Page 51 of Dirty Work
Or what if it’s not him that I’m wrong about? What if it’s me? Is it possible I’m the one with my seesaw stuck in one direction? In my quest for balance, have I swung too far to the opposite extreme?
I step back into the sanctuary of my apartment and close the door, my head pounding with the pressure of all the riddles my mother’s left in her wake. I need to solve them. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know just the person to help me.
Dickweed Dale.
A phone call’s out of the question. There’s no way I want to hear that douche canoe’s voice again. Besides, I blocked his number after he called to invite me to his goddamn wedding. To his secretary. I mean, administrative assistant. Like, who the hell does that? Invites their jilted fiancée to their fucking wedding?
But a carefully worded email trying to get to the bottom of our breakup? Was it really all work-related, or was there something else? Did I overcorrect for something that wasn’t a problem—or at least not the real problem—in the first place?
That I can do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jake
“SOWHATDOyou think? It just came on the market and my guess is it’s going to go quick, so if you want it, we’re going to have to act fast.”
I take a look around the latest rental property Alex is showing me. What is this, the tenth? Twentieth? I’ve lost track. At some point, they all start to look the same.
But this one is the most promising space we’ve visited in the three weeks I’ve been in Miami. Lots of square footage to work with. Open floor plan. High ceilings. And a great location, right off the main drag in South Beach.
I can picture a bar running along the wall to my right. Dance floor in the center. DJ at the back. There’s even a raised platform on the left that could easily be used as a stage or roped off for VIP seating, plus three more floors above for whatever else we want. Office space. Private VIP suites. Or maybe a screening room like the one we’re planning for New York.
It’s as close to perfect as we’re going to find. As good as, if not better than, the place we lost out on, if I’m honest. I should be over the moon. But when I answer him, my voice is flat. Emotionless.
“Draw up the papers. I need to run it by my partner, but I can’t imagine he’ll object.”
Half an hour later, I’m back in the air-conditioned bliss of my hotel room with nothing to do but think or watch the highlights of last night’s Yankee game on ESPN. Since the Bombers lost in a blowout that’s too painful to relive, I’m stuck with thinking. Which sucks, because these days, my mind’s got one track.
And it leads to Ainsley.
It’s not a path I want to go down, so I grab one of the local craft brews from the minibar—a decision I know I’ll regret when I get the ridiculously exorbitant bill—and pick up my cell to call Connor.
“What’s the word?” he asks when he answers on the first ring.
“I think I’ve found our new Miami digs.”
“That’s good news.” He pauses, probably to save whatever spreadsheet or tax form he’s working on. “Isn’t it?”
“Sure.” I kick off my shoes, pop the top on the beer and stretch out on the bed. “My guy’s drawing up the paperwork. I’ll have it to you by tomorrow.”
“Then why do you sound like your dog just died?”
The worddognaturally leads to thoughts of Roscoe, which of course brings me back, painfully, to Ainsley. Fuck. Maybe calling Connor wasn’t such a good idea after all.
I swig my beer—a little on the hoppy side, but not bad—and adopt a tone that I hope sounds more I-haven’t-got-a-fucking-care-in-the-world than I’m-sitting-here-all-alone-crying-in-my-beer. “The last I heard, Roscoe’s happy and healthy, unless you count eating an entire roll of toilet paper and then puking it up all over my Timberlands.”
“Heard from who?” he not-so-gently prods. “Your sexy pet sitter?”
Yep. Definitely a mistake calling my former best friend.
“She’s not a pet sitter,” I correct him for the thousandth time. “She’s an executive concierge.”
“I notice you didn’t dispute the sexy part.”
“I’ve got eyes.” And a brain that works. Most of the time.
“Is she still staying at your place?”
