CHAPTER SEVEN
I can’t help but wonder who owns the apartment I have to clean up, so before I dive into the stack of bills on my desk, I do what all snoops do: I Google him. I want to see what this slob looks like.
I click on Google Images and my jaw drops.
There he is, in all his glory—angular jaw and sun-streaked dark blond hair that looks wilder in each picture I see. Shocking ice-blue eyes. And those abs. It seems like half of the pictures of him are sans shirt, and I can feel my face heat as I see how his torso cuts in with a vee right at his hip bones.
I don’t know what that vee is called, but it makes women lose their minds.
Gavin Slater is a piece of work in more ways than one. He’s stunning, but not male-model pretty. He’s got the brooding eyes Zac Efron works in most of his movies, and a crop of stubble that I can imagine grazing my…
I need a cold shower.
I shake my head. Ridiculous getting worked up over a bunch of pictures, but nevertheless that slob’s got me glugging down the rest of my water bottle. I choose to believe it’s just the New York heat that sank into my clothes during my trip to his apartment.
I should refocus on work but I keep scrolling and I see pictures of him with his band. His band? He’s a rock star! Now I know where he gets his money.
I’m not that into music, but I know the band’s name—Tattoo Thief. I couldn’t tell you the names of the band members to save my life, yet I immediately recognize their latest hit, “Peace of Madness,” because it’s played on the radio so often.
The captions tell me Gavin Slater is the front man: singer and songwriter, and sometimes on the guitar or keyboard. His three band-mates—drummer, guitarist and bassist—are also hot, mid-twenty-somethings. One of them sports an arm full of tattoos and another has bright blue hair.
I zoom in on a shirtless Gavin Slater and my mouth goes dry. The I-dare-you expression. The charmingly crooked nose. The shoulders I could sink my teeth into.
The part of me that’s been crying over Jeff for the last five days is relieved to find I still have a lusty bone in my body. Not that I’d waste it on someone who lives as disgustingly as Gavin Slater.
I squint to see the one and only tattoo on his freckled chest, which is nearly hairless except for a treasure trail from his navel south. I can tell it’s a word, but the letters just below his collarbone defy me.
I hit PRINT and race to the office printer to pick up a picture of one of People’s Sexiest Men Alive before someone catches me. In the bathroom, I hold up the page next to my face in the mirror.
The tattoo says reckless.
Of course. How very Gavin Slater.
I imagine Gavin got this tattoo for himself, because the only person who can read it is the guy staring at him in his bathroom mirror each morning. I feel parts of me stir with this intimate discovery.
Shit, who am I kidding? It’s all over the interwebs.
I also see several photos of Gavin with various women, and I feel a surge of jealousy that shocks me. One woman appears most often, and she’s striking—violet eyes, jet-black hair and a heart-shaped face. In some pictures she has glorious curves; a pinup bombshell. In others, she’s a waif, her eyes even larger in her face and her cheekbones almost painfully pronounced.
I inspect my skirt that’s creased from sitting, bulging over my tummy and riding up past my pasty, stubbly knees.
Next to that siren, I feel like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
So now I know the guy is hot. I also know he’s a slob and a rock star. But most importantly, I know it’s going to take a lot of work to get his place fixed up, starting with the bags of random bills I have to make sense of.
I find a letter opener and start ripping and filing, creating tidy folders for each utility, service, and charge. Most of it is unremarkable and I pay it out of the client account—past-due dry-cleaning bills, utilities, and periodicals.
I spend most of the afternoon building files and navigating “press five to pay your bill”-type phone menus. It’s a real treat when a live person picks up, but inevitably I have to repeat a multi-digit number when the operator answers.
I book the housekeeping service for tomorrow and suspend the newspapers and magazines Gavin Slater’s not home to read.
Dan’s explained that the key to our service is going the extra mile, so I add him to a direct mail exclusion list to cut down on his junk mail. Later, I’ll go through his fridge and cupboards, toss expired food and go shopping to restock everything before he gets home.
By the time I reach the bottom of the bill pile and rip open the last envelope, I’m feeling pretty good. Even if my life is in chaos, I’ve got this guy sorted out. Not that he’ll appreciate it.
The bill I open astounds me: more than $3,500 for dog boarding. There was no dog at the apartment, but now that I think about it, I saw a stainless steel food dish near the kitchen. It just didn’t process at the time.
Did this guy just leave his dog the way he left his apartment?
I’m furious. I actually want to kill sexy-hot Gavin Slater with my bare hands. Twice.
Asshole, I mutter as I listen to a ring tone.
“Barks in the Park,” a chipper voice answers with a chorus of “woofs” and “arfs” in the background. “Can you hold?”
“Yes,” I grumble. I know I should just pay this bill and move on, but I’m secretly plotting my revenge against Gavin. Nair in his shampoo bottle? Itching powder on his sheets? On behalf of a poor little—or big—dog, I want revenge.
“Sorry about that. We’re always slammed at rush hour. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling to pay a bill for Gavin Slater,” I start. “I realize it’s past due, but he—”
“Thank God you called,” the woman interrupts. “We’ve left messages for weeks! You’ve got to come get Jasper.”
“Jasper?”
“Your dog,” she snaps. “We were about to turn him over to animal services as abandoned. You can’t just leave a dog here forever! Our maximum boarding period is three weeks.”
Her voice sounds strangled and angry. “You didn’t even leave a number where we could reach you. What if Jasper had a medical problem? We wouldn’t have been able to authorize treatment. And leaving him here is interfering with other reservations. You are totally irresponsible.”
I snort, both indignant that she’s accusing me of torturing Jasper, and sort of entertained by the idea of being irresponsible. That is one thing I’m not. I’ve never been reckless.
If I had a tattoo like Gavin Slater’s, it would say responsible.
The woman on the other end of the phone is not placated and I doubt my snort helped.
“Let me put it this way: are you in the city?”
“In Midtown.”
“You’ve got one hour to get here or I am going to call animal services.” The line clicks. She’s hung up on me.
I move from my cubicle to Dan’s office, hanging in the doorframe while he wraps up his own call.
“How’d you do?” he asks, smiling. “Not too hard, is it?”
I shake my head. “Not too hard, though I’m going to need hardship pay for having to listen to all that hold music.” I hastily show him the files and talk him through a spreadsheet of expenses. Aware of the minutes ticking down, I get to the last line item.
“Dog boarding,” I say. “You know what that means?”
“Ten percent,” Dan quips. That’s our standard up-charge for handling people’s lives. “But you look worried. And I didn’t know he had a dog.”
“I think he left his dog the same way he left his apartment.” I say. “And now the boarding place is kicking the dog out and I have to go get him,” I glance at the clock in Dan’s office, “in fifty-two minutes.”
“And do what with him?”
“That’s what I want to ask you. I could take him to another boarding place.”
“Good luck with that.” Dan frowns. “In Manhattan, kennels have long waiting lists. Most of our clients use house sitters, who take care of the pets and plants and deliveries while the residents are out of town.”
“So what do I do with the dog? Hire a house sitter?”
Dan raises his eyebrows. “Now, there’s an idea.”
“I don’t see how we can get one in an hour.”
“I do.” He looks at me. “We already have one. You. You’re bonded through our company and doing the rest of his property management. We’ll send Gavin a message about the dog and the new arrangement, and if he doesn’t like it, we’ll switch things up. Remember, Beryl, extra mile.”
The ease with which Dan makes this decision alarms me. He’s so fluid in the way he handles problems, I admire it.
I can’t do that. I fret.
Dan pulls out the keys to Gavin Slater’s apartment and drops them in my palm. “I think we’ve killed two birds with one stone. Now you’ve got a safe place to stay—at least for a while—and Gavin’s got a house sitter. I’ve been meaning to expand Keystone’s business to include specialty services like this.”
I still look skeptical, worry wrinkling my face.
“It’ll be fine. Lighten up.” Dan grins again and his optimism is contagious. I grab my messenger bag and head out to the street, bound for Barks in the Park.