Page 26 of Dirty Work

But I get the feeling Ainsley’s more mad at me than the situation, and I don’t have a freaking clue why. I may be too stupid to figure out what I’ve done to piss her off, but I’m not stupid enough to get into it with her while Mr. I’ve-Got-More-Game-Than-You listens in on us from the front seat. So I bite my tongue until we’re safely alone inside my apartment, out of earshot of any potential eavesdroppers.

Unfortunately, the second the door clicks shut behind us Ainsley’s clipping Roscoe’s leash on, muttering something about taking him for a quick walk to do his business. When they return a few minutes later, things aren’t any less strained, and she disappears into what will be her bedroom for the foreseeable future to “settle in.”

Even more frustrated than before, I head to the fridge and crack open a double IPA from my favorite Brooklyn brewery, which takes longer than usual with my dominant arm in a sling. After a few restorative slugs, I trade the beer for my cell phone and call the guy who’s been my wingman since puberty hit and we discovered girls were good for more than just teasing.

“How’s the convalescent?” Connor asks, picking up on the first ring.

“Convalescing.” I collapse onto one of the stools at my kitchen island and stare longingly at my beer. Having one working arm sucks donkey balls.

“I hear you’ve got a house guest.” His smirk is almost audible.

“My sister has a big mouth. You two must be beside yourselves. You got your way. You wanted someone to stay with me, and my dog walker—” executive concierge, I mentally correct myself “—is moving into the spare room as we speak.”

“Excuse me while I play the world’s smallest violin for your pity party,” Connor scoffs. “I was thinking more along the lines of Nurse Ratched. Yet somehow you manage to convince your superhot pet sitter to be your personal Clara Barton.”

“Florence Nightingale,” I mutter. “And how do you know my pet sitter is hot?”

“I saw her on the monitors at the club, remember? Or are all those painkillers they gave you messing with your head?”

“Very funny. You know I hate that shit.”

“So what’s the problem? The legendary Jake Lawson charm not working on this one?”

“Who says I’m trying to charm her?” I’m glad we’re not FaceTiming. One look at my guilty expression, and Connor would know I’m lying my ass off. I’ve never been able to hide anything from him. It’s why I stopped playing poker with him.

“I saw the way you were stalking her on the security monitors. And if the rumors flying around this place are true, you hurt your shoulder riding to her rescue. If you’re not trying to tap that, then I’m the king of England.”

Damn. He’s good. Even across town, I can’t bullshit my best friend.

“England doesn’t have a king,” I say, ignoring the elephant in the room. “Queen Elizabeth’s reigned for like a million years.”

“Sixty-seven, if you want to get technical, but that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point, exactly?”

“The point,” Connor says with an exasperated sigh, “is that the woman you’re jonesing for is unpacking her unmentionables in your spare room. And you’re wasting time on the phone with me.”

“She’s pissed off at me,” I admit, giving up the pretense that I don’t want Ainsley to tend to more than my injured arm. “I’m giving her some space.”

“What if she doesn’t need space? What if what she needs is for you to show her you’re sorry.”

I crane my neck so I can see the door to Ainsley’s bedroom. Still closed. I lower my voice anyway, to be on the safe side. “How can I show her I’m sorry if I don’t even know what I’m sorry for?”

“Did you dislocate your brain along with your shoulder?” Connor asks. “If the apology’s good enough, she won’t care whether you actually understand what put you in the doghouse.”

I’ve got my doubts about his theory, but seeing as I don’t have any better ideas, I decide to go along with it for now. “How do I make sure it’s good enough?”

“Actions speak louder than words. You need some sort of grand apologetic gesture.”

“Like what?”

“Haven’t you ever watched any rom-coms?”

I grimace. “Not if I can help it.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Connor speaks, and when he does, his tone is incredulous. “Not evenPretty Woman? OrSleepless in Seattle? OrBridget Jones’s Diary?”

“Dude, you’re scaring me. Name one more movie, and I’m gonna have to ask you to turn in your man card.”