s picked up on it. Yep. He’s eating this up, the smug bastard. He winks at Erin and snakes his good arm around my waist, steering me to the door.

“Fun?” His hand sneaks lower, daring to cop a not-so-discrete feel of my left butt cheek. “That’s my middle name. Right, Nightingale?”

CHAPTER TEN

Jake

IT’SAFTERFIVEwhen Erin springs us from the penis party and we walk out of the air-conditioned Soho Grand into the stifling, sticky heat of late afternoon Manhattan in July. I call an Uber Black to take us back to my apartment, figuring I’d rather be comfortably cool and alone with Ainsley in the back of a luxury automobile than have to share her with hundreds of rush hour commuters in a crowded, smelly subway car.

But about two minutes into the ride, I realize that was a huge ass mistake. And not because we’re stuck in traffic on Broadway. I’m in no hurry to get anywhere. And it’s not exactly a hardship being trapped for a little while longer in the back of a BMW 7 Series with the star of all my most recent late-night sex fantasies.

Or it wouldn’t be a hardship, if Ainsley would stop staring out the damn window and talk to me. You’d think she’d never seen Midtown before.

My attempts at conversation have all been met with grunts. And pitying glances in the rearview mirror from our driver, a guy about my age who clearly thinks I’ve got zero game in the romance department. He’s probably plotting how to slip Ainsley his number without me noticing. Like that’s gonna happen.

I sneak a peek at her in my peripheral vision. Ramrod posture? Check. Crossed arms? Check. Pursed lips, locked jaw and hands clenched into fists on her shapely thighs? Check, check and double check. Her body language screams, “Back the hell off.” She’s obviously upset about something. Probably still smarting over what went down with Erin.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not all that thrilled about getting caught with my pants down, either. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Although a few minutes more and who knows what the poor girl would have walked in on.

Instead, here I sit, a BMW’s width away from the woman who was on top of me not half an hour ago, still hard as a goddamn steel pipe, apparently destined never to turn my late-night fantasies into reality. So yeah, I’m frustrated, too.