Page 47 of Dirty Work

“A mistake that cost me the Miami deal.”

She flinches like I’ve slapped her. “So I was right. You do think it was a mistake.”

Shit.I’m screwing things up. Again.

I take two deep breaths to try to collect my thoughts, but it doesn’t help. This morning has gone completely off the rails. I’m supposed to be feeding her goddamn breakfast, not fighting with her.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“Did you not hear me?” I slam my hand down on the marble so hard my fingers ache. So much for collecting myself. The noise makes Roscoe raise his head and whine, but I ignore him. I’ve got enough problems. I don’t have time for his shit right now. “The Miami deal is dead.”

“I get that you’re disappointed—”

“Disappointed doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“There will be another opportunity, Jake.” She moves in closer, reaching out a tentative hand to touch my shoulder. “There’s always another opportunity. What there won’t be is another me.”

I hear her, but I don’t. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the anger, the frustration boiling up inside me. It drowns out everything else. Hope. Reason.

Even her.

I shake her hand off. “I had people counting on me, Ainsley. And I instead of doing what I was supposed to be doing—my goddamn job—I was off playing carnival games and screwing the dog walker.”

She flinches again, my words striking another, deeper blow. I’ve gone too far, and I know it. But some stupid, inexplicable force is preventing me from backing down.

She draws herself up to her full five feet something, fortifying herself, like she’s preparing for battle.

“Executive concierge,” she corrects me, her words clipped and brittle.

My phone dings. It’s a text from my secretary. She has me booked on a flight leaving JFK in a few hours.

I stand abruptly and let out a long breath. “I can’t do this now. I have to catch a plane to Miami. We can settle this later.”

Maybe by then I’ll be able to get my head out of my ass and my foot out of my mouth. But Ainsley’s got other ideas.

“I think we settled it already.” She grabs her drawstring bag from the floor by the door, where she dropped it last night in our haste to get to the bedroom.

Christ, that seems like a lifetime ago now.

“I’ll be back to get the rest of my stuff later,” she says, not bothering to hide the little catch in her voice. “When you’re not here. And don’t worry. Odds & Errands will take care of Roscoe while you’re gone. For an additional fee, of course.”

She’s out the door before I can respond, and I’m left standing in my boxers, watching my parents’ annoying, freakishly large dog lick his balls and trying to figure out how my entire life went to shit before breakfast.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ainsley

“EARTHTOAINSLEY.”Erin reaches across the desk and taps my head with the eraser end of her pencil. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I am,” I lie. “You were saying something about the Bartons’ grocery order.”

“That was so five minutes ago,” Aaron says with an impressive eye roll. “We’ve moved on to Mrs. Vincent and her Mercedes. Which I still don’t want to drive.”

I tap my keyboard, and a tick appears in the appropriate box of my trusty computerized spreadsheet. “Noted.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Erin sits back and studies me from across my desk with a worried frown. “You haven’t been yourself since—”