Page 41 of Dirty Work
I feel like I’m living in a cheesy rom-com. The ones I love to watch but can’t help poking a little fun at, too, with the kind of sappy love story—complete with an embarrassing meet cute, a handsome hero, a playful pup and oodles of witty banter—that you think is fantasy, not fact.
Until it happens to you.
Jake’s eyes lock with mine, and the sincerity in their dark depths makes my heart skip like ten beats. The pull he has on me is hard to put into words. It seems crazy. I met him barely a month ago. But my head can’t deny what my heart’s known almost since the first time I saw him.
I’m falling for this guy. Hard.
“Thanks,” I say, standing on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth.
As a thank-you, it leaves a lot to be desired. Ditching his phone is epic rom-com grand gesture material. It deserves an equally epic response. Definitely something more than a measly “thanks” and a pathetic peck on the kisser.
In a show of solidarity, I fish my phone out, power it off and drop it back in my bag. “There. No interruptions.”
He snakes an arm around me and pulls me flush to him. I can feel every peak and valley of him, every hard edge and smooth ridge.
“You know,” he says, his breath ruffling the hair behind my ear. “We can always forget about the bet and head back upstairs.”
Damn, this man. My body’s gone from zero to take-me-now in less than six seconds. It should be illegal what he does to me.
“But you won,” I remind him for a second time. “Don’t you want to claim your prize?”
“You are the prize, Nightingale.”
The nickname started as a joke, but the way he says it now is like liquid sex, all rich and warm and gooey.
As if his words aren’t enough of an aphrodisiac, his lips are sliding down my neck now, dropping soft, wet kisses all the way to my collarbone. Then they retrace their path, traveling up to my mouth and claiming it in a hot, determined kiss that has me clinging to his shoulders and salivating for more.
When we come up for air, I manage to summon up the willpower to shake my head and push at his chest, creating a sliver of space between us. “You’re not getting out of this that easily. I’m dying to find out where you’re taking me.”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal an elderly woman with an enormous orange tabby cat on a harness. Seriously, the thing must be almost half Roscoe’s size. Which is saying something for a feline. Jake and I share a secret smile and start to pull apart as she steps into the car, the monster cat following obediently beside her.
“Don’t mind us,” she says, a twinkle in her rheumy eyes. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of young love. And Prince Harry here is the soul of discretion.”
“Thanks, Mrs. G.” Jake reaches down to pet Prince Harry, who arches into his hand, no more than immune to his charm than I am. “You too, Harry.”
“Will we see you at the building-wide ice cream social this week?” the older woman asks, looking from him to me and back again. “You can bring your friend.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jake says with a smile that’s as genuine as they come. It’s obvious he has a fondness for his elderly neighbor. And her cat. “I’ve got a little something for Harry. I’ll bring it with me.”
“Ooh,” Mrs. G. squeals. “Is it one of those catnip mice he likes so much? I gave up looking for the last one you brought him. I don’t know what he does with them. I think he swatted it behind the refrigerator.”
Jake puts a finger to his lips. “Shh. We don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
The elevator dings again, signaling that we’ve reached the lobby. Mrs. G. says her goodbyes, and she and Prince Harry take off in the direction of the park.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” I ask Jake as we walk the other way, toward the nearest subway station.
He spreads his arms wide, like Jesus on the freaking cross. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m an open book.”
“If you’re so open, why won’t you tell me where we’re going?”
“Because patience is a virtue. And good things come to those who wait.”
“You sound like a Chinese fortune cookie,” I grumble. With that line of conversation officially at a dead end, I decide to try another tack. “How long have you known Mrs. G.?”
“I met her a couple of months after I moved in. She was struggling with an armful of groceries, and I helped her bring them upstairs to her apartment. Rumor has it her late husband was some kind of mafia boss. She’s got a son, but he’s a big-shot Hollywood producer, so I try to look out for her when I can.”
Work-is-my-life Jake taking time out of his busy schedule to look after a little old lady? I study him out of the corner of one eye as I digest this new piece of information. Every time I think I’ve got him pegged, he changes the game.
