Page 42 of Dirty Work

I playfully shoulder bump him. Well, my shoulder, his bicep, since he’s so much taller than me. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a nice guy, Jake Lawson?”

“My mother,” he answers easily. “And my fourth-grade teacher, Miss Traylor. She saw me give Annie Pulaski my cherry popsicle when Annie dropped hers. What she didn’t know was that the gesture wasn’t totally altruistic. I was angling for a kiss.”

“So that’s why you’re sucking up to Mrs. G.,” I tease. “Or is it Prince Harry you want to smooch?”

“Very funny.” We’re at the entrance to the Canal Street subway station. Rather than go down the steps that lead to the tracks, he stops and pulls me roughly into his arms. “But there’s only one person I’m interested in kissing right now. And she’s right here.”

As if to prove his point, his lips lock on mine. He tastes like his minty toothpaste, mixed with the quick cup of coffee he downed while we walked Roscoe and raw, masculine need. His strong hands frame my ass, gripping and kneading until I’m moaning into his mouth. This being New York, our PDA goes virtually unnoticed, pedestrians ebbing and flowing around us like we’re rocks in a river.

“Any more questions?” he asks when he’s done turning me into a quivering mess. “Or can we get this party started?”

The subway ride is uneventful. We stand at first because it’s crowded, Jake with one hand on the strap overhead and the other around my waist, steadying me each time the train lurches to a stop. As we go farther into Brooklyn, the car empties out, and we’re able to find seats next to each other.

With each stop, I look questioningly at him, silently asking, “Is this the one? Do we get off here?” He just shakes his head and smiles until we’re almost at the end of the line and it begins to dawn on me.

“We’re going to Coney Island, aren’t we?” I say just as a disembodied voice comes over the loudspeaker to announce it as our last stop.

He’s thrown me for another loop. I love the beautifully, marvelously, gloriously tacky feel of the place once known as America’s playground. The boardwalk. The carnival games. The rides. The arcade. The air thick with the smell of fried fair food.

But I thought Jake’s speed was more sampling cuisines of the world at Time Out Market, or even hunting for treasures at Brooklyn Flea. Not wooden coasters and Whac-a-Mole.

“Beach or amusement park?” I ask, hoping it’s the latter. I’m not wearing a swimsuit, and it’s not like we brought any towels or beach chairs.

“Amusement park.” Jake stands and holds out a hand, pulling me up with him. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Are you kidding?” I hitch my drawstring bag over my shoulder and stand next to him, waiting for the doors to open. “It’s better than okay. It’s awesome. I can’t wait to kick your ass at Skee Ball.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, if I were you,” he says with an overly confident grin. “I happen to be a Skee Ball champion.”

I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “Good. That will make it even more satisfying when I kick your ass.”

The doors slide open, and we head up the stairs into the sunshine and smells of mustard, sauerkraut and beer-battered onion rings. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that we skipped breakfast.

I pull my sunglasses out of my bag and slide them on, searching for the familiar iconic yellow building with the green-and-white-striped awning. “But first, I’m starving. What do you say we stop at Nathan’s for one of their famous hotdogs?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ainsley

“THATTHINGISnot sleeping with us.”

I laugh and plop the giant Day-Glo green inflatable alien in a place of honor in the dead center of the bed. “You’re just mad because I won it instead of you.”

“I’m not mad, I’m repulsed.” Jake grimaces. “That thing is hideous. Couldn’t you have picked something useful, like an iPad? Or a jar opener?”

“He’s useful. Put him in the passenger seat, and you can drive in the high-occupancy vehicle lane during rush hour. And I think he’s kind of cute, in an ugly sort of way.”

“I live in Manhattan. I haven’t owned a car in years. Hell, I don’t even have a driver anymore. I’m fine with Uber, taxis and the subway.” He sits on the foot of the bed—as far as he can possibly get from the alien, I note—and kicks off his Vans, giving the alien a side-eyed glare. “How do you know it’s a he?”

“Lucky guess.”

I toss my bag on the dresser and start to shed my clothes like they’re on fire. It’s been a fun day—we rode every ride and played every arcade and carnival game in Luna Park—but it’s been a long and hot one, too, and I’m in serious need of a shower. With a little encouragement, maybe we can have a repeat of this morning, and I can get Jake to join me and scrub my back.

And my front.

The shirt goes first, then the bra. When I pop the button on my cutoffs and start to lower the zipper, Jake lets out a low growl.

“Are you trying to torture me?”