Appetizers arrive. Apparently Armstrong took the liberty of ordering for us prior to our arrival. A selection of tapas is placed on the table, including smoked salmon and sautéed calamari. Usually I’m a fan of seafood, but my recent unintentional fasting makes anything with actual flavor seem rather unappealing. I go with the safest option: baked pita chips, skip the hummus, and I order pasta primavera; the plainer the better.
“You must be looking forward to getting your feet wet on this trip,” Armstrong says to Bancroft before popping an oyster—he decided they were a necessity—much to my stomach and my gag reflex’s dismay.
Bancroft lifts a shoulder. “It is what it is. Now that my rugby career is over, I don’t have much of an option but to immerse myself in the family business.”
I stop making patterns in the pool of olive oil on my plate with my pita triangle and check him out again. Now his size makes sense, as do the scars and the slightly imperfect nose. “You played professional rugby?”
He turns his attention to me, a half-smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. “I did. For seven years.”
“And you quit to take over your family’s business?”
“No. I blew out my knee.”
“You can’t recover from that?”
“I can, but if I have another accident like that there’s a good chance I won’t ever walk without assistance. I didn’t think it was worth the risk, and the agreement was, when my rugby career ended, I’d work with my father.” He doesn’t seem particularly excited about that. I completely understand his lack of enthusiasm, it’s the reason I’m still sitting here, trying to figure out how to get this man to let me move into his house despite how embarrassing this is.
“Rugby’s a pretty violent sport.” Wow. What an excellent conversationalist I am today.
“I prefer the term aggressive. Do you watch?”
“I don’t have a favorite team or anything, but I went to a couple of games when I visited Scotland a few years ago. I guess that aggression would work well if it translates from the field into the business world.” This is my way of finding out what kind of business Bancroft’s family runs.
“Hopefully I can find the same level of passion for hotel management as I did for rugby,” he says with some disdain.
“I’m sure it won’t be difficult to transfer your Harvard MBA skill set to the Mills empire.” Armstrong pats him on the back.
Mills? Holy crap. “The luxury hotel chain?” I ask.
“That’s the one.” He gives me a tight smile.
Mills hotels are legendary for their spas and extensive services. They’re not just a place to sleep, they’re an experience. At least that’s what the commercials say. I don’t even want to think about what his family is worth, although it wouldn’t take much to find out.
Armstrong shuts down the opportunity to segue into Bancroft’s trip by offering up information about my family legacy. “Ruby’s father is Harrison Scott, of Scott Pharmaceuticals.”
Bancroft regards me curiously. “Oh? That sounds familiar.”
“He specializes in erectile dysfunction medication,” I mutter.
“Is that right? Well, here’s hoping I won’t need those for a lot of years, if ever,” Bancroft replies.
Armstrong laughs.
Thankfully, dinner arrives, putting an end to that potentially embarrassing conversation. The men start talking business, and Armstrong goes into a serious monologue about his first year learning how to manage staff at the leading media conglomerate in the country. Amie hangs off every word as if he’s some cult leader looking to recruit her as his sacrificial virgin.
I pick at my dinner, my stomach continuing to do that unfortunate roll thing, even with the minimal amount of food I’m putting in it.
It doesn’t help that everything Armstrong ordered has a pungent aroma and is slightly disgusting to look at. Or maybe my current state of mind and body is the issue. When the gurgle becomes audible I excuse myself, praying I avoid further humiliation, except in a public restaurant rather than during an audition. Although I suppose this is an audition of sorts.
I lock myself in the end stall and take a few deep breaths, hoping I can manage to get my stomach to settle. These bathrooms are actually quite nice, but butts that aren’t mine have sat on them and left behind five-star-dinner remains or the aftermath of expensive champagne. I also feel bad about destroying a bathroom in a place as nice as this.
I push aside those unpleasant thoughts and concentrate on breathing. It takes a few minutes, but my stomach finally settles enough that I think I can manage sitting through the rest of dinner, as long as I don’t eat anything else substantial.
I check myself out in the mirror prior to vacating the bathroom. I need to get myself under control and fast if I want to secure a place to live. No one in their right mind would willingly let me stay in their home and care for their pets in my current state. I wish I’d had the good sense to stay the hell home tonight. I seriously look strung out, like someone coming off of a meth binge. Not that I actually know what that looks like outside of those intervention shows on TV.
I shakily pat my face with a wet paper towel—the thick kind that doesn’t disintegrate when they’re soaked with water. After eating a Listerine strip, reapplying lipstick, and dusting my cheeks with powder, I step out into the hall only to run into the same man I did the last time I exited a public bathroom.
I grab Bancroft’s shirt as I careen into him—unintentionally. Again. He isn’t wearing a suit jacket like the last time, so it’s easier to both see and feel all those hard packed muscles. Despite my recent near conversation with the toilet bowl, my vagina still notices how nice his body is.
“Are you okay?”
His voice has that deep, resonating baritone that juices me right up, quite literally.
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” It’s still more raspy croak than it is actual words.
“I don’t believe you.”
Sweet lord, this man is seriously intense. The way he’s looking at me makes me wish I had a breath mint, or another one of those mouthwash strips for good measure, just in case he accidentally kisses me again. Oh God. He better not kiss me again.
“If you’re thinking about molesting my mouth with your tongue again, you might want to reconsider your timing. I’m pretty sure my breath is horrible right now.” I wish my brain wasn’t as sick and stupid as my body.
“I really am sorry about that.” He skims my forehead with his fingertips, brushing away the stray hairs hanging in my eyes. He follows with the back of his hand. “Jesus. Do you have a fever?”
“I’m just a little warm.”
“A little warm? I could cook steak on your forehead.”
“That’s a super-sexy image.”
He frowns. “Is this really my fault?”
My first instinct is to tell him no, mostly because my upbringing wants me to take the blame for him. Also he’s hot and I don’t want him to feel bad, but in this case he’s absolutely at fault, and I’d really like a place to live, so if guilt helps make that happen, I’m all for it. “It really is.”
“I feel awful about this. I can’t believe I sexually assaulted you and made you sick.”
“And you ruined my audition.” For some reason he still has his arm around me. Not that I’m complaining. I’m feeling rather weak, so it’s nice to have someone supporting some of my weight.
“I did what?”
“I had an audition for a play the next morning, but I projectile vomited all over the director. It ruined my chances of ever working with him again, I’m probably blacklisted everywhere. I’ll never get another role in this city.” Okay, the last part is likely untrue, but if he feels bad enough, maybe he’ll agree to me pet sitting/squatting in his pad for the next five weeks.
“Are you serious?” He looks absolutely horrified. Maybe I’ve taken it a touch too far.
“I don’t know about not working in the city ever again, but I definitely won’t ge
t a part if that director is involved.”
He releases me and runs his hand through his full, luscious, slightly curly hair and expels a long, slow breath. “I really screwed you, didn’t I?”
Well, you sure did screw my mouth. At first I think those words are in my head, until I watch his eyebrows rise.
“I screwed your mouth?”
“Uh. With your tongue. When you kissed me, with tongue. You screwed—” Oh God, Ruby, stop talking. “My mouth. With your tongue.” And he did it, very, very well. My lady parts agree with this assessment, based on the way they’re tingling. I must be on the mend if I have tingles. Or maybe I’m sicker than I thought.
He crosses his arms over his chest. A half-smirk tugs up the left corner of his mouth. “You kissed me back.”
I blink a couple of times. I guess he noticed that. I’m not going to admit it, though. “You caught me off-guard and I’d been drinking.”
“Drinking? Really? How do I know you weren’t just hungover and that’s why you hurled all over that director?”
Even the word hurl makes my stomach feel like it wants to stage another revolt. “I had one drink! And I’m still—” I make gestures instead of saying the word.
“You can’t have it both ways, sweetheart.”
“Both ways? What are you even talking about?”
“I’m talking about you coming up with bogus excuses to explain away why you kissed me back when you didn’t even know me.”
My mouth drops open. I clamp it shut, just in case, and glare at him. “I have a very low alcohol tolerance. I had one martini.” I hold my finger up in front of his face. “It hit me a lot harder than I expected.”
“Right.” His smirk is infuriating. I want to suck it right off his gorgeous face, with my lips, either set.
“You cocky f—” I bite back the nasty expletive and narrow my eyes. I’m so sweaty right now, and I don’t think it’s just the sickness. “You know, regardless of your perception of what happened the other night, considering how drunk and doped up you were, you are the reason I’m jobless, and now I’m about to be homeless, too. So I hope you’re well entertained by my misfortune.”
“Homeless?” That wipes that godforsaken gorgeous smile off his face.
I shouldn’t have said that part. “Never mind.” I turn around. I’m not sure what my plan is, whether I’m going to bolt, although the idea of leaving behind three quarters of a perfectly delicious, edible meal when I’m down to my last six packages of ramen noodles seems rather wasteful. I might not be able to finish it tonight, but I can certainly save it for another day. Primavera will last at least a few days in the fridge. I should be better by then.
“Whoa, whoa!” Bancroft grabs my arm, not hard, gently but firmly. “You can’t say something like that and just walk away.”
“It’s not like it affects you,” I bite out, embarrassed. I can’t believe I’ve gotten myself into this kind of situation.
“Right now it affects me, especially if I’m responsible for your predicament. I need you to explain the homeless part.”
I wave my hand around in the air while I debate whether I want to tell him the fabricated story Amie and I concocted or some version of the truth. I’m excessively flaily tonight. “There was a problem with my lease renewal. The rent was doable and nothing else out there is, especially without this job, so I’m screwed.” That’s not quite a hundred percent true, because even with that role, I wouldn’t have had the money to pay down the overdue rent and my place is already rented out, so either way I was going to end up homeless. But he looks like he’s feeling some guilt over this, and I need a place to live. I’m not above manipulation. Or girl tears. Plus he’s gorgeous.
“And you don’t have anyone who can help you out? What about your family?”
“My father’s not exactly supportive of my career choice, so asking him isn’t an option.” Here I go again, giving him far too much information. It’s like his voice is truth serum.
There’s that frown and that furrowed brow again. I’ve never seen such a sexy furrow. “You don’t think he would help you?”
“He’s made it very clear he won’t help me.”
“Why not?”
“Because he thinks I should be done playing make-believe and come home to work for the family like my brother and sister.” Before my dad married my mother he had another, shorter marriage that lasted only a few years. Long enough to give me two older siblings who lived mostly with their mother apart from summer holidays until they were old enough to be involved in the pharmaceutical company.
Bancroft’s jaw clenches. I can’t tell whether that’s a good or a bad thing. And I don’t have a chance to find out, because Amie comes around the corner.
“There you are. I was getting worried.” Her eyes dart back and forth between us. “Is everything okay?”
I step back, realizing just how close we are to each other, and smooth the front of my dress, putting on what I hope looks like a natural smile. “Just fine. We were on our way back to the table.”
“I’ll be right there,” Bancroft mutters and turns away, heading for the men’s room. It might be a figment of my imagination, but I swear he shakes out his left leg a little.
“Are you okay? What did he say to you?” Amie whisper hisses in my ear.
“I’m fine. He accused me of kissing him back.”
“He did what?” Amie stops walking, but her arm is linked with mine, so I’m jerked to a halt. “Sorry, sorry!”
“Well first he accused me of kissing him back and then he apologized.”
“I’m glad he apologized.” She looks relieved. “Why would he accuse you of kissing him back though?”
I get busy picking at imaginary lint on my dress.
“Ruby?”
I mutter something unintelligible.
“Did you kiss him back?”
I shrug.
“You didn’t even know who he was!”
“I was caught off guard. He’s a good kisser. And have you seen him? That man could revive a corpse with his hotness.”
“Sometimes you’re very creepy, you know that?” Amie looks over her shoulder and then sighs. “I’m so sorry about this, I didn’t realize Bancroft was the mystery kisser. I’ll figure something out. I won’t let you be homeless.” Her eyes light up, all devious-like.
It makes me nervous, it’s the same expression she used to wear when we were younger and she wanted to do something we could get grounded for.
“Actually, this might be perfect.”
“Perfectly humiliating?” I ask.
“Let me work my magic.”
“Your magic is exactly what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter 5: Homes for the Homeless
RUBY
We return to the table. Armstrong looks a little put out that he’s been left alone. I assume it’s because dinner plates don’t act riveted by his engaging conversation.
I sit down and notice my meal is gone. “Did you have my pasta packed up?”
“Packed up?” Armstrong’s nose twitches, as if he’s trying to mask his disgust. I’m sure leftovers are only for the dog in his house. And the dog would be hypoallergenic and never bark.
“To take home?” I have to work hard to speak normally, and not like I’m addressing a toddler.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I hardly touched it.”
“I thought that was because you didn’t enjoy it.” He gives me a strained smile, his gaze moving from me to Amie, as if he’s uncertain whether he’s done something wrong or not.
“It’s not a big deal.” I smooth my napkin across my lap so I have somewhere to focus. This night is turning to crap. Not only is what little I’ve eaten not sitting all that well, now I can’t even enjoy the leftovers when my stomach finally settles. And the only things in my fridge are lemons and maybe some salad dressing and random condiments. If I wasn’t already highly embarrassed, I might want to cry.
&nbs
p; “Why don’t we order dessert?” Amie suggests.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Armstrong asks.
If he’s implying that Amie needs to watch what she eats he needs a slap across the face, or maybe a punch, with brass knuckles, below the belt. Amie is stunning, with a fabulous body that she maintains with regular visits to the gym. Unlike me. I rely solely on my unfortunate dietary restrictions to maintain my current supermodel like figure. Which isn’t really all that supermodel-y, but my clothes have been a little bit looser lately.
“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m really looking forward to checking out their dessert selection.” Bancroft slides smoothly into the chair across from me.
Maybe they have sorbet or something that would be easy on my testy stomach.
When the waitress comes back, Amie orders some elaborate chocolate lava dessert, even though Armstrong makes comments about it not being gluten-free. She also orders a latte, but makes it nonfat. Bancroft orders apple pie with ice cream and a boozy cinnamon coffee and I opt for mint tea and watermelon gelato, because it seems like I might actually be able to eat it without irritating my sensitive tummy. Armstrong orders espresso. Black. No sugar. Of course.
“So Bancroft, you fly out this weekend, right?” Amie asks.
Here we go. I can tell by her expression that she’s planning her attack. Armstrong hasn’t been with her long enough yet to fully appreciate her mischievous and devious side.
“I do. You’re still okay to come by and take care of Francesca and Tiny while I’m gone?”
“I just have to feed them, right?”
“And change Francesca’s litter a couple of times a week,” Bancroft says.
Amie makes a face, like the idea of changing litter is a repulsive task. She grew up with a dog, but I don’t thinks she was responsible for taking care of his lawn deposits.
“Oh. Okay. I guess I can do that.”
“I have a list of instructions that should help make it easy for you.” He adjusts his tie, looking a little nervous. I’m assuming it’s directly related to her look of distaste. “I’m sorry I’m asking you to do this but I can’t really use a professional pet sitting service. I don’t have time to fully vet one and I just need someone I can trust.”
The Shacking Up Series Page 6