The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  It made sense, even though Amie’s experience with pets has been fairly limited. Their family poodle, Queenie, was as high strung as her mother. Caring for Queenie consisted of the occasional pet and maybe a walk once in a while. That dog probably got more attention from me than her entire family combined. It’s not Amie’s fault. Her mother wouldn’t let her near the dog because she has allergies, even though Queenie was hypoallergenic as far as dogs go. She didn’t even shed.

  “And I just need to stop in a few times a week, right?”

  “Uh . . . well, Francesca needs some attention, so—”

  “What kind of attention. I should take allergy pills before I go, shouldn’t I?” she turns to me. “Maybe you could come with me? In case I have a reaction and need help.”

  I shrug. “If you want.” Amie half-wasted her potential. She could easily have become an actress with the performance she’s currently putting on.

  Amie turns a bright smile on Bancroft. “Ruby’s great with animals. She probably could’ve been a vet.”

  That’s untrue. I discovered in high school biology that I’m not good with strong smells and cutting open small, helpless animals. Even if they’re dead and embalmed.

  Bancroft studies me for a moment as he folds his napkin and places it neatly on the table. Oh, yes, this man is definitely from good breeding. Which is a horrible thing to notice. I hate that it’s ingrained in my DNA.

  “Have you ever owned pets?”

  “Not since I moved to New York. But I grew up with two dogs and a cat, and for a while my mother had a raven.”

  Bancroft’s raises an eyebrow. “A raven?”

  “It kind of adopted my mother.” Until some stupid kid with a BB gun shot it.

  Bancroft looks around and drops his voice. “Have you ever taken care of a ferret?”

  “You have a ferret? I thought you said it was a bunny or a guinea pig.” I say to Amy.

  Amie shrugs. “They’re both furry and they live in cages, right?”

  My opinion of Bancroft shifts slightly. Ferrets are atypical pets. I became a little obsessed with them as a teenager thanks to my time spent working in an animal sanctuary. I’d wanted to adopt one who ended up there, but I wasn’t allowed—for a barrage of reasons. First of all, they’re stinky until they have the gland business taken care of, a fact I hadn’t been aware of. They also have to be caged because they’re small and can get into very tight spaces. And my dog probably would have eaten it.

  “I also have a tarantula.” Bancroft taps on the table, awaiting my response.

  I try to keep my voice from going too high. “Oh wow. That’s um . . . unusual.”

  “Are you afraid of spiders?” he asks.

  “Not really, no.” I don’t particularly love spiders, but I’m not the kind of person who will get up on a chair and scream like a banshee if I see one. I’m also more likely to usher them outside rather than stomp on them if they happen to be sharing my space.

  “She’s pretty harmless if you know how to handle her.”

  “I’ve never held a tarantula.”

  “Well we’ll have to change that, won’t we?” Bancroft gives me a warm smile that makes me all melty and blushy—beyond the fever I’m still rocking, anyway.

  “So you’re okay with—” Armstrong makes hands gestures to go with his pinched expression. “—odd animals,” he finally finishes.

  “I wouldn’t call them odd, they’re just a little unconventional. I volunteered at an animal sanctuary when I was in high school.”

  “Really? How would that benefit your résumé?” Armstrong asks.

  “It didn’t. I volunteered because I wanted to.” And also so I wouldn’t have to spend my weekends and afternoons at my father’s office, filing papers or editing the pamphlet for his penis-inflating prescriptions.

  Bancroft taps the table and leans in closer. “Ruby, how would you feel about taking care of Francesca and Tiny?”

  “Francesca’s the ferret, isn’t she?” I can feel my nose wrinkle with my smile. I try to tone it down. My father always told me it makes me look childish and silly.

  Bancroft’s cheeks turn pink and he returns my grin. “She is. However I regret to inform you that I did not have the pleasure of naming her, as fitting as it may be.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her.” I’m not saying this just to suck up, I’m genuinely enthusiastic about it, although I’m sure it’s helping my case.

  Bancroft looks from me to Amie and back. He smooths out the napkin on the table again. I wonder if it’s an unconscious reaction. Like when I’m concentrating really hard sometimes my tongue peeks out of the corner of my mouth. It’s a little embarrassing. When I got caught doing it as a kid my dad would use bitters to make me retract it. It worked until I started to like the taste.

  “You know, it might be nice to have someone around for Francesca on a more regular basis,” Bancroft says.

  “I can alternate days with Amie if you think that would be better for Francesca. She’ll need quite a bit of care, won’t she?”

  “She will.” Bancroft is still playing with his napkin. “But I was thinking about something a little more . . . involved.”

  “Involved?” Amie’s plan might just be working.

  “Well, you need a place to stay and I need someone to take care of my pets. It would be much better for Francesca to have someone there all the time, that way I’m guaranteed she’ll have playtime.”

  The way he says playtime does interesting things below the waist. Now I’m hot not just because of the fever, but because I’m imagining what playtime might look like with him. Which I probably should stop doing if this conversation is going in the direction I think it is. Lusting after my potential employer/temporary landlord is not recommended.

  “What a great idea!” Amie claps her hands. “Isn’t that a great idea?”

  “You want Ruby to move into your apartment to take care of your pets?” Armstrong’s expression reflects his confusion.

  “Would that work for you?” Bancroft asks me.

  Score. I blink innocently. “If you think it would be helpful.”

  “Immensely.” He smiles again. It’s a little nervous, which is understandable. He doesn’t know me and he’s about to let me move into his place and take care of his pets for more than a month. But, lord almighty, that smile is killer.

  “I’ll be gone for five weeks. Is that reasonable for you? It should help with the apartment issue?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Excellent. It’s settled then.” He leans back in his chair, still grinning. “You’ll move in.”

  Mission Don’t End Up Living in a Box complete.

  Chapter 6: Movin’ On Up

  RUBY

  Two days later my belongings are packed into a pitifully small pile of boxes and carted down to the lobby—thank God the elevator is working today—where Armstrong and Bancroft are waiting to load them into the truck.

  That’s right. Bancroft drives a truck. It’s so not highbrow at all. It makes him even sexier. And it’s not even a rental, which is practically unheard of in New York. It’s a nice truck, one of those limited edition ones with all the upgrades, but it’s still a truck and very un–trust fund of him. I can understand why he wouldn’t want to get rid of it, however impractical it may be.

  What’s also sexy is the way the muscles in his arms flex every time he picks up another one of the boxes and carries it out the door. He’s wearing a Harvard T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The only thing that sort of ruins the sexy a bit are his socks. They’re white and reach his shins. If he could just take them off, or maybe trade them for a pair of ankle socks, then he’d be perfect.

  It’s hot, stiflingly so outside, and it’s even worse in my apartment since I don’t have air. Thankfully, there’s not much left in my apartment. I’m assuming Bancroft lives in some swanky place since it’s in Tribeca. With central air.

  Bancroft insisted we take all of my things to his place rather than
renting a storage unit since I don’t have a lot in the way of worldly possessions. I felt weird about it at first, until he said he has three bedrooms, two of which are rarely used. I also don’t have the money to rent a storage unit, so that settled that argument pretty quickly.

  The elevator doors open and Amie comes out toting my luggage, which is filled with the contents of my dresser and my closet. Once upon a time those bags would’ve been full to bursting. Not so much anymore.

  “That’s the last of it!” she says brightly. “Why don’t you do one last check and then we can get out of here.”

  How she can still be so chipper and perfectly put together after spending the past hour riding up and down in an elevator is beyond me. I appreciate it, though, because I’m looking the part of a wilted flower. This flu bug thing Bancroft gave me is a real hanger-on-er.

  “Sure thing.” Once I get up there I go through all the cupboards, checking to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind by accident. I stand in the middle of my tiny apartment, a little sad to be leaving it behind. Even if it isn’t the nicest place, it was mine.

  I grab my purse and toss the six-pack of water bottles into it. As I’m about to close the door on this chapter of my life, quite literally, I scan the apartment one last time, taking in the bare mattress with the orange stain in the center where I spilled butternut squash soup last year.

  My gaze lands on my lounge chair. The one piece of furniture that didn’t come with this apartment. There’s no way I’m leaving it here. It’s too heavy for me to carry, so I have to slide it across the floor. Then I have to jimmy it through the doorway. I’m sweating by the time I get it down the hall to the elevator. More than I was in the first place, anyway.

  I shimmy it in there, hit the lobby button, and drop into the chair, out of breath from the exertion. The doors slide open when I reach the ground floor and I have to maneuver the chair back out.

  “Want some help with that?” Bancroft’s deep, baritone comes from behind me.

  “I’m good. I’ve got it.” The chair isn’t in the best shape. It’s pretty old. When I recline in it, it lists a little to the right. But it’s mine. So I want to take it with me, even if it should be destined for the dump. The elevator doors try to close on me as I’m dragging it out.

  Bancroft chuckles. “Here.” He taps my hip. It feels like a lightning bolt just shot out of his fingertip and zapped me in the vagina. I’m instantly tingly down there. I jump out of the way and he graces me with that damn pretty smile. Then he picks up the entire eight-million-pound chair. “You want this on the sidewalk, or . . .”

  I give him a dirty look. “It’s coming with me.”

  One eyebrow arches and that grin of his grows wider. “You’re the boss.”

  I watch his incredibly toned rear end as he carries it through the open door. I follow him outside. It’s hot and sticky. Like my panties. And the rest of me. Armstrong looks grossed out as Bancroft lifts the chair high enough to clear the tailgate.

  “Doesn’t that belong on the curb?” Armstrong motions to my chair. “That thing looks like it has fleas. Are you dropping it off at the dump on the way back to your place?”

  “Army,” Amie chastises.

  “Amalie, how many times have I told you, I don’t like that nickname in public,” Armstrong snaps.

  Amie’s referred to Armstrong by that nickname more than once, but never in his presence. I suppose now I know why.

  “I love my chair,” I say defensively.

  “Who else has loved that chair?” Armstrong mutters.

  “Anything left up there?” Bancroft grabs the hem of his shirt using it to wipe the sweat trickling down his neck. His treasure trail appears first, followed by his navel—it’s an innie—and then he reveals a tight, defined six-pack I would happily lick every inch of, even in his totally disgusting sweaty state right now. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t go that far, but if he jumped in a shower I’d be totally game.

  It’d be really great if he just took the shirt off right about now.

  “Pardon?” he asks.

  Did I say that out loud? I’m pretty sure it was an in-my-head thought. I clear my throat. “That’s everything.” It still comes out a little pitchy and breathless.

  “Thank God. This heat is stifling. Amalie, let’s call the car and go home. I need a shower,” Armstrong says.

  Amie frowns. “Aren’t we going back to Bancroft’s?”

  “You’ve got this from here, right Bane? Besides, we have dinner with my parents tonight.”

  “That isn’t for hours, though.”

  “But you’ll need the time to get ready,” Armstrong argues.

  Amie has never been a primper. She can go from yoga to ballroom ready in less than twenty minutes.

  “We’re good. Ruby doesn’t have much stuff. It’ll all fit into the service elevator in one trip,” Bancroft replies.

  “See?” Armstrong flips a set of keys around his finger. “Have a safe trip.”

  Amie gives me a quick hug. “Sorry about Armstrong, he doesn’t deal well with this kind of heat. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. The move, everything being new.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” Maybe a little nervous, but relieved I have a place to live.

  “Call me later.”

  “Will do.”

  Bancroft opens the passenger door for me, as a gentleman would, and I climb in. It smells like him. There’s a massive console in the center and a huge backseat, which is where my luggage is currently stored.

  This should be more awkward than it is, but I’m surprisingly comfortable around this man I hardly even know. Apart from how good he is at kissing, his penchant for unusual pets and willingness to take in strangers makes me like him even more.

  He climbs in the driver’s side and turns the engine over. Hot air blasts through the vents, cooling quickly.

  “I need to stop and get something to drink,” Bancroft says.

  “Oh! I have water!” I spread my legs so I can get to my purse on the floor between my feet. I pull one out and hand it to him.

  “You’re a goddess.” He twists off the cap and tosses it on the dash. Tipping his head back he opens his lovely, luscious mouth and basically pours the contents of the bottle down his throat in thirty seconds. It’s impressive.

  “You want another one?”

  “You have more?”

  I produce the rest of the six-pack from my purse.

  “What else do you have down there between your legs?”

  I fight back a cough. “Should I assume you’re asking about the contents of my purse and not what’s in my shorts?”

  “You can assume whatever you’d like, but if you’re hiding a water bottle in your shorts, I gotta say, I’d be curious to see how you managed that.”

  “Oh my God. You did not just say that!”

  He makes a face. “Too far?”

  “Ya think?” Although, in truth I wouldn’t mind showing him what’s in my shorts. After I’ve had a shower. Dammit. I need to get a handle on where my head keeps going around this man.

  “I’m blaming it on the dehydration.” He huffs a laugh and frees another bottle, twists off the cap and repeats the entire sequence, which I watch, raptly.

  “I probably smell like a locker room right now. Can I get you to open the glove box for me?”

  I hit the button and it drops open. He reaches over, his fingers brushing my knee as he grabs a stick of deodorant and a balled-up shirt.

  Oh man. He’s going to change his shirt. In front of me. In an enclosed space. I wonder if I have enough time to grab my phone and snap a couple of pictures as he pulls the Harvard tee over his head.

  Some men have nice faces and great bodies. Other men have great faces and okay bodies. This man has both. On a scale of one to smokin’, he’s on fire. And he has a tattoo. A big one on his right shoulder that travels along his biceps and ends abov
e his elbow. Oh God. That’s so hot.

  He’s quick to pull the fresh shirt over his head, covering his inky deviance. He follows with the deodorant, tosses it back in the glove box, and gives me a sheepish grin. “I feel better, I hope I smell a little better now, too.”

  “You smelled fine to me. I’m pretty sure that was just an excuse to show me your abs.”

  His smile grows a little. “You don’t think I was just trying to be courteous? That maybe I didn’t want to offend your delicate senses?”

  “Do you see where I lived?” I motion to the building. It’s old and run down. Not a bad place to live, but definitely not Tribeca. “At least once a week someone set off the fire alarm and the whole building smelled like burned toast. I can endure man sweat.”

  “But should you have to? That is the real question.”

  He shifts the truck into gear, puts on his signal, and pulls into traffic.

  “So, uh, how long have you lived in that apartment?” Bancroft asks. Now that we’re on the way back to his place, with all my things, he seems a little nervous. I wonder if he’s having regrets.

  “Five years. I’m not sure I’m going to miss it all that much. Having my own place has been nice, but half of the appliances didn’t work all that well.”

  “Right. Gotcha.” He taps the steering wheel. “So how’d you end up living in Harlem?”

  “Amie’s parents had already bought a place for her by the time I accepted the placement at Randolph, where I went to college, but it was a one bedroom, so I needed to find my own place. My father was against me coming to the city to begin with so he set a small budget for rent, thinking that I’d go back home when I realized what it cost for an apartment in the city. But I wanted to be here and this was reasonable, plus it was furnished, and it came with no roommates.”

  “Not a fan of roommates?” Bancroft asks.

  “It’s not that. It’s just . . . living with someone else is tricky, right? We all have routines and quirks. If I was going to live with anyone it would’ve been Amie, so I thought it would be best to live on my own. What about you, ever had a roommate before?”