“Text me the address.”
Thank Christ.
We disconnect and I send her the address. Then I notify the doorman that I’m expecting company and return to pillaging the cleaning supplies. I don’t know what half this stuff does, so I have to read the labels. It takes forever. By the time I find something for cleaning carpets and wrestle a scrap of the eviscerated towel from Oreo, the doorbell chimes.
I’m still in my sweat-soaked gym clothes, but I doubt Scarlett will notice, since the condo looks like a twister blew through. When I open the door, she’s standing there with an armload of supplies and something that might be a cage.
My heart leaps at the sight, but I’m not sure if it’s the prospect of reinforcements or the fact that, for the first time, her golden hair isn’t pulled back in a severe bun but falling in loose waves over her shoulders. There are streaks of pink in it I’ve never noticed before—because they were hidden in the bun—that are the exact same shade as Oreo’s collar.
How could I have ever thought this woman mousy?
Because you’re a damn fool.
Scarlett clears her throat. Probably because I’m staring.
“Welcome to the house of horrors.” I turn and gesture at the mess.
Her eyes grow wide and her brows creep skyward, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Then she gives herself a shake, casting off any surprise—or guilt—she felt at the sight of Oreo’s destruction. “This is nothing. We’ll have it cleaned up in no time.” She steps into the foyer and glances around. “Where’s Oreo?”
At the sound of her name, the dog comes bounding down the hall. When she reaches Scarlett, she jumps up and plants her stubby paws against her savior’s legs. Scarlett leans down to pet the dog, who gets even more excited and starts running circles around our feet.
Scarlett laughs, a light, sweet sound of unfettered joy so at odds with the woman who crashed into my boardroom a little over two weeks ago. As much as I’d like to join her, I can’t. I don’t have the luxury of standing around laughing when there’s so much work to be done. Both in the condo and for the Epos launch.
Tension pulls at my shoulders, reminding me to hurry the hell up. The sooner we clean up this mess, the sooner I can get to the Epos pre-registration numbers.
“Oreo, sit!” I order, taking a stern tone.
Surprise buoys my mood as the dog hunkers down. But she doesn’t sit. Nope. The little monster squats down and pees—on my foot.
Warm, wet urine soaks through the toe of my right sneaker, drenching my sock and my toes.
Irritation and disbelief flash through my veins, warring for dominance. “Did she just—”
I don’t get to finish my question. Scarlett cuts me off with a disapproving look. “If you want to avoid messes like this in the future, you need to take Oreo out every couple of hours until she’s house trained.”
“You think this is my fault?” I gesture again at Oreo’s path of destruction. “I was only at the gym for an hour!” Two hours, max.
Scarlett ignores me and scoops the dog up in her arms. Then she produces a leash from God knows where and clips it to the puppy’s rhinestone collar. “I’m taking Oreo for a quick walk.” She glances down at my sodden shoe. “You can get started on cleanup while we’re gone.”
The pair of them flounce out the door like I’m the asshole here.
Un-fucking-believable.
I watch them go, Scarlett’s hips swaying gently with every step she takes. Gone are the pencil skirts and wide-leg pants she normally wears, and in their place are a pair of black leggings that accentuate the soft swell of her hips and the perfect curve of her ass.
Hell, it’s almost enough to make me forget about Oreo’s reign of terror.
Almost.
For a second—maybe five—I consider locking the door behind her.
And what would that accomplish?
Absolutely nothing. I’d deprive myself of seeing that luscious ass again, and she’d just bring the dog to the office and drop it off again tomorrow.
Right now? I’m not sure which would be a bigger price to pay.
Chapter Twenty-One
