Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,5

a heads-up if you’re going to be out late. That way I can adjust Roscoe’s schedule. My number’s on a sticky note on the fridge, along with a copy of our service contract.”

She slings a purse that looks big enough to hide a body in over her shoulder and starts for the door, turning as she reaches it to throw one last parting jab. “And trust me, if I have to come over here at this hour again, you will pay extra.”

I watch her sassy ass sashay out of my apartment and sigh, my body finally giving in to exhaustion and collapsing onto the closest stool.

I have to hand it to her. She’s right about one thing, that’s for sure.

I’ll be paying. For the next three months. In spades.

CHAPTER THREE

Ainsley

“OKAY, SO ERIN, you’ll drop off Mrs. Harris’s dry cleaning, return Mr. Albertson’s cable box and pick the Barton kids up from rock climbing at Chelsea Pier at three.”

She gives me a mock salute. “On it, chief.”

“And Aaron...” I scroll down to the next page of the beautiful color-coded spreadsheet that’s our virtual bible at Odds & Errands, keeping us organized and running smoothly. “You’re waiting for Hästens to deliver the Stillwaters’ new mattress. They should be there sometime between ten and two. And don’t forget to make sure they take away the old one. When you’re done with that, you can take Mrs. Vincent’s Mercedes to be detailed.”

“Can I switch with Erin?” He wrings his hands together and pouts, hitting me with his best puppy dog eyes. “Pretty please? I’ll pick up the Barton kids if she takes the Mercedes. I hate driving in the city. And Mrs. Vincent gives me the creeps. She’s always looking at me funny.”

“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with the boss lady,” Erin offers, ever the amenable employee. “I like to drive. And Mrs. Vincent’s not looking at you funny. She probably just misplaced her glasses again.”

“Done,” I say, forestalling any further debate on something that should have been settled the second Erin uttered the words “it’s okay.” Doesn’t matter to me who does what, as long as it all gets done. I make the appropriate changes to the spreadsheet, hit Save and review it one more time. “That leaves me with picking up groceries for Mr. Perkins, standing in the TKTS line for the Ackerman twins and...shit.”

The dog.

“What’s wrong?” Erin asks.

I look up from my computer. “We have a new client.”

A white lie. Truth be told, I’ve been taking care of Roscoe for the better part of two weeks now. I just haven’t had the stomach to add him to my spreadsheet, which would mean explaining to the Bobbsey Twins why I broke my absolutely-no-dogs rule. But I can’t keep it a secret forever. And now seems like as good a time as any to confess.

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