Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,32

exasperated sigh, “is that the woman you’re jonesing for is unpacking her unmentionables in your spare room. And you’re wasting time on the phone with me.”

“She’s pissed off at me,” I admit, giving up the pretense that I don’t want Ainsley to tend to more than my injured arm. “I’m giving her some space.”

“What if she doesn’t need space? What if what she needs is for you to show her you’re sorry.”

I crane my neck so I can see the door to Ainsley’s bedroom. Still closed. I lower my voice anyway, to be on the safe side. “How can I show her I’m sorry if I don’t even know what I’m sorry for?”

“Did you dislocate your brain along with your shoulder?” Connor asks. “If the apology’s good enough, she won’t care whether you actually understand what put you in the doghouse.”

I’ve got my doubts about his theory, but seeing as I don’t have any better ideas, I decide to go along with it for now. “How do I make sure it’s good enough?”

“Actions speak louder than words. You need some sort of grand apologetic gesture.”

“Like what?”

“Haven’t you ever watched any rom-coms?”

I grimace. “Not if I can help it.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Connor speaks, and when he does, his tone is incredulous. “Not even Pretty Woman? Or Sleepless in Seattle? Or Bridget Jones’s Diary?”

“Dude, you’re scaring me. Name one more movie, and I’m gonna have to ask you to turn in your man card.”

“Be that way. But don’t blame me when you crash and burn with your dog walker.”

“Executive concierge,” I correct him.

We sign off, but I can’t stop thinking about our conversation. Maybe Connor’s right. Maybe I need a grand gesture to win my way back into Ainsley’s good graces.

But what?

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that it’s been hours since lunch. A lunch I hardly ate. I’ll bet Ainsley’s hungry, too. And the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach, so...

I scroll through my contacts until I find the number for my favorite Asian fusion place. I’ve got no clue what she likes, so I order a little bit of everything—Thai, Chinese, Japanese. I even throw in some Korean barbecue for good measure. Then I break out my rarely used dinnerware, set the dining room table—also almost never used—light a couple of candles my sister must have left behind to complete the picture and wait for the doorman to ring and tell me the food’s here.

I’m sorting through takeout cartons—opening each one, checking the contents, sticking in serving spoons—when Ainsley comes wandering out of her room. Her hair is down, blond waves swinging around her shoulders with every step, and she’s changed into floppy pajama pants with llamas all over them—or are they alpacas? I never could tell the difference—and a tiny tank top that leaves no doubt she’s braless. Either she’s purposely torturing me or she’s letting her guard down. I’ve got my fingers crossed it’s the latter.

“Do I smell pad thai?”

“And kung pao chicken. And bulgogi. And shrimp teriyaki.” I stick a spoon into a carton of rice and pull out a chair for her. “I covered all the bases. I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

“I like it all, unfortunately.” She sits down, her eyes flicking from the cartons to the china, to the candles. “It looks great. Thanks.”

I pick up a bottle of Château Bauduc sauvignon blanc I picked out earlier from the wine cooler—screw top, because there’s no way I’m wrestling with a corkscrew in my current state. “White okay?”

“Perfect.” She looks up at me sheepishly through long pale lashes as I pour her wine. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch before.”

I fill my glass and take a seat opposite her. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

“Well, you didn’t help matters any with Erin. All that winking and ass grabbing. I’m sure she’s told Aaron all about it by now over a couple of chai lattes. I’m never going to hear the end of it at the office.”

Shit. I hadn’t even thought of that. Now I really am sorry. I was trying to play it cool, like what Ainsley’s assistant walked in on was no big deal, but all I did was make a bad situation even worse for her.

“What can I do to fix things?” I ask. “I’ll do anything. Talk to Erin and Aaron. Tell them—I don’t know. Whatever you want me to tell them.”

She shrugs and reaches for the kung pao chicken. “What’s done is