Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,33
done. At least you didn’t tell her I’m staying here. That would have been a disaster.”
Logically, I know she’s right. Her employees can’t know she’s shacking up with a client. But that doesn’t make the karate chop her words deliver to my gut any less painful.
I push the feeling aside and shovel shrimp onto my plate. We enjoy a leisurely meal—leisurely because it takes me forever to eat with my left hand. The chopsticks they sent with the food are totally out of the question. Even with a fork, I’m constantly spilling stuff on myself, the table, the floor.
On the plus side, my crappy table manners leave us plenty of time for conversation. We talk about our jobs, our families, the new season of Stranger Things. Nothing’s off limits, and I’m surprised how much we have in common. Big things, like our pride in our work, even though she’s way more chill about hers than I am about mine. And small stuff, like how we both despise black licorice and white chocolate.
When we’re done eating, we clear the table together and put the leftovers away in the refrigerator. It’s all very Leave It to Beaver—thank you, MeTV, for giving my sister something else to force me to watch with her—if Ward had ever deigned to help June with something so mundane as the dishes instead of sitting on his ass, smoking cigars and reading the daily newspaper. But unlike ole Ward, I’m a modern male. I’ve got no problem doing so-called women’s work. My parents made sure of that. Chores weren’t divided by sex in the Lawson house. Brie and I got equal time inside—cooking, cleaning and folding laundry—and outside, moving the lawn and taking out the trash.
I lean against the counter and watch Ainsley stack the last of the plates in the dishwasher. Sharing space with someone is easier than I expected. Comfortable. Almost effortless. But maybe that’s because of the particular someone I’m sharing space with.
I’m about to suggest we retire to my private rooftop terrace with an after-dinner brandy—hoping to set the mood for some sexy time—when Ainsley lets out a little squeal.
“Is that a Scrabble board?”
I follow her gaze to the card table Brie and I set up in the corner. Family game night was a staple growing up. Something we could continue to enjoy even when the purse strings were tight. And Scrabble was a perennial favorite. A fun way to help me manage my dyslexia. Not that I realized my parents’ ulterior motive at the time.
My sister and I resurrected the tradition when she moved in. We were in the middle of a particularly cutthroat contest when she left for San Diego, and I haven’t had the heart to break down the fancy board she bought me as a thank-you for letting her crash at my place, even though we’ve got a long-distance game going thanks to Words With Friends.
“Yeah. Wanna play?” I move closer to Ainsley and throw my arm around her shoulder. It’s not exactly the after-dinner entertainment I had in mind, but the night is young. We can play Scrabble now and do the wild thing later.
“Sure,” she says. “But can we move it to the coffee table? I was looking forward to relaxing on your amazeballs retro couch.”
There’s a number of things I’m looking forward to doing with her on my couch. Relaxing being among the most innocent.
“My couch is amazeballs?” I ask. I like that she likes it. Her approval gives me an irrational sense of accomplishment. It’s not like I picked the damn thing out.
“It’s surprisingly comfortable. Roscoe likes to sit and snuggle with me after our walks.”
On cue, the hound, who’s passed out in front of the fireplace, on his back with his legs splayed like a porn star, lifts his head and howls.
“He’s not supposed to be on the sofa.” Not that I’ve been able to keep him off any better than she has. “And I thought snuggling wasn’t part of your job duties.”
“I know. And it wasn’t supposed to be. But I’m a softie. I can’t say no to him. And I always brush off the cushions afterward. Part of Odds & Ends’s no-mess-left-behind promise.”
Roscoe stands, stretches and trots over to his empty food bowl.
“Tell you what. I’ll feed the beast. You set up the board. But I’m warning you, I’m a Scrabble junkie. And I hate to lose.”
“Bring it, word boy.”
I feed the dog, pour us a couple of brandies and carry them on