The Morgans of New York #5

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Maren

“Dudley’s daddy can’t keep it in his pants.” I flick a wrist toward my laptop screen. “I have another five DMs from women this morning.”

“You have even more responses to your post on the Manhattan Lost and Found Dog group?” My roommate, Arietta Voss, comes marching into the dining room to get a better look.

I glance up and take in her outfit for the day. For a twenty-two-year-old petite blonde with gray eyes, Arietta looks nothing like you would expect her to.

The hem of the frumpy navy blue skirt wrapped around her waist hits her legs mid-calf. It’s not half as bad as the lime green blouse she’s buttoned up to her neck.

“You must still be beating the men off with a stick, Arietta.”

She lets out a laugh. “I am trying to be professional, Maren.”

“You’re never going to get that sexy beast of a boss of yours in bed if you keep dressing like that.”

Her eyes widen behind her dark-colored, rectangular eyeglasses. “Dominick Calvetti is still in Italy, and besides, I would never sleep with someone I hate.”

“You hate him as much as I hate my vibrator,” I quip.

With a shake of her head, she crosses our apartment to pull a bottle of orange juice from the fridge.

Technically, it’s my apartment. If we’re getting down to actual specifics, it belongs to my father. He bought this three thousand foot dream on the twentieth floor of a high rise in Tribeca as a gift for me.

It’s not a standard gift, though. There are terms, and I’m already in violation of one of them.

I lost my job yesterday.

I need to stay gainfully employed to keep this lavish roof over my head.

Keeping it over Arietta’s head is important to me too. We met at a vintage jewelry store a year ago. Arietta mentioned that she was looking for a place to live, and even though she’s six years younger than I am, I invited her to move in.

We’re as close as sisters now.

After pouring herself a glass of juice, she bends down to stroke her hand over Dudley’s head. “How are you today, sweetheart?”

Arietta has been calling him that since I found him wandering the street last night without a collar.

A whole host of responses to my posting on the Manhattan Lost and Found Dog group have clued me into his name.

They also directed me toward his irresponsible owner.

Keats Morgan.

Mr. Morgan is a twenty-nine-year-old sports agent. His client list is impressive, but that’s not why he’s so popular in this city.

Every reply to my posting about the lost dog has come from a woman.

Twenty-three women have messaged me to say that they met Dudley when they spent the night with Keats.

I push my curly red hair back behind my ears. “I sent Keats a DM on Instagram, but so far, he hasn’t responded. When I called his office just now, the woman who answered the phone put me on hold and then hung up on me.”

“I’d get fired if I tried that trick.” Arietta bites her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. I can ask at work if there are any available positions.”

Arietta works as an assistant at a wealth management firm. My background is in public relations. “You’re an angel, Arietta, but I’m going to put out some feelers today.”

I’ll do that very quietly, so my dad doesn’t get wind of my employment status.

“If you know the address to Mr. Morgan’s office, I can drop the dog off on my way to work,” Arietta offers.

Keats Morgan is all kinds of gorgeous, and I haven’t been on a date in two months. I could use a glimpse of something tall, green-eyed, and handsome today.

“I’ll get dressed and head over to his office.” I point at the cute black and tan Yorkshire Terrier sitting on the floor watching us. “Say your goodbyes to Dudley because he’s about to be reunited with the man who can’t keep him on a leash.”

“What the ever-loving-fig bar are you doing with Dudley?”

“Huh?” I question the way-too-good-looking man in front of me.

His black hair looks like it was once perfectly styled, but a wayward lock has curled onto his forehead. His green eyes pierce into me as he crosses his arms over his broad chest.

If gold medals were awarded for sexy forearms, Keats Morgan would be world champion. I should thank him for taking the time to roll up his shirtsleeves today.

This man is the definition of hot-as-hell, but what did he just say to me?

“Are you listening to me, Mary?” He pokes a finger in the air toward me. “Why the hell do you have Dudley? Goddammit, I swore. Shit. I did it again.”

I shake my head because that is a lot to absorb.

“My name is Maren,” I repeat for the second time.

I introduced myself when I got off the elevator, marched toward his office, and found the door ajar. The desk outside was vacant, so his receptionist or assistant, or whoever should be fielding his calls and visitors, is MIA.

“Forgive me for that, Maren.” He flashes a dimpled grin before he lets out a sneeze.

His bicep flexes beneath the thin fabric of his blue and white striped button-down shirt as he raises his hand to cover his nose.

“Bless you,” I mutter.

His right brow arches. “I’m too far gone for that.”

Shaking my head, I push Dudley toward him because my hand is now dripping with puppy saliva. He’s an affectionate little dog, but I don’t do animal kisses.

Keats sneezes again, backing up as he does. “Get him the hell away from me. Heck. I meant heck.”

Glancing around, I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe where the hottest guy in the world crossed paths with a charming nerd, and Keats Morgan was created.

“Mr. Morgan.” A woman with long brown hair dressed in a tailored white suit glides into his office. “I’m back from my break.”

The woman stares a path through me when she catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m Maren,” I say to her even though I doubt she cares. “I’m here to return Mr. Morgan’s dog.”

Maybe this woman will take Dudley off my hands so I can get the hell out of here.

“He’s not my dog.” Keats looks directly at the woman in the white suit. “You were supposed to take care of this, Jamie.”

“I did.” She approaches him. “I took care of it.”

“Then why the hell is he with her?” His arm waves in my direction.

“You said hell,” she points out.

“What?” he barks.

Dudley does too.

I try to calm the dog with a kiss on the head.

“You swore.” Jamie sighs. “You know what that means, sir?”

“You’re fired.”

My gasp gets lost in the sound of Jamie’s almost scream. “What, sir?”

“You are fired,” Keats repeats.

“Because I pointed out that you swore?” Jamie tosses her hair behind her shoulders. “You told me to do that.”

“I entrusted you with Dudley.” He steps toward me but then takes two measured steps back. “You told me you’d take excellent care of him, and she found him on the street.”

Jamie looks at me. “Where did you find him, Mary?”

“Her name is Maren.” Keats shoots me a glance before he turns his attention back to Jamie. “Why the fuck does it matter where she found him?”

“Sir, again you…”

“Swore,” Keats interrupts her. “I sure as hell did, and I will again if I goddamn feel like it. You gave me your word that you’d take care of my sister’s dog until she gets back to Manhattan. You failed, so you’re fired.”

Jamie stomps a shoe against the marble floor. “I am going to take this up with Human Resources.”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” Keats pushes on the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. “I want you out of here now.”

“I’ll go.” She glances at me. “This is all your fault.”

I stalk toward her with Dudley in my arms. “How so?”

“You should have just let him be.” Her finger trails in the air in front of Dudley’s face.

“He’s a lot of work. He barks too much, and he squirmed out of his collar when he was with the dog walker.

I couldn’t deal with it, so I gave him to my sister.

Dudley must have slipped out of his collar again when she took him for a walk. ”

“Get the hell out,” Keats orders. “You have two minutes to vacate the building before I call security.”

“Fine.” Jamie turns on her heels. “I hated working for you anyway. You can tell the poor soul that you hire to replace me that I wish them luck. You’re a monster.”