Dirty Laundry

By Jennifer Ryder

Celebrity dog trainer Prudence Cassidy never imagined her life would be like this. Filming in Hollywood went haywire when she caught the charismatic Mr Hollywood's eye—but Prue doesn't have room in her life for complications. She's still recovering from retrograde amnesia so she flees to Robertson, home of the 'Big Potato' in country Australia, determined to start anew.

For Darius Dalton, family comes first. Always. His architectural dreams can wait while he tends bar in the family restaurant in Robertson, dazzling patrons with his cocktails whilst maintaining the complex he built with his late father. Day in, day out, work is all he sees—until Prue.

When she moves into his apartment building, Darius falls head over paw for the animal-loving brunette—and it seems she feels the same way. Their chemistry is undeniable. The more time they spend together, the more Darius questions if he can have it all: a life outside of work, and love.

When Mr Hollywood himself comes to town, intent on winning her back and casting her simple life in the spotlight, who will Prue choose?

That's the thing about the past—your dirty laundry will always find you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Ryder
• Release date: Jun 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224517046

Book preview

Chapter One

Prue

Truth be told, I prefer dogs. For company, and even conversation—although it’s largely one-sided.

That’s why I couldn’t say no to taking Harry in. Whilst an apartment is not ideal for him, he’ll make my new place feel like more of a home than it will on my own.

Juggling the last box of journals into the modern art deco foyer, decorated with splashes of black, white, and gold, I press two on the lift panel and usher my red sausage dog inside. He stares back longingly towards the entrance to the nearby restaurant.

Last one, I promise him. Then I’ll give you an early dinner. Hungry and no doubt exhausted, the old dog. Rather than soaking up the glorious spring afternoon sun beaming through the large timber arch window in the lounge room, he’s insisted on accompanying me for every trip to my old green Jeep and back. It’s as if he doesn’t want to let me out of his sight in this new town. I don’t blame him. This move is an adjustment for both of us.

A hand jams between the matte steel of the lift doors just as they near closing.

Harry barks as the doors retreat and scratches at the flooring like a bull preparing to charge a matador.

Down, boy, I say. The last thing I want to do is upset my new neighbours. Shoosh.

An olive-skinned man steps into the lift and crouches at my feet, his black Doc Martens shining in the fluorescent light. I swallow hard as he ruffles the top of Harry’s head, his white, collared shirt rolled up at the sleeves and revealing toned forearms. He only seems like he’s a few years older than me.

I swallow hard as he ruffles the top of Harry’s head. He doesn’t— Like that.

Harry growls, but it’s more of a play growl, not an I’m-going-to-chew-through-your-anklebone growl.

Hey there, big fella, the man croons, silencing the dog.

Hmm. Not like Harry to back down in the face of a stranger.

What floor? I ask as the doors close.

Still at my feet, the man tilts his head back, his man-bun shifting with the movement. Dark brown eyes connect with mine. He’s quite the snack. He points to the lit up number in the panel. Two—looks like we’re headed in the same direction. He stands and gestures towards my box. Can I give you a hand with that?

I smile as the scent of sandalwood and spice drifts around me. Hmm. No, I’m good, thanks.

The lift jolts into gear.

Still not running right, he mutters under his breath.

The strap of my tank top slips off my shoulder. Sensing the stranger’s gaze, I shuffle the box to free a hand and right my clothing. Just my luck to be wearing my comfiest clothes when I get to share a lift with a man worthy of a good ogling.

Harry moves at my feet, drawing my attention downward. The dog’s leg is cocked and aimed at the man’s ankle where the jeans fabric is darkening.

Balls.

Harry! I yell. Hold it. I’ve had to clean up his pee in the foyer twice already today. Now this?

He lowers his leg and scoots behind me. My grip on the box fails, several volumes of The Chronicles of Prudence Cassidy tipping onto the floor as the lift arrives on level two.

The man simply laughs, deep rumbles from his chest. He collects my journals and sets them back in the box. I get it, he says as the doors open. He’s trying to show me who’s boss, aren’t you, Harry?

Even though I haven’t had the dog long, I’m leaning towards it more being a response to anxiety rather than the marking of his territory. I just don’t get why he had to relieve himself on a man that likely lives on our floor.

The dog bolts from the lift, leaving me to face his mess, heat prickling my cheeks.

I’m so sorry. I eye the damp patch on the sexy stranger’s jean cuff. The least I can do is clean them for you. I just need to hook up the washing machine.

We exit the lift into the small foyer, my apartment to the left, his obviously to the right as there are only two on the top floor. I set the box down at my feet.

Sure. He starts to unbuckle his black leather belt.

Woah. I hold up my hand.

His long fingers pause at the top button of his jeans. You’re right; we just met. Don’t know what got into me. I’m usually one to take it slow. He winks and refastens his belt. Just kidding.

A laugh splutters up my throat.

I’m sure you have a boyfriend, anyhow. I’m Darius. Live next door. He thumbs behind him toward the large, navy matte-finish door with the number six on a gold-plated plaque on it. This is my place. Are you ... moving in?

I nod and extend my hand. I’m Prue. Number five. Obviously. We shake, his hand warm against my eternally cold fingers. And it’s just me and Harry.

He glances at the box on the floor between us and back up. Welcome to The Chambers.

Thank you. The development was named after the old council chambers that had been refurbished. I couldn’t resist the care in which the aged building had been revamped into something stylish and modern.

Guessing you have a long-term lease?

I shake my head. I bought it. I couldn’t resist the lure of a small town like Robertson, in the heart of the lush southern highlands, close to beautiful national parks and rich history. After a month in Byron Bay post coming back from the States, I was ready to set down roots. Sometimes I wonder if the old me would’ve ended up here. All I know is I had to get away from the shadows of my past. Being so close to it wasn’t healthy.

He tilts his head, regarding me. Probably pondering how someone so young could afford to buy a place as nice as this. But he doesn’t need to know the details.

Good for you. I hope you’ll be happy here.

Me too.

And Harry. He leans around me, as if looking for the small animal.

Yeah, and Harry. Don’t worry; he’ll be hiding. Always does that when he’s in trouble.

He smirks. Does he do that a lot?

Huh? Pee?

He laughs. Get into trouble.

Just in the company of handsome strangers.

His brows jump, as if he doesn’t know he’s a walking GQ magazine, even in a simple jeans-and-shirt ensemble.

I fish my housekey from my cargo pants pocket and pick up the box. Nice to meet you, Darius. I’ll see you around.

He scans my face and smiles. You will.

When I make my way to the left, Harry is sitting at my front door. I snort and shake my head. I can’t believe he just did that. Way to go, tinkles.

I let him in and he meanders over to his fluffy bed in the sun and flops, not even caring to tuck in his stumpy back legs.

I stack the box with the others full of journals, which I’ll need to buy a bookcase for. Or two or three. Every day, I write at least a page. It’s like an insurance policy. I don’t ever want to forget again. Apart from the last few minutes, today was uneventful, so my new neighbour will no doubt be introduced in today’s entry.

Three knocks sound on my door. Harry barks and looks to me, clearly unimpressed with the interruption.

Stay put, I say and walk to the entrance.

When I look through the peephole, Darius is standing there, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, a metal tool in his other. Harry whines at my feet.

When I open the door, the man’s dark eyes glance at me. I can hook up your washer if you want?

Is that what he’s been thinking since we parted ways? That’s sweet of him, but does this guy have ulterior motives?

I lean against the doorjamb and fold my arms beneath my chest. In a hurry to take off your pants?

Ha, no. It’s just some machines are tricky with the laundry cupboard setup. Happy to help.

I step back and usher him in. That’d be nice. Thank you.

As he walks past the kitchen island bench, he does a double take. That’s a lot of plants.

I promise once I find a spot for them all, it won’t look so much like a nursery in here. They’re kind of an addiction now. I’m trying to rein it in. I stroke the leaf of a Ficus palm tenderly and move it next to Harry’s bed. They all need a little TLC, especially with this move. Despite Aunt Jill doing her best tending to them while I was abroad.

No, they’re cool.

He continues on down the hall past the bathroom, as if he’s been here before. Of course he knows his way around. His apartment is probably the same layout. Duh.

I wanna have some plants in the bar, but it doesn’t get much direct sunlight.

Peace Lilys, I blurt out like the indoor plant nerd I am. They’ll do well and will tell you when they need water. Watermelon peperomia are pretty and don’t need much light either.

He tilts his head. Pepper what?

Peperomia. Striped opal-shaped leaves, like a watermelon, and it flowers in the summer.

He nods and places the tool down on the bench space beside the tub. Cool. Darius grips the sides of the washing machine and pulls it forward as if it doesn’t weigh a thing. He leans over it, jeans tightening around the rounded globes of his butt. He fiddles with something at the back and plugs in the electrical cord to the power point.

Do you have, like, a bar in your apartment? I ask.

He chuckles. No. Dalton’s Bar and Grill on the ground floor.

Oh. That explains what he’s wearing. Fitting for working behind a bar.

The food smells have been driving me crazy all morning.

I’ll tell the chef you said that. I guarantee you won’t find a better arancini ball.

I’m too embarrassed to ask what kind of ball he’s referring to for fear of looking like I don’t know a thing about food, I politely smile and dip my head. There’s still so much to learn about everything.

He opens the cupboard beside the washing machine and kneels on the pale grey marble tiles. His head disappears beneath.

The bar can get a bit noisy from time to time, especially in the summer, but we’re working on having harmony with the unit-holders here.

I usually try and avoid loud places. The over-stimulation can bring on headaches, but I’m still tempted to check it out.

We’ve only been in business since this time last year, he continues after a pause. Thankfully, things have picked up.

His business? He looks too young to have his own place.

Do you work there full-time? I ask instead.

He shuffles back and turns, holding out his hand. Hand me that shifter?

Oh, sure. I pass the tool to him from where he left it beside the sink, and he sets about connecting the hose to a tap on the far wall.

Six days a week, usually, he says, reminding me of my question.

Doesn’t leave much downtime.

He shrugs in answer as he secures the other pipe to the white drainage coming from beneath the sink. Family business. Mum runs the kitchen; I manage the bar.

I’ll have to come check it out. But first I’ll have to do a Google search for arancini ball and see what on earth that is. Is it savoury or sweet? Like a protein ball?

He stands and closes the cupboard, slipping the shifter into his back jeans pocket. What do you do for a job? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.

I’m suddenly very aware of him being in my personal space, in this small room.

I clear my throat, which has become dry. I work with dogs. At twenty-two, I’m living my dream. The new me’s dream, anyway.

Like a dog-sitter?

Like a trainer. But I’ve also done my share of dog sitting. It’s hard to say no to people, especially when you have an attachment to their pet, and some don’t cope well being away from their owners.

He frowns. I know exactly what he’s thinking.

I hold up my hand in front of my chest. Don’t judge me by my current furry friend. Harry is a rescue. We’re working on his urge to pee on everything. Doing my best to teach an old dog new tricks.

How old?

Fourteen.

You rescued him?

When I’d learned that Harry’s owner had passed, with no family to take him on, I’d had to step in. I’m a sucker for a dog needing a home. I’ve fostered a few dogs over the last few years, but this is the first opportunity I’ve had to keep one permanently. In good consciousness, I couldn’t take a pet on full-time with so much travel on the cards. Not ideal being in an apartment, but we’ll manage. You don’t think the body corporate will have a problem? I didn’t even think to check. Whoops.

He smirks. Nah, you’ll be okay. He looks back towards the washer and then to me. You’re good to go.

Thanks. I appreciate it.

He dips his head and moves out into the hallway. I’ll get out of your hair.

Unable to resist the way his jeans move, hugging his waist and strong-looking legs, I follow my neighbour through to the entrance. Harry is waiting, wagging his tail, an old tennis ball in his mouth.

Darius leans down and rubs the top of Harry’s head. Another time, little guy. I need to get back to work. Happy hour is nearly upon us.

I twist my wrist to scan my watch. Almost five. Strange they do it on a Wednesday, but maybe it’s a slow night for them.

There’s a courtyard if you ever wanna bring Harry, he says.

I tilt my head to the side. Darius has thought of everything. One thing I’ve noticed about this little town is that owners love to take their dogs out. They’re part of the family, so I can’t see why they can’t dine with us, but within reason.

Thanks, I’ll see how we go. Trust me, he’s putting on a brave face, but Harry will flop the moment you’re out of sight.

Darius lowers his chin and gives a soft smile. Is he disappointed? Well, I’ll see you ’round.

I return the smile and open the door for him. You will.

When he walks out into the hall, my heart flutters and I shut the door. Not that we really talked, but it’s the first time in a while I’ve spent with a man. And a striking one at that.

I could have hooked up the washing machine myself. I’m a mean Google searcher, but I need to be more social. I refuse to be a hermit when I’ve been given a second chance.

But a man can come later. First things first: I need to establish my business here.

I’m in my time-to-get-serious era.

***

Such a clever girl! the woman cries, offering her small dog a treat. We’ve had a couple of sessions together since I moved to Robertson a week ago.

First time pet owners are the best. It’s like they’re opening their eyes to a whole new world and will do anything and everything for their pet.

After spending the better part of an hour teaching Queenie, a beautiful King Charles Cavalier puppy, to walk on the lead, we’ve made great progress. Queenie no longer wants to chew on it, like everything else she’s attacked at home.

She’s doing great, but like I said before, I can recommend a few teething toys, which should save your next pair of heels. I’ve a few in the Jeep if you want to take a look? No pressure.

You are incredible, Prue. Really, Georgina says and places her hand on my shoulder, tapping her perfectly manicured nails against my shirt.

Happy to help. You’re both doing great. Because it’s not simply about training the dog—it’s also teaching owners how to communicate.

Queenie steps towards Georgina and sits, glancing up as if waiting for further instructions.

This is so good. Georgina turns her head towards me, her dark amber eyes crinkling at the sides with her wide smile.

She’s a beautiful dog. I lean down, meeting the pup’s intense gaze. Another animal I could easily fall in love with. Oh, don’t forget we have a dog social coming up on Saturday at Centennial Park in Bowral at nine a.m. If Queenie’s had all her shots, you’re more than welcome to come.

Oh, that sounds like fun. Georgina flicks her long brown hair over her shoulder and hooks a hand on her rounded hip, her tight activewear highlighting her toned muscles. Maybe I’ll meet a handsome owner, too.

I stand. There’s every chance. Tickets are on my Facebook page, and I’ll have a coffee van on sight, hot drinks for us, and puppy-chinos and homemade peanut butter cookie treats for our furry friends. Which reminds me, I need to stock up on peanut butter. I’ll be baking in my spare time over the next few days, but I’ll make enough so there are takeaway bags to sell if anyone is interested. I haven’t met a dog yet that won’t eat these treats.

That sounds amazing. So what about you? Single?

She’s not the first of my clients to ask. Why is it that people ask the question so freely?

There are enough males in my life keeping me busy, I say.

Georgina’s perfectly laminated brows jump. Oh, do tell.

I shake my head with a laugh. They just all have four legs.

You know, my brother is single.

I motion towards my car, ignoring her comment. I don’t need someone to matchmake for me. Whether I’m ready or not, I want a relationship to happen organically. How about I get those teething toys?

She narrows her eyes and smirks. Sure.

With Queenie leading the way, a little slack in the leash, we walk to my car at the edge of the oval’s parking area. I turn to face her. I mean, I’m sure your brother is nice, it’s just—

I get it. Georgina bumps her shoulder against mine. I do. Every time I see my mother lately, bless her, she asks if I’ve met a nice boy to bring home. It’s exhausting.

My shoulders drop with a sigh. I can imagine. But I can’t know, because I don’t have family who nag me about such things—or anything these days. It’s more the expectation I have for myself at twenty-two that I should be in a relationship. And it’s not simply about being alone. It’s about sharing experiences and growing not only as a person, but as a unit—a family.

I mean, it’s not like I haven’t tried. I’m twenty-seven, and I’ve had my share of boyfriends. Dating is ...don’t even get me started on dating apps.

I’ve stayed clear of apps, I say as we make it to the Jeep. I open the back door and pull out the small crate filled with toys and harnesses. I don’t want an algorithm to decide who’d be a good match for me.

You know, I never looked at it that way.

I take off the crate lid and offer it to the woman. After a beat she selects a toy, not even asking the price before requesting an invoice for it and the social entry fee.

Queenie and I will see you on Saturday, then.

Thanks, Georgina. You will.

She smiles and picks up Queenie, the dog licking at the side of her face. Please, call me George.

George, then.

And just like that, I feel a little bit more settled in my new home.

Chapter Two

Darius

Since the moment we crossed paths in the lift, she’s been on my mind.

Prue.

I wasn’t expecting the new owner on my floor to be someone as young, as knockout beautiful as her. In a loose pair of beige cargo pants and a singlet top that gave a tease of flesh at her midriff, it was all I could do to keep my tongue in my mouth. And I started to take off my pants. Idiot. It had been a joke, but I hope it didn’t give off the wrong vibe.

It was as if I’d forgotten how to behave around a gorgeous woman. This self-imposed dry spell is clearly screwing with my brain.

But it’s better this way.

Happy hour came and went that day, but that didn’t stop me searching for her, for the long, dark waves of hair I wanted to run my fingers through. The occasional dog bark would send me out to the bar courtyard in search or staring out my window into the building’s private gardens for a glimpse.

For the last week, the