Dirty Work Page 11

  He lowers himself to the ground, staring at me openmouthed the whole way down. “You went to Wo Hop? I’ve loved that place since college. Their roast pork chow fun got me through freshman year.”

  “I know.” Roscoe flops beside Jake, his big canine body taking up a good two-thirds of the blanket. I drag the picnic basket closer to me, open the flap and pull out a rawhide bone to keep him occupied. “Connor told me.”

  Jake takes the bone from my hand and passes it to Roscoe, who immediately begins gnawing on it with the enthusiasm of a two-year-old who’s been given his first lollipop.

  “You and Connor seem to be getting awfully chummy,” he mutters, not looking at me.

  I stretch up on my knees to kiss the corner of his mouth, this spark of jealousy in him making me bold. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. All of our conversations revolve around one subject. You.”

  He seems satisfied with that and moves on to another subject. “So what’s the movie? Please tell me it’s not The Princess Bride.”

  “That’s next week.” I start pulling dinner out of the basket. Steamed dumplings. Egg rolls. Roast pork buns. The aforementioned chow fun. Both forks and chopsticks, since I don’t know how adept Jake is with the latter. “Tonight’s feature is Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”

  He unwraps a pair of chopsticks and reaches for the dumplings. “Cool. I’ve never seen that one.”

  Now it’s my turn to gape openmouthed. “Are you kidding me? You’ve never seen Ferris Bueller? It’s a coming-of-age classic.”

  “Nope.” He pops a dumpling in his mouth. “Never.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I brought you here so you can pop your Ferris Bueller cherry. There’s a huge hole in your pop culture education that needs filling. You’re in for a treat once dusk rolls around.”

  We’ve got about an hour before that happens, which we spend chowing down, chatting, people watching, trying to keep Roscoe from eating our neighbors’ meal—fried chicken, clearly more appetizing to him than rawhide and MSG—and listening to the tunes DJ 2-Tone is spinning until the spectacular reds and golds of the Hudson River sunset fade and it’s dark enough for the movie to start. Once Jake and I have destroyed the dim sum, I pack up the remnants of our dinner and head over to the concession stand under a tent at the edge of the water to grab us some free popcorn. Not that either of us is particularly hungry after consuming half our weight in Chinese food. But hey, free is free.

  “What’s this flick about anyway?” Jake asks when I return with the popcorn—extra butter, of course, because popcorn without extra butter is barely worth mentioning, let alone eating.

  I sit criss-cross applesauce next to him and glance at the screen, where the opening title sequence—the one with Ferris in bed, faking sick—is beginning to play.

  “Don’t tell me you’re the kind of person who likes to ruin movies by talking all the way through them.” I hold his bag of popcorn just out of reach. “Because that’s a deal breaker. I may have to go sit with that group of nuns over there. I’ll bet they’ll be quiet.”

  “I’m sure they will.” He puts a hand on my ass and gives it a playful pinch. “But they won’t be nearly as much fun. And I know how much you value your fun.”

  He makes a grab for the popcorn, and I jerk it away from him, spilling a few kernels, which Roscoe promptly inhales.

  “This is a cult classic. You have to experience it for yourself. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  He gives in with a resigned shrug and lies back on the blanket, propping himself up on one elbow with his long legs stretched out in front of him, bare beneath the hem of his khaki shorts and unfairly tan for someone who spends most of his waking hours working. He’s probably one of those guys who gets a perfect, golden tan in the blink of an eye. Whereas no matter how hard I try, the result is always either fire-engine red or pasty white.

  “If you say so.” He crosses his legs at the ankles and looks up at the screen. Ferris is up and out of bed and quoting John Lennon. “I just hope it lives up to the hype.”

  “It will. Now shut up, watch and learn.”

  I hand over the popcorn, and we munch contentedly, tossing an occasional kernel to Roscoe, as Ferris, Cameron and Sloane cavort their way through Chicago. Jake seems to be enjoying it. He’s smiling, laughing at all the right parts, looking more relaxed than he’s been since he left the apartment for his doctor’s appointment.

  “So,” I ask when the movie is over and we’re packing up and trying to rouse Roscoe, who dozed off about the time Ferris was twisting and shouting on a float in the middle of Chicago’s Von Steuben Day Parade. “What did you think?”

  “I liked it.” He nudges Roscoe off the blanket so he can pick it up.

  “You liked it?” I echo, incredulous, grabbing the blanket from him and stuffing it in the picnic basket. “You just witnessed almost two hours of John Hughes’s genius, and that’s the best you could come up with?”

  “I’m no movie critic.” He takes hold of Roscoe’s leash and tugs the dog to his feet. “But it was okay.”

  “Okay?” I sound like a damn parrot, but I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “What part of cult classic did you not get?”

  “All right, if you want the truth—”

  “I do.” I think.

  “I found Ferris kind of—” He pauses, and I’m not sure if he’s searching for the right word or if he’s afraid to spit it out and say what he’s thinking. “Annoying.”

  He. Did. Not. Just. Say. That.

  “Did we even watch the same movie?” I snatch the basket up and sling it over my arm. “Ferris is not annoying. He’s the complete opposite of annoying. He’s a freaking inspiration.”

  “He’s a slacker. And a hedonist. His whole life is devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, at the expense of everything else. Schoolwork. Chores. Family relationships. I don’t find that particularly inspirational.”

  “Did you miss the part about life moving fast, and if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you’ll miss it?”

  “That’s no excuse for blowing off your responsibilities.”

  This conversation is starting to piss me off big-time, so I guess it’s a good thing we’re interrupted by a voice cutting through the crowd noise, calling my name.

  “Hey, Ainsley. Over here.”

  I swivel my head and spot her easily. Mia stands out in just about any crowd. But she’s even easier to pick out here, tall, dark and striking, wending her way through the throng of moviegoers with an easy grace even in skin-tight jeans and four-inch heels, a slightly older salt-and-pepper-haired man who I vaguely recognize as one of her fellow junior partners at DK&G following in her wake.

  “I was right. It is you,” she says as she gets closer. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I could say the same thing about you. How’d you get out of the office before midnight?” I tease, giving her a quick, one-armed hug.

  “Summer associate outing,” Salt-and-Pepper chimes in. “We thought it would be a nice change from the stuffy cocktail parties and dreary dinners.”

  “Who thought it would be a nice change?” Mia arches a brow at him.

  “You did,” he concedes with a smile.

  “You remember Paul, don’t you? He’s in Mergers and Acquisitions.” Mia lays a possessive hand on his arm.

  “Of course,” I fib. Now it’s my eyebrow that’s lifting. Mia hasn’t mentioned that she’s seeing anyone. Then again, I haven’t said anything to her about whatever it is I’m doing with Jake, either. I give Paul a polite nod. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Same,” he says. “How’s the errand girl business treating you?”

  “Executive concierge,” Jake corrects him.

  Shit. I almost forgot he’s here.

  “Who’s your friend?” Mia asks before I can gather my
wits and introduce him.

  “Jake Lawson.” He reaches down to scratch Roscoe between the ears. “And this is Roscoe.”

  Mia shoots me a we-are-so-talking-about-this-later look before refocusing her attention on Jake. “I thought you looked familiar. Top Shelf, right?”

  “And you’re Mia’s friend. The one who was with her the night I got hurt.”

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Getting better, thanks.” He steps aside to avoid being crushed by a pack of teenagers barreling across the lawn, pulling an oblivious Roscoe, who’s too busy scarfing up stray popcorn to pay attention to his surroundings, with him. “We’re blocking traffic. How about we walk together?”

  We head out of the park, Jake and Paul leading the way and making small talk as Mia and I lag a few feet behind.

  “I’m happy to see you took my advice,” she says smugly.

  “What advice?”

  “To quit stalling and get your man.”

  “Lower your voice.” I do a quick take to check on Jake. Fortunately, he’s far enough ahead and deep enough in conversation with Paul not to have heard my none-too-subtle ex–best friend. “And he’s not my man.”

  “Oh, really?” She leans in and at least does me the courtesy of turning down the volume. “Do you go on movie dates with all your clients? Or only the superhot ones with asses you could crack an egg on?”

  I sneak a peek at Jake’s butt. She’s right. The damn thing’s so tight, you probably could crack an egg on it. Or bounce quarters. Too bad the guy’s wound tighter than the expensive, ultrathin Piaget watch he’s wearing, too. Still, I’m tempted to try the egg thing—or the quarter thing—or both—later. Purely for purposes of scientific research, of course. For the good of womankind.

  I sigh. “He does have a nice booty, doesn’t he?”

  “Nice doesn’t begin to describe it. He’s got some serious junk in that trunk.”

  We dissolve into giggles like a couple of tweens at a boyband concert, and I promise to fill her in on everything the next time we get together for a girls’ night, as long as she does the same. When we reach Charles Street, the four of us part company, since Mia and Paul are going uptown while Jake and I are heading downtown to Tribeca.

  It’s a nice night, not as unbearably hot as it’s been lately and with a light breeze coming off the river, and we’ve got Roscoe with us, which makes taking the subway out of the question, so we decide to backtrack and walk the Hudson River Greenway rather than catch an Uber back to Jake’s.

  “I had an interesting conversation with Paul,” he says as we enter the greenway. The waterfront walkway and bike path is packed with people, many of them clearly moviegoers with the same idea as us, based on the blankets and baskets they’re carrying.

  “Did he hate the movie as much as you?” I quip.

  “I told you, I didn’t hate it. I liked it. The scene in the police station with Ferris’s sister and that biker dude was hysterical. And the principal was a riot, too. I just have a different take on the whole Ferris-as-hero-or-antihero thing than you do, that’s all.”

  “I guess we can agree to disagree,” I concede. I’m not going to let a stupid movie—even a childhood favorite—ruin an otherwise pleasant evening. One that’s hopefully going to get even more pleasant once we get back to his place and get naked. “What did Paul have to say that was so interesting?”

  “He told me you used to work with him and Mia.”

  “Oh, that.” I roll my eyes. If you asked me, my too-long stint at DK&G is just about the least interesting thing about me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a lawyer?”

  “It wasn’t important. It still isn’t.”

  “Not important? It was a huge part of your life for a long time. Paul told me you were on the verge of making partner when you quit to start Odds & Errands.”

  “Emphasis on the ‘was.’”

  “What happened?”

  I shoot him a side-eyed look. “What do you mean what happened?”

  “Something must have happened for you to give all that up.”

  Something did, but it’s not something I’m ready to discuss with Jake. Especially not in the middle of a public park surrounded by strangers. When—if—the times comes for this discussion, it’s going to between me and Jake, not me, Jake and a horde of walkers, joggers, cyclists and the occasional Rollerblader.

  Besides, my breakup with Dale may have been the catalyst for my professional about-face. But if it wasn’t that, it would have been something else. Looking back, with the wisdom of hindsight, I can see that it was only a matter of time before my career imploded. I’m not cut out for the life of a high-powered, big-city lawyer. I was just waiting for the axe to fall.

  “Give up what?” I ask. “All the late nights at the office? The weekends? The takeout food, eaten at my desk?”

  I’m on a roll now. “Should I go on? Because I can.”

  “Hard work takes sacrifices. But weren’t they worth it? You were on the edge of achieving everything you worked so hard for. And now you’re—”

  “I’m what?” I stop dead in my tracks. “An errand girl?”

  Paul’s words from earlier still rankle. But the thought that Jake’s thinking them too hurts even more.

  He stops with me, pulling Roscoe up short and forcing a late-night jogger to veer around us. “I didn’t say that.”

  “No. But you were about to. Or something pretty damned close to it.”

  All my anger from before comes flooding back. He doesn’t understand Ferris, and he doesn’t get me, either. Just like my parents, judging me for jumping off the white-collar hamster wheel and redefining success on my own terms.

  We’re at the intersection of West Houston Street. And there’s a subway station a few blocks away. Just like that, a plan takes shape.

  “I need some space.” The traffic light’s red, so I start to cross.

  “Wait,” Jake calls after me. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m hopping on the 1 train. You can keep walking or take an Uber, I couldn’t care less.”

  And with that not-so-original parting shot, I’m gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jake

  IT’S QUIET AND dark when Roscoe and I get back to my place, and my first thought is that somehow we beat Ainsley there. Or worse, she’s not coming back except to pick up her stuff, probably when I’m not here. I mean, she does have a key.

  I bend down to unhook Roscoe’s leash. That’s when I see it. A sliver of light coming from under her door.

  She’s here. Thank fuck.

  A sense of relief floods through me like a glacial thaw. And while I’m reassured, I’m also scared shitless. The former because, well, she’s here. The latter because I care so damn much about the whereabouts of a woman I’ve known less than a month.

  But fear’s never stopped me before, and it’s not going to stop me now. There’s something about this woman that calls to me on virtually every level. Not just physically, although—duh—it’s no secret what she does to me in that department, thanks to my disobedient dick. What I feel for her goes deeper than that. How much deeper, I don’t have a clue. Yet. That’s something I plan on figuring out.

  If she’ll talk to me.

  I give Roscoe a pat on the back, hang up his leash and head for Ainsley’s room, leaving custody of the couch to the dog. Her door’s open a hair, but I knock anyway. I’m already on thin ice with her, although I’m not completely sure why. I was just trying to get to know her better. Figure out what makes her tick. We’re obviously cut from different cloth. But that’s not a deal breaker. At least, not for me.

  Still, now is not the time to risk poking the bear.

  “Ainsley,” I call softly, knocking again. “You in there?”

  Stupid question. Of course she’s in there. He
r or an extremely efficient burglar.

  “You can come in,” she answers after a beat. “I won’t bite your head off. Much.”

  She sounds defeated. Resigned. Broken. My heart breaks a little for her, too. And for me, knowing I’m responsible for her bad mood, even if I’m not exactly sure how.

  I push the door open, and the crack in my heart widens. She’s sitting on the bed, surrounded by piles of clothes, her open suitcase on the floor at her feet.

  “Going somewhere?” I ask, pushing aside a stack of her frilly underthings and sitting next to her.

  “It’s not like you need me here anymore.” She picks up a T-shirt and drops it into her bag. “As long as you don’t try to play hero again, you should be fine.”

  “What if I need to lift something heavy? Or change a lightbulb? Or just get lonely?”

  “You’ve got my number. Feel free to use it. Except for the lonely part. You’ll have to find someone else for that. I’m an errand girl. Not a call girl.”

  She picks up another T-shirt, but I pluck it from her fingers before she can add it to the suitcase and toss it back onto the bed.

  “There you go again, putting words in my mouth. I never called you an errand girl.” Or a call girl, but I don’t go there.

  “You didn’t have to. You made your opinion of my change of career perfectly clear. And if you think I haven’t heard it all before, you’re dead wrong. I just didn’t think I’d hear it from you.”

  She grabs a pair of shorts and throws them into her bag before I can stop her.

  “Heard what all before?”

  “You were so close to making partner at one of Manhattan’s top law firms,” she says, her tone mocking. “And you threw it all away. For what? So you could do other people’s dirty work? What kind of career is that?”

  Shit. Is that what I sounded like? A judgmental prick?

  She reaches for a pile of socks, and I grab her wrist, stopping her. “If I sounded like that—”

  “You did.”

  I flinch and let go of her wrist, her confirmation that I was a complete jackhole as painful as if she’d slapped me. “Then I’m sorry. I was trying to understand you. Not judge you.”