NORMALLY, I LIKE coming home after a too-long business trip. Sleeping in my own bed. Never running out of hot water in the shower. Binge watching the latest Marvel series on Netflix. My Tribeca loft was one of the first things I bought when Top Shelf started raking in the dough, and I spent a small fortune—or what seemed like a small fortunate at the time—making it the ultimate man cave, a place where I could relax, unwind and escape from the pressures of owning Manhattan’s trendiest nightclub with my best friend and business partner, Connor Dow.
So why the hell am I standing at my door, key in hand, afraid to go in?
Brie, that’s why.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m hugely proud of my baby sis for going after her dream and grabbing it with both hands. When she texted to tell me the news about her new gig, I let out a war whoop in the middle of a tense negotiation. And when I talked to her later, the excitement in her voice put a shit-eating grin on my face. It’s just that it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
I’m in the middle of trying to find the perfect spot for our new club in Miami. We’re looking at doing some substantial renovations in New York, expanding our square footage so we can add another VIP section and a first-run screening room for major motion pictures and live-streamed concerts. All of which requires us to secure some serious financing. The last thing I need is to be responsible for taking care of the giant, hairy, slobbering beast my parents think passes for a dog. I was counting on my sister and her way more flexible schedule to do the lion’s share of the Roscoe-related duties while they were on their cruise.
Odds are he’s destroyed my loft by now. By my calculations, he’s been alone for like eight to ten hours straight, depending on when this pet sitter person Brie hired was there last. More than enough time for him to have shredded my couch, peed on my bed and chewed my cross trainers to shreds.
I steel myself for whatever I might find inside and insert the key in the lock. Might as well face the music sooner rather than later. What damage has been done is done, and postponing the inevitable will only make it worse.
The lock clicks, and I push the door open, wheeling my carry-on in behind me. At first glance, nothing seems out of place. The couch is still in one piece. My cross trainers are intact, in their usual spot on the shoe rack by the front door. I can’t see my bed, but Roscoe’s lounging like the King of fucking Siam in front of the gas fireplace, snoring softly, so my best guess is that’s undisturbed, too.
Then I see her.
She’s on her hands and knees in the middle of the hand-knotted Persian area rug my decorator insisted was the perfect piece to “tie the room together,” scrubbing furiously and muttering something under her breath. I catch the words “damn dog,” “I swear to God,” “kill Brie” and “shouldn’t be doing this.”
But it’s not her words that have my cock doing a little happy dance. It’s the swaying of her perfect ass in those figure-hugging jeans as she continues to scrub away, blissfully unaware I’m watching her. Either she’s a hot burglar with a cleaning fetish or she’s Brie’s friend the dog walker.
Obviously, I’m hoping for the latter.
I clear my throat to let her know I’m there, and she jumps, almost spilling the pot of soapy water next to her. She wheels around on her knees, blue-gray eyes blazing.
“Jesus Christ.” She throws the sponge into the soapy water, sending up a spray of suds that float to the carpet, and stands, hands on her shapely hips. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to sneak up on someone like that?”
Roscoe lifts his head, surveys the situation, lets out a loud doggie yawn and promptly goes back to sleep. Good move, staying out of the fray. Maybe there’s hope for him after all.
“In my defense, this is my apartment. And I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here this late.” My flight was delayed, and it was almost eleven by the time we landed. It must be after midnight now. I set my messenger bag down and stick out my hand. “Jake Lawson. I assume you’re the pet sitter my sister hired to help with Roscoe.”
“Ainsley Scott, executive concierge and owner of Odds & Errands,” she says, ignoring my hand. “I don’t usually deal with dogs. I’m doing this as a favor to Brie.”
I pretend she didn’t just diss me and casually shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “And for a pretty hefty fee, so she tells me.”
She shrugs. “Fair compensation if you ask me. Plus, from the looks of this place, you’re not exactly hurting for money.”
I fold my arms across my chest and look down at her. The top of her head comes up to my chin, putting her at about five-two in her ballet flats. My mind quickly calculates how we’d fit together in bed, in the shower, against the wall. Complex calculations are more Connor’s thing, but this kind of assessment I can more than handle. It doesn’t take an actuary to figure out how fucking good it would be with her, wherever, whenever, however.
“So the richer the customer, the more you gouge him?” I ask. “Doesn’t sound like a smart business model.”
She glares at me like she can read my dirty thoughts. Which is impossible, of course. But even if she were the Long Island Medium, I’m not going to feel guilty. Any red-blooded male who found her in the middle of his living room on her hands and knees, her J.Lo booty undulating like she’s starring in a hip-hop video, would be thinking the same damn thing.
“I don’t gouge my customers, Mr. Lawson,” she says all stiff and formal, and fuck if that doesn’t turn me on even more. My filthy mind goes down a dom/sub wormhole, and I’m not sure which fantasy is hotter, her standing over me in leather and latex or me with her blindfolded and bound, at my mercy. It takes me a second to realize she’s still talking. “I’m good at what I do. I’m prompt, reliable and discrete when called for. My clients appreciate what I have to offer, and they’re willing to pay top dollar for it.”
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.