I should know by now to never let Sheba, Daisy and Bailey go off-leash anywhere in Central Park.

Especially Sheba.

We’ve been out for a longer walk as it’s Saturday morning. They need the exercise and fresh air, as do I. The outer loop of the large, multi-acre area is several miles around, so even a twenty-minute mile pace would get us back home in well over an hour. I throw in a super-short stop in the off-leash park at the southeast tip of Central Park, and what happens?

Sheba happens, that’s what.

He’s the alpha of this pack, and he never lets me or Daisy forget it. Bailey, on the other hand, is laid back to the point of marshmallow. There isn’t much that gets her going anymore.

I let Sheba off of his leash for one second, and what does he do? He bolts, chasing what I have to guess is a very unlucky squirrel. I don’t even get a chance to remove Daisy’s and Bailey’s leashes before Daisy herself takes off behind Sheba, dragging me and Bailey with her.

“Sit, Daisy!” I shout, but she is more interested in catching up with Sheba, who crashes through a cluster of bushes and mud puddles, barking loudly as he follows his target.

By the time Sheba slows down, we’re all covered in leaves, icy mud, and New York debris. He comes to a stop on the sidewalk next to Columbus Circle, sits at the side of the curb, tail thumping excitedly as he barks at the vehicles in the street that are waiting for the red light to turn green. Daisy finally stops dragging Bailey and me, and takes a spot beside Sheba. Grateful for the brief opportunity to get Sheba back on his leash, I take him into my arms.

“What are you doing, boy?” I ask him, breathing heavily as he licks some mud off my face. “Why did you run off like that?”

As I clasp the leash onto his collar, I should be asking myself why Sheba stopped here. Then I get my answer. The shame hits me as I see who he and Daisy are wagging their tails for. The back window of a black town car rolls down, revealing Jackson Knight with a look of amusement on his face.

“You,” he says to me.

I wipe my face with my free hand, but realize I’m smearing more mud across what’s already there. “I have a name, Mr. Knight.”

“You walk those dogs this far away from the condo?” he asks, smiling. “Or are they walking you?”

“We’re on our way home now,” I say, aware that I’ve ignored his question, and wishing the traffic lights would change so Jackson’s limo driver can finally move off and take him wherever they’re going.

An unexpected look of concern flashes over his face for a split second. He turns to face forward, says something to his driver, then turns back to look at me. “You can’t walk all those miles looking like that,” he remarks.

“We don’t need any help,” I answer, but his door swings open and he steps out. The traffic lights change, and his town car rolls off with the rest of the waiting vehicles.

“Have you taken a good look at yourself?” he asks me.

“What?” I ask defensively. “It’s just a bit of mud.”

He shrugs off his spring jacket and wraps it protectively around my shoulders. “It’s not just mud. You’re soaking wet. And you’re freezing.”

“It’s no big deal. Really, I’m—”

“Just come with me,” he says, cutting me off. “You and Vivian’s mutts can dry off at my office.”

“It’s fine,” I try to convince him, but we’re halfway to the crosswalk already. Daisy and Bailey are no help at all, following at my side with zero resistance. Even Sheba’s tail is flicking against my arm. He likes this guy?

The crosswalk lights change, and Jackson puts an arm on my shoulder, guiding me across the kitty corner to the entrance of an office building. “Sterling is my driver. He’s finding a spot in the underground parking for now. I’ll make sure he gets you home once you’re cleaned up.”

“I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Knight, but we’re all right. Besides, nothing at your office can get these mud stains out. And it’ll take hours for my clothes to dry off. We’re okay. Really.”

“You’ll dry off, get a change of clothes, and my driver will take you home,” he repeats more firmly as he swipes his building access card over an entry control.

“But I—” I start, however he flashes me a glance that tells me he won’t give in to my resistance. Jackson gestures toward the glass entrance door, so I follow his eyes in that direction. “What?”

“Take a look at your reflection.”

Adjusting my focus to the dark reflective glass of this ultra-modern office tower, I check myself out, and have to cover my mouth to quiet the horrific gasp that leaves my throat.

Good Lord.

I’m not just a mess.

I’m a disaster. My hair is dripping wet, there are brown, dead leaves and mud everywhere, and shit, a small piece of tree branch it sticking out of one side of my head, just above my ear.

“Fine,” I tell him, and the hot shame of his seeing me this way hits me hard. I bow my head and keep my eyes focused on Sheba and the leashes in my hand.

“And you’re welcome,” he announces, leaning down to me with his lips close to my ear.

“Right. Thank you for…helping me out.”

Jackson nods over at the two security guards at the building lobby information desk. They politely wave him up, doing their best not to react to the sight of me. We take the first of two side-by-side marble elevator bays and step into the waiting elevator. Using his swipe card again once we’re all loaded inside, he presses the button to the fiftieth floor. I can’t look directly at him, but I know he’s watching the dogs and me, and he’s more than just a little amused.

“Do all your pre-veterinary classmates take these kinds of torturous pet-sitting gigs, or is this your thing?” he asks when we’re halfway to his floor.

“It’s not torture.”

His eyebrows raise, adding to his quizzical expression. “Okay. Dangerous.”

“Caring for Vivian’s dogs isn’t dangerous either. Sure, Sheba’s a bit of a handful, but they’re well-behaved, mostly.”

On hearing his name, Sheba crinkles his little nose and stretches his body out in Jackson’s direction. It’s his way of letting people know he likes them and wants them to pet him. But Jackson doesn’t pay him any mind.

“Sheba’s the handful?” Jackson asks. “The little puppy? Not this huge one that’s almost as big as a horse?”

I nod. “Daisy takes her cues from Sheba.”

“You’re missing the point, but okay. Follow me.”

The company name, ‘Knights Capital Management Group’ is written in huge, silver letters as soon as the elevators open onto the floor. He leads me past a large, open-concept reception area, which is empty, and I assume it’s because we’re here on a Saturday.

“Gemma, are you around?” Jackson calls out as he turns the first bend to a row of large fishbowl-styled offices—rooms devoid of any privacy at all, where all four walls are made of glass.

“Yes, Mr. Knight,” comes a voice at the end of the long hall. “Good morning.”

A middle-aged blonde about my size emerges from one of the fishbowls and catches sight of us. I’m fully expecting her to size me up with a cold, judging glare. After all, I’m in the hallway of a classy, expensive office, soaking wet, tracking in filthy mud, and I have three dogs, not just one. The woman’s eyebrows do raise as we make eye contact, but I immediately relax because her face shows genuine concern more than anything else. She looks over at me and smiles politely. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Hi.”

“Gemma, you’re not afraid of dogs, right?”

“Um, that’s right, Mr. Knight,” she answers.

“Great. This is Dahlia. Dahlia, Gemma.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Gemma greets me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Miss Gemma,” I answer.

“Take my neighbor’s pets and help get them cleaned up for me, will you?”

“Of course, Mr. Knight.” She reaches out and takes Daisy’s and Bailey’s leashes from my hand, then gives me a nod as she cradles Sheba in one arm. “Hi puppy,” she says to Sheba, who goes willingly. “I’ll be in the break room. They look thirsty.”

“Great. Thanks. Is Jace here yet?”

“Yes, sir. He’s in his office.”

“Thanks, Gemma.” Jackson turns back toward where we came from. “Come with me, doll,” he instructs me.

“I shouldn’t leave them alone,” I tell him as we go past the elevators and take a bend down another corridor. This one is lined with frosted glass walls and mahogany doors, with boardrooms on one side, and larger, more private offices on the other.

“The dogs aren’t alone. They’re with my assistant.” He stops at the office with his name etched onto a sign on the door. Jackson Knight. Senior VP, Investment Strategy. Pushing it open, he steps aside to let me enter. “I have to take care of a few things. Check the closet on the left for some clean shirts and slacks. They won’t fit you, but it’s better than what you’re wearing right now. The door beside the closet is my private restroom. Wait in here when you’re finished. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I don’t know what to say to him as I manage to make eye contact with his piercing blue eyes that stare down at me, but the words “thank you” tumble out, and I shyly slip past him to get myself put together again.

Jackson walks off, and his office door closes behind me. I’m alone in his office, an unusual mix of glass, modern leather furniture and classic mahogany bookshelves, and one large desk.

Just as he explained, I open the door on the left and find a walk-in closet with several business suits in dry cleaning bags on one side. There’s also a column of shelves with socks, toiletries, and brand new men’s office shirts still in their packaging. Grabbing a shirt, a pair of socks and one of the dry cleaning bags, I carry them into his private bathroom and hang them on the hook behind the door.

Before undressing, I turn on the faucet at the sink, letting the water warm up.

I can’t bear to look in the mirror, but also can’t not look. It’s worse than I thought. If there’s a God, he’ll do me the honor of opening up the ground and swallowing me up to save me from the extreme embarrassment of having to face Jackson and his assistant again. But that does not happen for me. I quickly get out of my outerwear and clothes, keeping on my bra and panties, which are the only items that aren’t muddy or soaking wet on me.

Pulling one of the two clean hand towels from the nearby rack, I set it down on the counter beside me and wash my hands thoroughly before ducking my head under the warm water. It takes a couple of minutes to clean off all the foul-smelling Central Park mud, leaves and rain water. As I clear off the debris, I’m already expecting that it’ll cost an arm and a leg to take these clothes I’m borrowing from Jackson to the dry cleaners. Not that I have a choice now.

Once I’m finished with my hair, I wrap the towel around my head and straighten up to dry it off. My thick, waist-length hair will need way more than this little towel can handle, even if it’s the plushest, most expensive thing to ever make contact with my body. It’s only on reaching for the second towel on the wall that I realize something that causes me to momentarily freeze where I stand—in just my bra and panties.

I’m not alone.