In any case, I love these doggies just as much as Vivian does, so I plan to make sure they’re happy while I’m taking care of them.
The chime of the antique grandfather clock in the study gets our attention.
“Two o’clock,” Vivian choruses. “I’d better get going. See you soon, my babies. Mommy’s going to miss you. And please do whatever Dahlia asks you to do, okay?”
“Have a safe trip, Ms. Chandler,” I tell her.
“Thanks, Dahlia. Oh, before I forget. We have a new neighbor. Jackson Knight. Remember his name.”
“Jackson Knight. Got it.”
“He’s a handsome young man. But you know how the billionaires living in this building are?”
I nod, but Vivian, a trust fund billionaire, is also one of them. I don’t know for certain what she means.
“He’s all business. Cold as ice. Curt and impolite. Hates dogs. Sheba has already wandered onto his balcony. He didn’t like that very much, so make sure you keep an eye on him. Sheba, I mean, not the neighbor,” she says lightly with eyebrows raised.
“Will do,” I tell her with a nod. “Bye, Ms. Chandler. You’d better hurry, or you’ll miss your flight!”
“Yes, I really should go. Take good care of them.”
“I will,” I assure her. “Everything will be great.”
Vivian sighs, turning to walk over to the elevator and the waiting concierge.
I remain in the doorway, waiting with the door ajar until the elevator doors open. With one final wave at her dogs, she allows the concierge to roll the luggage rack inside, steps on next to him, and they leave.
Finally. Deluxe everything awaits me, and all I have to do for three splendid weeks is take care of three munchkins I love to pieces. The five thousand big ones are just sweet, sweet icing on the cake.
It’s only as I lock the door and turn around that I notice Bailey is the only one looming in the foyer. Daisy has managed to open the balcony door, and both she and Sheba are romping around on the granite tile slabs out there. It’s a sight to see. Daisy’s as large as a pony, while Sheba can almost fit in both my hands. Hurrying across the foyer and living room, I make it onto the terrace just in time to see Sheba’s hindquarters squeeze through a tiny space under the privacy partition—to the neighbor’s balcony.
“Sheba, get back here, boy,” I call to him, squinting with one eye through the narrow opening between the exterior wall and the frosted glass partition. Sheba doesn’t make a sound, so I walk over to the thick limestone railing at the ledge of the terrace, and peer around the opaque glass to look for him. “Sheba?”
Sheba begins to bark excitedly. Then I hear the tap of men’s dress shoes hitting the granite floor. Trailing my eyes to the sound, I freeze. That’s when I see the not so happy yet smoking hot man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a well-tailored navy suit with white shirt, hovering his smartphone an inch from his ear.
Jackson Knight, is my guess.
And he’s staring at me.
No. More like glaring.
3
Jackson
Fuck.
This puny little mutt again.
It’s two in the afternoon, and I just got home after a close to twenty-three-hour negotiation meeting from hell. I’m exhausted as fuck. My phone won’t stop buzzing. I don’t need a whiny little nuisance yapping his fur-covered trap off—and licking my shoes on top of that. These babies are House of Testoni, for fuck’s sake.
I open my mouth, about to shout some choice fucking words over at my neighbor, Vivian, to put a leash on her runaway canine when I lock eyes with a girl I’ve never seen before.
Straight, jet black hair framing her heart-shaped face, big blue-gray eyes almost hidden by her grown out bangs, pale, creamy skin, slightly flushed from embarrassment and not a single blemish, and those full, pink lips I can’t even try to ignore. There’s not enough of her body to view, but her long neck, narrow collarbone, and slight swell at the top of her sweater-covered tits give away her small frame. For a split second, I wish she wasn’t mostly hidden by the glass partition between Vivian’s and my units—the only two condo units on the penthouse.
“I’m so sorry,” she says in the most hillbilly accent I’ve heard in ages, making ‘I’m so sorry’ sound like ‘Om sa sarry’. Except she uttered those words with her sexy as fuck pink lips, which already have an effect on my cock. “I’m not sure how Sheba fit under the partition. Can you pass him over to me?”
‘Nat sha’ instead of ‘not sure’.
‘Ha’, not ‘how’.
‘Portishan’, not ‘partition’.
‘Con ya poss him ava ta me?’
Fuck, I hate her accent, but my dick fucking loves it.
She reaches one dainty little hand out with her palm up. Does she actually think I’ll touch that little Sheba monster? More importantly, does she even realize we’re over forty stories up? The wind can pick up the pint-sized pooch, and his fall wouldn’t go well at all.
“No,” I tell her sharply.
My patience was wearing thin twenty-two hours ago. Right now, it’s nonexistent. She jumps slightly, her face blushing to a deeper shade of red at the sound of my voice, or it could be my tone. Fuck, maybe she’s just skittish. Either way, I don’t give a rat’s ass. This dog needs to be gone from my terrace, and this pretty distraction of a girl needs to back away slowly. Hopefully, I’ll never have to see her again. Or the little mutt.
Except they’re my new fucking neighbors. At least I think she is. I’ve never seen her before. Maybe she’s Vivian’s little sister or some relative from the sticks, not that they look anything alike. They damn well don’t act alike. Vivian would have her paws all over me by now, whereas this little country girl looks genuinely afraid of me.
She’s exactly how I like the women I fuck.
Timid.
A little afraid.
Brimming over with ingrained submissive tendencies.
Minus the backwoods accent.
“It’s not safe for her, doll,” I explain bluntly with a fresh dose of buyer’s remorse. I picked this place because I like my fucking privacy. “Come around to my front door. You can get your furball yourself.”
“Him, and it’s hair,” she says. “Sheba’s a male dog. And his coat is hair, not fur.”
Jesus fuck. She’s got time to give me a fucking lesson on these four-legged troublemakers? And why the hell am I hard as granite right now? “Just come to my door for him, the little hairball.”
“Oh, okay thank you, sir,” she chirps, calling me ‘sir’ as though I’m some fucking old geriatric, like my dad. “I’ll be right over.”
Country girl that my dick loves—that’s what I’m calling her for now—quickly disappears on Vivian’s side of the terrace. The realtor who sold me on this place is lucky I bought this place for cash. It’s private, he said. Perfect seclusion in the Upper West Side, he said. The lying, overselling, slick as fuck douchebag. I’d kick his ass and move the fuck out if I were leasing.
Returning inside to get the door, I’m followed by the yapping mongrel scampering underfoot. I make a point of taking careful steps to avoid it. Because House of Testoni, dammit. I’m not wrecking these twenty thousand dollar shoes for this mutt. Not that I’d miss the money, but these are custom made and imported. And comfortable as fuck. I’d have to wait at least a week to replace these fuckers.