Neighbors with Benefits (Anderson Brothers, #2)(8)

But he was bothered. Mortified, in fact. And he had nothing in his possession to get rid of the unanticipated pile of poop. Gaze glued to the pavement, he turned to lead the dog into his building, but before he could take three steps, a woman’s voice stopped him. “You’re not going to just leave that, are you? Not only is there a huge fine, it’s rude and nasty.”

“Well, no, I—”

“I bet you don’t even have a bag for that, huh?” Her harpy tone made him want to run away and abandon the dog and its leavings right there. But instead, he turned to face her.

It was the woman with the dog he’d seen earlier. She was short and in her late fifties, wearing a business suit from dozens of seasons ago. She reminded him a little of his secretary, Mildred, only younger. His tension eased a bit until he noticed the angry glares of people detouring around the pile of dog poop.

The woman gasped. “Oh, my God. You’re that antiques guy from the papers. The one who made the top ten most eligible bachelors in New York City!” She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of what was certainly an expression of horror. “Here,” she said, fiddling with a little cylinder on her dog’s leash handle. “Have one of my bags.” She held it out, grinning hugely, as the dogs checked each other out as dogs do.

Well, there was no escape from this. Resigned, he stuck his hand inside the little green bag like a glove, and prayed nobody was watching as he stooped to grab Shit Head’s… shit.

Click

It was an unmistakable sound and one he’d heard many times. Usually, he welcomed having his picture taken, always mindful to maintain his carefully crafted image.

Picking up dog shit was not part of that image.

Cringing, he straightened and shot a glance in both directions and then relaxed slightly as the woman with the dog shoved her smartphone into her pocket. At least the photo was in the possession of a businesswoman, and not the paparazzi. He rolled the bag inside out, and as he started to tie the top, the dogs made a playful circle around each other and the leash went taut, nearly causing him to drop the poop bag right along with his calm fa?ade.

“Mr. Anderson!”

So much for the calm fa?ade. This was the last thing he needed. Meeting a new client on the sidewalk outside his building while holding a dog leash in one hand and a bag of poop in the other was less than ideal. Shit, shit, shit.

Yes, that was the problem: shit with no trash can in sight. The woman and her dog had vanished into the crowd on the sidewalk, and he knew when he turned, he’d be face to face with Mr. Kawashima, who owned a large collection of samurai and Ming Dynasty artifacts he was interested in having Anderson Auctions broker. Prescribed or not, he couldn’t let some hairy, destructive, inconvenient, disobedient dog get in the way.

Subtly—yes, Michael Anderson was the king of subtlety—he tied the top of the bag of poop and slipped it into his front jacket pocket before he turned to face what he hoped to be the biggest client of his career.

The handshakes and introductions between Michael, Mr. Kawashima, and his interpreter on the street were awkward enough, but when the dog refused to get on the elevator, Michael almost lost his cool.

“Sorry,” he muttered, tugging hard on the leash while holding the elevator open with his shoulder. “Dog, come.” But the beast dug in to the carpet just outside the elevator entrance.

Mr. Kawashima whispered something in Japanese to the dog, and as if magically transformed by a spell, it relaxed and hopped onto the elevator.

What the hell? Michael moved and the door slid shut as the men spoke to each other in Japanese.

“Mr. Kawashima says that dogs feel emotions. The dog feels your fear.”

Fear? Michael Anderson didn’t fear anything. He looked at his tight expression reflected in the polished brass doors of the elevator. Well, maybe. He did fear losing this deal. But right that moment, anger was his predominant emotion. He was royally pissed at the dog and his shrink. Feel that, dog.

“Fear may not be the right word,” the interpreter continued. “Anxiety.”

The door slid open and Michael gestured for his guests to exit first. “Yes. That is correct. I’m anxious to learn about Mr. Kawashima’s collection.”

…

Michael stared at the unsigned contract on his desk. This had never happened to him before. Mr. Kawashima hadn’t said no to a business deal, but he hadn’t said yes, either.

“You okay?” his little brother asked. Chance was the company lawyer and sat in on all major contract negotiations—major like this one should have been.

“No.”

What the f*ck was wrong with him? It was like he couldn’t find solid ground for purchase and he was sinking in sludge the entire meeting. He wasn’t just losing his drive, he was losing his touch.

“You seemed distracted. That’s not like you.”

It sure as hell wasn’t. He rose from behind his desk once he was sure Mr. Kawashima had made it out of the building.

Chance leaned further back in the wing chair across from him. “What exactly were you thinking about during the meeting?”

“Shit.” He walked to his private office bathroom and deposited the bag from the street in the trashcan, letting the lid slam with a clang. “Shit, literally.” He avoided looking at his reflection as he washed his hands. “Specifically, the bag of shit residing in my suit pocket the entire meeting.” His brother hadn’t moved when he reentered the office. Chance was the most patient person he had ever known. He had a gift for remaining still and at ease even in the worst situations, possibly the result of all of his martial arts training. “I was so focused on keeping the damned dog under control on the way up here, I forgot about it being in my pocket until we started the meeting, then the timing was never right to interrupt.” He paced the wall of windows, too agitated to sit down. “Once I remembered, all I could think about was the bag in my pocket. Could they smell it? Was it going to break and ruin my suit? How could I get rid of it without stopping the meeting and offending Mr. Kawashima?”