Once I’ve taken care of my bathroom needs, I make a trip down the hall to Bancroft’s room. The door is ajar. His bed is made this time, although it’s clear it was a hastily done job. The covers are wrinkly and uneven. I have the urge to smooth them out. While I’ve never been the best at keeping things organized and tidy, I’ve always made my bed. Even as a child when there was a housekeeper to take care of that kind of thing I was the one who made it. There’s just something comforting about slipping into a neatly made bed.
“Hi, Franny!” I say when she peeks her head out of a tube. She makes a little noise and runs back and forth across the cage as I undo the latch. She stretches up on her hind legs, eager to be free as I open the hatch.
I pet her head and lift her out. She cuddles into me for a few seconds, then pushes away, clearly wanting the freedom to roam. My stomach growls as I wander down the hall after her. I think I might actually be able to handle coffee for the first time since Bancroft made me sick.
I find all the components for coffee and reheat some of the leftovers from last night, watching them whirl around in Bancroft’s space-age microwave. Like everything else in Bancroft’s condo, all of his appliances are top of the line, which means they have seven million functions and buttons to press.
After I scarf down my food I take a coffee and Francesca to my room, closing the door so I can keep an eye on her while I go through the boxes. I’m grateful that Amie helped, because she labels everything. The only stuff I really need while I’m here is clothing and toiletries.
I check to make sure Francesca hasn’t burrowed under the covers before I set my massive, heavy suitcase on the bed and begin the process of transferring items into the dresser.
Francesca climbs into the drawer and sticks her head through a pair of underwear. Her nails get caught in the lace waistband so she frolics around in there, getting herself tangled up. I grab my phone and snap a picture, then send it to Bancroft without really thinking about what exactly she’s gotten herself tangled in.
I don’t hear back from him right away—I assume he may still be traveling since he’s headed to the UK—so I get to stew in my own idiocy while I put away the rest of my clothes and move on to my toiletries. At least they’re my nice undies. I’m careful about making sure all the chemical products are well out of the way and that anything with a cord is behind a closed door.
Once I’m done the bulk of my unpacking I return Francesca to Bancroft’s room, play a little hide and seek with her under the covers, making a mess of his hastily made bed until she tires out and wants to nap. She curls into a ball, puts her little head down, and falls asleep while I pet her. I can totally understand why he couldn’t bear to let Animal Control have her. She’s adorable.
At that point I return her to her cage so I can snoop around Bancroft’s bedroom. His bathroom is amazing with a huge soaker tub and a shower twice as big as the one in my room with twice as many jets. As far as man bathrooms are concerned, it’s not too disgusting. The toilet seat is down, which is a bonus. There’s a blue towel half hanging out of the laundry hamper and another draped haphazardly over the towel rack.
I leave his room for another, more detailed tour of Bancroft’s condo. Last night I was mostly paying attention to his biceps, and his butt, and all the other nice parts of him.
On my way to get a better look at the home gym I stop to check on Tiny. She’s sitting right beside her water dish, which I need to change. I follow the instructions in the binder and refill the dish. Since she’s eaten recently, I won’t need to feed her a cricket for several more days. She’s definitely going to be the easier of the two pets to take care of.
One detail I missed about his gym—and I’m not actually sure how—is the life-sized photograph of Bancroft hanging from the wall. Apparently he was the poster boy for the Rugby Championship a few years ago. The picture is an action shot of him mid-kick.
Holy sweet thighs. Holy sweet everything. The only thing that would make the picture better would be if he were shirtless. His face glistens with sweat, which should be unattractive but isn’t. His hair curls around his neck and sticks to his forehead. Every muscle in his body seems to be flexed with exertion. I wonder if I can take this off the wall and bring it into my bedroom. I check the edges and pull on the corner of the frame, but it doesn’t budge. Too bad.
My phone rings from somewhere in the condo, three bars of the same catchy tune repeating as I search for the location of the noise. The nice thing about living in a studio apartment is not having a lot of ground to cover when things go missing. Bancroft’s condo has to be somewhere around two thousand sprawling feet of living space, which means there are significantly more potential locations for items to get lost in. I’m notorious for leaving my phone in strange places. Like the fridge. The sound isn’t muffled enough for it to be there, though.
I miss the call, but find my phone in Bancroft’s room, on his bed. Excitement makes my toes tingle at the possibility that it might be him checking in. I have no idea how long his flight was, although I think that information might be in the binder.
I have a message, but it’s not from Bancroft, it’s from Amie. I call her back without listening to the message. I’m sent directly to voice mail though, so I try again, but the same thing happens.
I text her, telling her to stop calling so I can call her. Half a second later she sends me the same message. I laugh and wait for two minutes, wondering when the standoff will end. I get a question mark, so I cave and call.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Amie says by way of greeting.
I flop down on Bancroft’s bed. “Does Armstrong know you’re fantasizing about me? I won’t tell him if you don’t.”
She snorts—delicately. “Obviously you’re feeling better if you’re making dirty jokes again.”
“Much, actually. I slept forever last night. Bancroft has the comfiest bed.” I fluff the pillow behind my head, settling in.
“What? You slept with Bane?” Amie’s voice is so shrill it sounds like a fire alarm.
I realize the error and bark out a laugh. “I mean the bed in his spare room. Not his bed.”
“Oh. I was going to say, it’s not really like you to just fall into bed with someone. Except that one time—”
“And we’re never, ever going to speak of that again.”
“I saw Drew recently.”
“Did you miss the part about never again?” I briefly dated Drew McMaster in the second year of college. And by briefly I mean that we went on one damn date. He was an excellent flirt, and after several weeks of persistence on his part, I agreed to go out with him. I mistakenly fell for all of his lines and ended up in his bed. It was a lackluster experience at best. He spent the entire two minutes thrusting like a jackhammer was attached to his hips. At least he came, I didn’t even get close. And his penis was incredibly subpar. I don’t even think it was average.
That was the last date I went on with him. After that I made sure not to get naked, or even close to naked, with someone on the first date. If a guy is worth it, he can wait to experience the wonders inside my panties. That way I have a sufficient number of dates in which to engage in some make-out sessions. Foreplay is an art. If a guy sucks at that, he’s probably going to suck in the sack. Although if I had met Bancroft, and wasn’t dependent on him, I wouldn’t say no to climbing into his bed, regardless of the rule. I bet he’s incredible between the sheets, especially with those powerful thighs of his.
“Well I wouldn’t have brought it up because I know it gives you nightmares, but I thought you might like to know that he’s started balding.”
“He’s only twenty-six.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s horrible how happy this makes me,” I reply.
“It’s not horrible, it’s justified. He was a jerk.”
“He really was.” Speaking of jerks . . . “How was dinner with Armstrong’s parents?”
“It was fine. Good. It was good.”
The way her voice raises to a pitch reserved for birdcalls tells me she’s lying. “Amie.”
“His mother’s a bit cold.”
That’s an understatement. She’s about as warm as a freezer, at least from what I experienced at the engagement party. “I’m sure she’ll warm up to you. Everyone loves you. How about his dad? Is he any better?” I met him only in passing, a handshake and a brief introduction.
“Fredrick is lovely. He’s been so pleasant with me. I don’t actually understand how someone so nice can be married to such an ice queen.”
“Maybe she lets him in the back door.”
“Ruby!” Her shock turns to laughter.
“Men will tolerate a lot for anal.”
Amie snickers. “I think she already has something stuck up there. There probably isn’t room for anything else.”
This is the Amie I know. The one I love who can have dirty conversations with me, not the one who has to look over her shoulder when the word vagina is spoken.
“Okay. Let’s not talk about my future mother-in-law’s sexual habits anymore. I have to see her for lunch this week and I don’t want to be thinking about where Fredrick puts what. How are you settling in? How was Bane last night?”
“I’m settling in fine. He seems really nice. Very organized.” I don’t tell her about the shower incident, or hugging him both last night and this morning and how it got a little awkward there with his neighbor, or how it seemed as if he was going to kiss me this morning before Ms. Blackwood interrupted.
“Armstrong said he can be a little . . . intense. He’s always been nice to me, but then I’ve only met him a few times. Armstrong says he’s a bit rough around the edges.”
I imagine his career as a rugby player might make him less pickle-up-the-ass than what Armstrong is used to.
I remember his comment from this morning, when he said he wasn’t always polite. That, combined with the ass grab and the bit about my lace panties, sends the ghost of a shiver down my spine. I’d like his rough edges to rub all over mine. Especially the rough edge of his stubbly jaw, on my vagina. I need to back the horny bus up, at least until I’m off the phone with Amie.
“He was well enough mannered for me, which is almost unfortunate since I already know he’s an amazing kisser.”
My phone buzzes against my cheek and I check the screen, which means I don’t hear most of Amie’s reply. I have a new text. From Bancroft. Speak of the kissable devil. I put Amie on speakerphone so I can check the message.
“—meet Armstrong’s friends.”
“Sorry. I missed that. Who am I meeting?”
“There’s a party next Friday night, you should come. I can introduce you to some of Armstrong’s friends you didn’t get to meet at the engagement party. It’ll be casual.”
“Yeah. I don’t know about that. Is it going to be all coupley? You’re not going to try and set me up with one of those guys, are you?” Amie sometimes like to play matchmaker. She was especially fond of setting me up with her boyfriend’s friends in high school. It was rarely successful.
“No setup. I promise. Although he does have a few cute friends.”
“I’ll go, but cute or not, I’m not dating anyone in your new inner circle.” As much as I love spending time with Amie, whenever I go to one of her parties I feel like I’m interviewing for the position of a stand-in wife or a mistress. The older men—the ones who have already succumbed to male-pattern baldness—have a tendency to tout their bankroll stats between conversations about their sports cars and their property acquisitions or their stock market investments.
The younger ones talk about their next big promotion in blah, blah, blah company and how much they love blow jobs in the bathrooms. That last part I’m making up, but none of them would say no if it was offered, not even the married ones.
I finally manage to get Bancroft’s message up:
Bancroft: At the hotel. Time for a call?
Ruby: On the phone with Amie. Give me 2.
I interrupt Amie, who’s still talking about the party next weekend to let her know Bancroft has arrived at his destination and wants to call.
“Oh! Okay. Tell him I said hello. We’ll talk tomorrow. Let’s figure out when we can see each other this week.”
“’Kay. Sounds good. Thanks for all your help yesterday.”
We end the call and a minute later my phone rings again, Bancroft’s number appearing on the screen. I answer the call, my stomach flipping a little with excitement. “Hello?”
The connection is full of static for a few seconds before the line clears. “Hello? Ruby?”
Some men have great phone voices. The kind of voice that makes all the parts below the waist heat up. Bancroft Mills has that kind of voice. And he’s only uttered two words.
“Hey. How was the flight?” I sound all kinds of breathless, for absolutely no reason other than his voice makes me want to have multiple orgasms.
“It was long but good. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
I turn my face into his pillow and clear my throat before I answer. “No. Not at all.”
“Did you have a good day? How’s everything going?”
Obviously, he’s checking up on me to make sure I didn’t kill his pets in the twelve hours he’s been gone. I consider telling him I lost Francesca and that Tiny’s escaped her habitat, but I don’t think he’ll find the humor in that. “We had a great day. Francesca partied herself out this afternoon and Tiny’s in super-chill mode.”
“Super-chill mode?”
“Mmm hmm. She was having none of the partying. Francesca’s a bit of a naughty girl, trying on all my thongs, taking naked selfies.” Oh my God. What the hell am I saying?
I expect at least five seconds of silence and an okaaaay, instead I get a deep rumble of a laugh that ping-pongs around until it lands in my clit. “It’s a good thing you weren’t wearing those ones when you came out to say good morning.”
“Why’s that?” I press my thighs together and wait.
“Because my flight was already painful enough.”
“I’m not seeing how my choice of panties would impact your flight.” Jesus. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“Do you have any idea how amazing your ass is? Or how long seven hours would’ve felt with that image burned into my brain and no way to alleviate the issue?”
I’m pretty sure Bancroft just told me he wants to whack off to images of me wearing a thong. Or maybe he just has.
He clears his throat, but it doesn’t do away with the gravelly sound, or the pinging still going on in my clit. “Sorry. That was probably too much information. Francesca’s second favorite place to hang out is my underwear drawer, so I’m not surprised she took a liking to yours, too.”
“I’m sure mine are a lot more exciting than yours.”
“From what I saw that’s definitely true.”
Okay. I need to move this conversation away from my underwear before I need to change them, or succumb to the urge to send him pictures of my panties. While I’m wearing them. “What time is it in England?”
“Two in the morning. I need to think about getting some sleep, but I’m not sure it’s going to happen. I have a meeting at nine and I’m not the least bit tired.”
“When I can’t sleep I read the dictionary or fifteenth-century literature.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s so boring it puts me to sleep.”
I get another laugh out of him. “Well that’s an idea.” It sounds like things are being shuffled around in the background. “What’re your plans for the evening?”
“Well I have that party starting in about an hour, so that should keep me busy tonight. I managed to cut the guest list down to a hundred, which is manageable, don’t you think?”
“Much more manageable than the two hundred you originally planned for.”
“I thought so, too.”
“You have the fire department on call?”
“The entire guest list is comprised of firefighters, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
I get another laugh, although it’s a little nervous-sounding.
“So what’s the meeting for tomorrow?”
“I’m supposed to review the plans to upgrade some of the London hotels. We have five hotels here and all but one are set to undergo some form of renovations. I’m here to oversee the projects with one of my older brothers.”
“You don’t sound too excited about it.”
“Well, we’re a lot alike in some ways, so it can be difficult to work with him, and I have to deal with him every day for the next five weeks, so there’s that.”
“That sounds . . . unpleasant?”
“Lexington likes to be in control of things, and he believes he knows everything.”
“Is that a family trait?” I bit my lip to keep from laughing at his unimpressed noise.
“Lex is far worse than me. If my father had sent Griffin along, this trip would be a lot easier.”
“So they both work for your father as well?”
“Straight out of college and into the hotel business.”
“Do you all look alike?” Clones of Bancroft strolling the streets of Manhattan might be more hotness than this city could handle.
“Not really.”
“That’s unfortunate.” I need to have a look around for family photos.
“Lex doesn’t have a great track record with dating and Griffin has a girlfriend. I’m fairly certain he plans to propose this fall, so don’t get any ideas over there.”
There’s a hint of genuine irritation in his voice, as if he doesn’t appreciate my line of questioning. “Calm down, I’m just playing with you.”
“Sorry. I’m snappy because I’m jetlagged and I’d rather be home, not spending the next five weeks here.”
“I understand where you’re coming from. Being pushed into something you don’t really want because you’re out of other options, I mean.”
“Yes. Well, my rugby career wasn’t going to last forever, so this was inevitable. Anyway, I’m being whiny. I need to stop that before I lose more points. I was down to eight-point-five this morning, wasn’t I?”
The Shacking Up Series Page 13