Catch

Chapter 1

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.