Page 4 of Dirty Work

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,SOERIN,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.