by Regina Kyle
I’d had them delivered directly to the hotel along with the decorations. A tad more expensive, sure. But also way more efficient. And it’s not like my clients can’t afford to pay a little bit extra. They’re clearly not hurting for money. From the looks of this place, it’s costing them a pretty penny.
Jake crosses to the couch, picks up the box, and looks inside, but he doesn’t bring it to me. Instead, he just stands there and stares at me like I’m about to take a sledgehammer to the Venus de Milo. “The Soho Grand isn’t going to be too thrilled with you making holes in their ceiling.”
“Hole,” I correct him. “Singular. And I’ve already cleared it with the management. I’ve got someone coming in to patch it up after the bridal party checks out on Sunday.”
This isn’t my first rodeo. Or my first bachelorette party. I know how to grease the wheels and smooth things over to get my clients what they want, within reason. Just another perk of our personalized service.
He lets out a low whistle and crosses back to me with the box. “Now I’m the one who’s impressed.”
“I may not be a workaholic like some people—” I give him a pointed look over my shoulder as I climb up on the chair “—but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about doing my job and doing it well.”
“I can see that.”
I glance down at him, and I’m shook. Where’s the sarcastic smirk? Or disdainful frown? I mean, he’s got to be messing with me, right? I’m totally cool with how I run my business, but there’s no way it’s up to Mr. I-Live-At-The-Office’s impossibly high standards.
But he’s not messing with me. He’s standing there holding the stupid box to his stupid side with his stupid, uninjured arm, gazing up at me with an earnest expression and nothing but sincerity in his eyes.
My heart and stomach do a simultaneous flip-flop, like synchronized swimmers executing a perfectly choreographed routine. It’s ridiculous, I know, but this seems like a big moment somehow. Significant. Meaningful. It dawns on me that it’s because Jake’s opinion matters to me, and I’m shook all over again. I’m not used to giving a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about how I live my life, especially not a guy I met only a few weeks ago.
It must show, because his earnest expression turns to concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his brows knotting together.
“Uh, sure.” I gesture to the box, which he’s set down on the floor next to him. Now is not the time for introspection. It’s the time for hanging this piñata and getting the heck out of here. I can sort out my jumbled emotions later. “There’s a pack of nails in there. Can you hand me one?”
For the next few minutes we work together in silence like a well-oiled machine, Jake anticipating my needs without me having to say a word. He gives me a nail. I position it in the center of the beam. He hands me the hammer. I use one end to tap the nail in and the other to pull it out so I can screw in the eye bolt he puts in my palm. He hands me a length of rope. I run it through the bolt.
I give the bolt one last turn to make sure it’s in there good and tight, then bend down to grab the piñata Jake’s already retrieved from the bar. The chair wobbles, and I feel myself losing my balance. One second I’m upright, the next I’m in a nose dive that lands me sprawled on top of Jake, the piñata tossed aside and fluorescent neon penis gummies scattered all around us on the floor.
“I’m so sorry. Your arm...” I try to scramble off his chest, but the arm I’m not freaking out about locks me to him like a vice. At least I didn’t break that one, too. That’s some small consolation for knocking him down like a bowling pin.
“My arm is fine,” he assures me, his breath warm on my cheek, stirring the hair that’s come free from my sad mess of a ponytail. He chuckles, and the low rumble reverberates through me, making my nerve endings tingle. “Well, technically it’s not fine. But it’s not any worse than it was before you fell on me. My left side took the brunt of the impact.”
I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but he’s too strong, even with only one arm. “Um, we should probably get up.”
“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head, and unruly dark hair flops over his forehead. My fingers itch to push it back, to feel the slip and slide of the thick locks as I smooth them away from his face. “Not so fast.”
“But I’m squashing you.” I’m not a heavyweight, but I’m not petite, either. He can’t be comfortable with me spread-eagled over him.
“Right. I’ve got you exactly where I want you.” His hand drifts from the middle of my back down to the curve of my ass and squeezes.
I let out a thin, breathy exhale. “You want me crushing you like a grape?”
He rolls us so I’m beneath him. He looms above me like some wild pagan god, propped up on his good arm, his chest heaving and a thin sheen of sweat dampening his brow. “There. Now you can stop worrying about squashing me and start concentrating on more important things.”
“Like what?”
Please, please, please let him mean what I think he means.
“Like this.”
His lips come crashing down on mine, and my heart wants to sing. He does mean what I think he means, and then some. I like to kiss as much as the next gal, but this is more than kissing. It’s kissing on steroids. Jake’s mouth is moving against mine like the world is seconds from ending, like this is the last time we’ll get to do this and he doesn’t want to hold anything back.
He coaxes my lips apart with his tongue, and my eyes flutter closed. I wrap my legs around his and reach up to rake my fingers through his hair. I’m drowning in him, being dragged under by his touch, his taste, his smell.
But what a way to go.
I forget where we are. I forget that we’ve got a job to finish. I forget that at any minute a bride-to-be and her seven bridesmaids could waltz in here and discover us on the floor, making out like a couple of horny teenagers.
Until the click of a lock shatters the silence and I freeze.
“Ainsley? You here? The front desk gave me a key. I know I’m super late, but I thought you might still need some help getting everything set up for the party.”
I roll off Jake, but it’s too late. Erin’s startled gasp tells me she’s already seen us, and what she’s seen is more than enough for her to know we weren’t playing tiddlywinks.
“Sorry,” she says, but she sounds more amused than contrite. “I guess I should have knocked. I didn’t realize you had company.”
I scramble to my feet, hastily and futilely trying to tame my flyaway hair and smooth my rumpled T-shirt. Jake, in contrast, takes his bloody sweet time getting up. When he does, he ambles over to my assistant and sticks out his left hand.
“You must be Erin. I’m Jake.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Jake.” Erin shakes his hand and immediately launches into the Spanish inquisition. “How do you and Ainsley know each other?”
I try to interrupt their little heart-to-heart before Jake can spill the beans about how we met, but he’s too quick.
“She’s helping me take care of my parents’ dog while they’re on vacation.”
“So you’re the guy who got Ainsley to break her no pets policy.” Erin shoots me a knowing glance.
“You have a no pets policy?” Jake asks.
“Had,” Erin clarifies. “Past tense.”
“I made an exception for a friend,” I insist. “That’s it. No big deal.”
“A friend.” Erin puts air quotes around the last word. “Right. Now I understand why she’s been hiding you.”
“I have not been hiding him.” I haven’t. Not really. Although right now that sounds like a freaking fantastic idea.
“Really?” Erin says, echoing my thoughts. “Then how come you’ve never asked me or Aaron to walk Roscoe?”
Jake cocks his head and squints at me. He’s enjoying this way too much. “That’s a good quest
ion.”
One I don’t have a good answer to. So I do what any rational person in my situation would do.
Punt.
I pick up the piñata and start shoving packs of gummies back inside. “We’re almost done here. We just have to finish hanging Willy Whack-It and get rid of the garbage.”
Erin takes the piñata from my hands. “I can handle that. You and Jake should get out of here.”
I glance at the clock above the trendy white stone fireplace. “The bridal party will be arriving soon. I should stay and meet the maid of honor. Make sure everything gets her stamp of approval.”
“What’s not to approve? This is gonna be a kickass penis party.”
Jake waves a hand around the room, and my eyes follow it, landing on penis straws, penis balloons, penis headbands. Yep. These crazy broads are actually going to wear tiny dicks on their heads. And around their necks, too. I know for a fact there’s a package of necklaces with little pink plastic peckers around here somewhere. The place is packed with penises. I don’t think there’s a schlong-shaped favor in the tristate area we haven’t got.
“Jake’s right. You guys have done a great job. I doubt anyone will have any complaints, especially once they’ve had a drink or two or three, but if they do, I’ll deal with them.” Erin sets the box down on a chair and shoos us toward the door. “Go have some fun. You know what fun is, right?”
My eyes practically roll to the back of my head. There’s nothing more infuriating than having your own words used against you, even if the person using them doesn’t know you said the same thing not ten minutes ago.
I sneak a glance at Jake to see if he’s picked up on it. Yep. He’s eating this up, the smug bastard. He winks at Erin and snakes his good arm around my waist, steering me to the door.
“Fun?” His hand sneaks lower, daring to cop a not-so-discrete feel of my left butt cheek. “That’s my middle name. Right, Nightingale?”
CHAPTER TEN
Jake
IT’S AFTER FIVE when Erin springs us from the penis party and we walk out of the air-conditioned Soho Grand into the stifling, sticky heat of late afternoon Manhattan in July. I call an Uber Black to take us back to my apartment, figuring I’d rather be comfortably cool and alone with Ainsley in the back of a luxury automobile than have to share her with hundreds of rush hour commuters in a crowded, smelly subway car.
But about two minutes into the ride, I realize that was a huge ass mistake. And not because we’re stuck in traffic on Broadway. I’m in no hurry to get anywhere. And it’s not exactly a hardship being trapped for a little while longer in the back of a BMW 7 Series with the star of all my most recent late-night sex fantasies.
Or it wouldn’t be a hardship, if Ainsley would stop staring out the damn window and talk to me. You’d think she’d never seen Midtown before.
My attempts at conversation have all been met with grunts. And pitying glances in the rearview mirror from our driver, a guy about my age who clearly thinks I’ve got zero game in the romance department. He’s probably plotting how to slip Ainsley his number without me noticing. Like that’s gonna happen.
I sneak a peek at her in my peripheral vision. Ramrod posture? Check. Crossed arms? Check. Pursed lips, locked jaw and hands clenched into fists on her shapely thighs? Check, check and double check. Her body language screams, “Back the hell off.” She’s obviously upset about something. Probably still smarting over what went down with Erin.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not all that thrilled about getting caught with my pants down, either. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Although a few minutes more and who knows what the poor girl would have walked in on.
Instead, here I sit, a BMW’s width away from the woman who was on top of me not half an hour ago, still hard as a goddamn steel pipe, apparently destined never to turn my late-night fantasies into reality. So yeah, I’m frustrated, too.
But I get the feeling Ainsley’s more mad at me than the situation, and I don’t have a freaking clue why. I may be too stupid to figure out what I’ve done to piss her off, but I’m not stupid enough to get into it with her while Mr. I’ve-Got-More-Game-Than-You listens in on us from the front seat. So I bite my tongue until we’re safely alone inside my apartment, out of earshot of any potential eavesdroppers.
Unfortunately, the second the door clicks shut behind us Ainsley’s clipping Roscoe’s leash on, muttering something about taking him for a quick walk to do his business. When they return a few minutes later, things aren’t any less strained, and she disappears into what will be her bedroom for the foreseeable future to “settle in.”
Even more frustrated than before, I head to the fridge and crack open a double IPA from my favorite Brooklyn brewery, which takes longer than usual with my dominant arm in a sling. After a few restorative slugs, I trade the beer for my cell phone and call the guy who’s been my wingman since puberty hit and we discovered girls were good for more than just teasing.
“How’s the convalescent?” Connor asks, picking up on the first ring.
“Convalescing.” I collapse onto one of the stools at my kitchen island and stare longingly at my beer. Having one working arm sucks donkey balls.
“I hear you’ve got a house guest.” His smirk is almost audible.
“My sister has a big mouth. You two must be beside yourselves. You got your way. You wanted someone to stay with me, and my dog walker—” executive concierge, I mentally correct myself “—is moving into the spare room as we speak.”
“Excuse me while I play the world’s smallest violin for your pity party,” Connor scoffs. “I was thinking more along the lines of Nurse Ratched. Yet somehow you manage to convince your superhot pet sitter to be your personal Clara Barton.”
“Florence Nightingale,” I mutter. “And how do you know my pet sitter is hot?”
“I saw her on the monitors at the club, remember? Or are all those painkillers they gave you messing with your head?”
“Very funny. You know I hate that shit.”
“So what’s the problem? The legendary Jake Lawson charm not working on this one?”
“Who says I’m trying to charm her?” I’m glad we’re not FaceTiming. One look at my guilty expression, and Connor would know I’m lying my ass off. I’ve never been able to hide anything from him. It’s why I stopped playing poker with him.
“I saw the way you were stalking her on the security monitors. And if the rumors flying around this place are true, you hurt your shoulder riding to her rescue. If you’re not trying to tap that, then I’m the king of England.”
Damn. He’s good. Even across town, I can’t bullshit my best friend.
“England doesn’t have a king,” I say, ignoring the elephant in the room. “Queen Elizabeth’s reigned for like a million years.”
“Sixty-seven, if you want to get technical, but that’s beside the point.”
“What is the point, exactly?”
“The point,” Connor says with an 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.
