Page 5 of Dirty Work

Aaron frowns. “Since when is that a problem?”

Since our new client found me on all fours on his living room carpet.

I’ve dealt with all kinds of customers without losing my cool, but something about Jake Lawson—all manly and broody and judgey—had run me off the rails. Maybe it was the way he’d made me feel, hot and bothered and defensive as hell at the same time. I cringe inside remembering how rude I’d been to him, shoving the pot of water at him and waltzing out the door. So much for the customer is always right.

I blame Brie. She should have warned me her brother was pantie-meltingly gorgeous. Tall and dark-haired, with piercing russet brown eyes, a strong, square jaw dotted with sexy eleven o’clock stubble, and a build that made my mouth water—perfectly sculpted, like he’d earned his muscles through manual labor and not hours at the gym, even though logic told me it was probably the latter. Just the way I like my men. Well, except for the whole broody, judgey thing.

Then again, Jake is Brie’s brother. She probably doesn’t think of him that way. At least, I hope she doesn’t. So I guess the blame rests solely on me and my overactive hormones.

“Since I forgot to add him to the spreadsheet,” I lie again, crossing my fingers behind my back and keeping my long internal monologue to myself.

“You? Forgot something?” Aaron rushes to my side, feels my forehead with the back of his hand, then turns to Erin. “She’s not running a fever.”

“Maybe not, but she looks pale.” Erin joins him, grabbing my wrist, and pretending to search for my pulse. “I think she needs medical attention. Should we call a doctor?”

“Very funny, Key and Peele. Sit back down and give me a second.”

They take their seats opposite the repurposed five-panel door that serves as my desk as I type, making a few hasty mental calculations while I amend the almighty spreadsheet. Thinking on your feet is an essential skill in the concierge business. Things are always changing, often with little to no notice.

Let’s see... Mr. Perkins is on the Upper West Side, TKTS is in Times Square, which is in Midtown, and Jake’s down in Tribeca...

I snap my fingers. “Got it. I’ll take care of Mr. Perkins’s groceries first, grab the tickets at TKTS, then shoot down to Tribeca to take care of Roscoe.”

With any luck, I’ll be done by noon and on time for my lunch date with Mom in the Meatpacking District. Her treat, natch. The only way you’ll catch me at Fig & Olive is if someone else is paying the tab.

“Who’s Roscoe?” Erin asks. “Our new client?”

“His dog.” I give the new and improved spreadsheet a final once-over before hitting Save. “Or his parents’ dog, to be more accurate.”

“A dog?” Aaron practically screeches. I swear, he could give Brie a run for her money. His picture should be next to the worddramain the dictionary. Well, his and Brie’s. “I love dogs. But I thought you said pets were off limits.”

“That’s right,” Erin chimes in. “You said we were a concierge service, not pet sitters.”

“It’s a favor for a friend.” I don’t bother telling them about the hefty fee we’re getting. If things keep looking up, I’d rather surprise them with a nice Christmas bonus.

“A friend, huh?” Aaron waggles his eyebrows. “Let me guess. Is this friend a male?”

“Maybe a tall, dark and eligible male?” Erin throws in for good measure.

Nope. So not going there with these two. I knew hiring grad students as my part-time labor force was going to bite me in the ass. They’re both way too interested in my love life.

Or lack thereof.

“I think we’re done here.” I close the cover on my laptop. “Unless either of you has actual work to discuss, this meeting is adjourned.”

We agree to regroup back at my place at four and go our separate ways. I catch an uptown 1 train and take care of Mr. Perkins’s grocery shopping without incident—his list isn’t too long, and I’ve got his fridge stocked by ten. I’m not so lucky with TKTS, though. The app tells me the wait at the discount ticket booth is already over an hour and a half. Damn summer tourists. There’s no way Roscoe’s going to wait that long before going out, and I’m sure as hell not risking another accident.

I do a little more of that quick thinking, decide I’ll have to try to kill three birds with one stone, and stick out an arm to hail a cab. Pricier than the subway, especially since I’ve got a monthly pass, but I’m pressed for time, and I figure with what Jake’s paying me I can swing it. Plus, like everything else work-related, I’ll write it off as a business expense.

I slide into the back seat and give the cabbie Jake’s address, simultaneously whipping out my phone so I can shoot my mother a quick text to push our lunch date back to one and let her know we’ll need sidewalk seating. I don’t dare tell her why. She’ll freak if she finds out I’m bringing ad-o-g. Pets were strictly verboten in the Scott household, especially large, hairy ones. Too much fur on the stuffy French Regency-style furniture.

Text sent, I dump my phone back in my bag and lean forward so the cabbie can hear me. “There’s an extra ten spot in it for you if you get me there in under fifteen minutes.”

He does, and there’s a big smile on his face as he drives off. I fish Jake’s key chain out of my bag, trying to remember which key I need first. Is the long one for the building, or the apartment? I get a temporary reprieve from having to figure it out thanks to the Boho-chic chick in a floppy hat, white eyelet dress and cowboy boots who bursts through the door at just the right moment.

I catch the door and slip inside. The doorman gives me the evil eye until I flash Jake’s keys and explain that I’m there to walk Roscoe. Then his suspicion changes to sympathy and he waves me up.

Forty-five minutes, one epic battle to get Roscoe’s leash on, and a harrowing cab ride later—the first three that stopped bailed once they realized how damn big the dog was, and I had to bribe the fourth with the promise of a twenty-dollar tip—and Roscoe and I are in Times Square, an area of the city I usually avoid like the plague. It’s crowded, touristy and as an added disincentive Dale’s office is half a block away. Not that I’m likely to run into him in the throng of Broadway lovers lining up for discount tickets at the TKTS box. Dale is to theater as my mother is to the discount rack at Bergdorf Goodman. A total no-go.