Page 27 of Dirty Work

“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.

“Do I smell pad thai?”

“And kung pao chicken. And bulgogi. And shrimp teriyaki.” I stick a spoon into a carton of rice and pull out a chair for her. “I covered all the bases. I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

“I like it all, unfortunately.” She sits down, her eyes flicking from the cartons to the china, to the candles. “It looks great. Thanks.”

I pick up a bottle of Château Bauduc sauvignon blanc I picked out earlier from the wine cooler—screw top, because there’s no way I’m wrestling with a corkscrew in my current state. “White okay?”

“Perfect.” She looks up at me sheepishly through long pale lashes as I pour her wine. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch before.”

I fill my glass and take a seat opposite her. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

“Well, you didn’t help matters any with Erin. All that winking and ass grabbing. I’m sure she’s told Aaron all about it by now over a couple of chai lattes. I’m never going to hear the end of it at the office.”

Shit.I hadn’t even thought of that. Now I really am sorry. I was trying to play it cool, like what Ainsley’s assistant walked in on was no big deal, but all I did was make a bad situation even worse for her.

“What can I do to fix things?” I ask. “I’ll do anything. Talk to Erin and Aaron. Tell them—I don’t know. Whatever you want me to tell them.”

She shrugs and reaches for the kung pao chicken. “What’s done is 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 ofStranger 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 veryLeave 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.