Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,59
or was there something else? Did I overcorrect for something that wasn’t a problem—or at least not the real problem—in the first place?
That I can do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jake
“SO WHAT DO you think? It just came on the market and my guess is it’s going to go quick, so if you want it, we’re going to have to act fast.”
I take a look around the latest rental property Alex is showing me. What is this, the tenth? Twentieth? I’ve lost track. At some point, they all start to look the same.
But this one is the most promising space we’ve visited in the three weeks I’ve been in Miami. Lots of square footage to work with. Open floor plan. High ceilings. And a great location, right off the main drag in South Beach.
I can picture a bar running along the wall to my right. Dance floor in the center. DJ at the back. There’s even a raised platform on the left that could easily be used as a stage or roped off for VIP seating, plus three more floors above for whatever else we want. Office space. Private VIP suites. Or maybe a screening room like the one we’re planning for New York.
It’s as close to perfect as we’re going to find. As good as, if not better than, the place we lost out on, if I’m honest. I should be over the moon. But when I answer him, my voice is flat. Emotionless.
“Draw up the papers. I need to run it by my partner, but I can’t imagine he’ll object.”
Half an hour later, I’m back in the air-conditioned bliss of my hotel room with nothing to do but think or watch the highlights of last night’s Yankee game on ESPN. Since the Bombers lost in a blowout that’s too painful to relive, I’m stuck with thinking. Which sucks, because these days, my mind’s got one track.
And it leads to Ainsley.
It’s not a path I want to go down, so I grab one of the local craft brews from the minibar—a decision I know I’ll regret when I get the ridiculously exorbitant bill—and pick up my cell to call Connor.
“What’s the word?” he asks when he answers on the first ring.
“I think I’ve found our new Miami digs.”
“That’s good news.” He pauses, probably to save whatever spreadsheet or tax form he’s working on. “Isn’t it?”
“Sure.” I kick off my shoes, pop the top on the beer and stretch out on the bed. “My guy’s drawing up the paperwork. I’ll have it to you by tomorrow.”
“Then why do you sound like your dog just died?”
The word dog naturally leads to thoughts of Roscoe, which of course brings me back, painfully, to Ainsley. Fuck. Maybe calling Connor wasn’t such a good idea after all.
I swig my beer—a little on the hoppy side, but not bad—and adopt a tone that I hope sounds more I-haven’t-got-a-fucking-care-in-the-world than I’m-sitting-here-all-alone-crying-in-my-beer. “The last I heard, Roscoe’s happy and healthy, unless you count eating an entire roll of toilet paper and then puking it up all over my Timberlands.”
“Heard from who?” he not-so-gently prods. “Your sexy pet sitter?”
Yep. Definitely a mistake calling my former best friend.
“She’s not a pet sitter,” I correct him for the thousandth time. “She’s an executive concierge.”
“I notice you didn’t dispute the sexy part.”
“I’ve got eyes.” And a brain that works. Most of the time.
“Is she still staying at your place?”
I lift the beer can to my lips and tip it back, letting the crisp, amber liquid slide down my throat and buying me a few seconds to come up with an appropriately nonresponsive response to Connor’s prying. “What is this, twenty questions?”
“If it is, I’ve got a long way to go. I’m only up to four so far.”
“Five,” I amend after doing a quick mental tally. “But who’s counting?”
“You are, apparently.” I hear shuffling, then the soft click of a laptop closing that tells me he’s shut down his computer, leaving him with nothing but me to focus on.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“So are you going to answer me or not?” he continues.
“I forgot the question,” I lie.
“Is the sexy pet sitter—sorry, executive concierge—still squatting at your place?”
“One, her name is Ainsley. Two, she wasn’t squatting. She was there to lend me a hand—pun totally intended—until my arm got better. And three, no. She moved out before I flew down here.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
Yes. “No trouble. I didn’t need her anymore, so she left. Simple as that.”
Even as they leave my mouth, the words feel wrong. Stupid. Pointless. Flat-out false. Because