The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  “Wentworth Williams?” The incredulity turns to something like anger.

  “That’s it. Yes.”

  “Oh, fuck no. You can’t date him.”

  “Pardon me?” I set the phone down on the vanity and start rummaging around in my purse for my lipstick. I hate being told what to do.

  “He’s an elitist fuckhead cocksucker. He’s not allowed in my condo. Ever. You can’t date him. I forbid it.”

  “You forbid it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” I prop a hand on my hip, then realize Bancroft’s current view is of my purse, not me. I move it aside. Now he has a very good view of my dress, which I’m filling out nicely these days. The angle is actually rather flattering and it makes my boobs look amazing.

  Bancroft runs a rough hand through his hair. It’s an absolute mess. He’s all furrowed brow and ticking jaw. Goddamn it. Why does he have to look so hot when he’s being a jerk?

  “What’re you wearing?” he snaps.

  “A dress. What does it look like?” I think I look nice.

  “I see cleavage. You have cleavage. Don’t you have a shawl? Can’t you cover up?”

  “Excuse me?” I look down at my chest and cup my boobs, making sure I’m not flashing anyone anything they shouldn’t see. Everything is right where it should be. “My cleavage looks fantastic, and it’s modest, not excessive.”

  “I just—you can’t. Wentworth is an asshole. He dated my friend’s sister’s cousin last year and she found out he was cheating on her, with three other women, and one of them was a damn escort.” He’s not sitting down anymore. I think he might be pacing with how unsteady the phone is.

  “Escort? Isn’t that just a nice term for prostitute?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s dirty.”

  “Yes, it is. So you understand why I forbid you to date him.”

  The forbid makes me bristle. It’s a word my father used to toss around all the time. While I have zero intention of pursuing anything with Wentworth, I don’t think it hurts to keep Bancroft on the edge a little, especially since I hate that word and he’s being bossy. “I don’t think he’s interested in dating me.”

  “With you dressed the way you are, I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about that.”

  And now he’s insulting my outfit. “I think he’s more interested in a hookup.”

  Bancroft’s jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. His eyes narrow and darken. Dear God, it’s hot. Hotter than it should be. “Ruby.” The word is a grave warning.

  I smile sweetly at him and purposely adjust my dress so I’m showing more cleavage instead of less. “Don’t worry, Bane, I would never bring a hookup back to your condo. I have to go. We’re in the middle of dinner and I’ve been gone longer than is appropriate.”

  “Ruby, don’t hang u—” I end the call and power down my phone before he can get the rest out. My stomach is doing all kinds of acrobatics. A bead of sweat trickles down my spine. Bancroft is acting like a jealous ass. And he’s being territorial. Over me and my cleavage. It makes me giddy.

  I don’t have rules for this particular tennis match. I like Bancroft. If he wasn’t across an ocean and I wasn’t relying on him for my current, modest income and a place to live, I would definitely want to find myself under him, in his bed, or on his couch, or floor, or anywhere really, but current circumstances prevent that. So, for the time being, I’m going to let him stew for acting the part of a Neanderthal, even if I find it sexy. He doesn’t need to know that.

  Chapter 12: Mine

  BANCROFT

  She did not just hang up on me. I stare at the blank screen for a couple of seconds before I hit redial. It goes straight to voice mail. I try again and get the same thing.

  Somewhere in my head, beyond the white noise, I recognize I’m being irrational. I don’t honestly think Ruby is going to hook up with Wentworth. She has better taste than that. All conversations up to this point indicate she does. I think. I hope.

  The image of that jackoff in my condo, in my spare bedroom with her, naked and under him makes me want to get on a plane and go home right the fuck now. Which again, is highly irrational. Unless I can wrap things up here faster, I still have a few weeks before I’m home. I’ll need a miracle to make that happen at the rate we’re going.

  Beyond the possible hookup with Wentworth—which I know is unlikely—I’m actually not all that excited about the idea that Ruby might be interested in dating anyone. In the time she’s been staying in my place, the part of the day I’ve been looking forward to the most is our almost daily video chats.

  After endless meetings and hours spent dealing with a room full of Type-A personalities and the fine details of project management, Ruby is a breath of fresh air. She’s the person I want to come home to the most. Which is kind of a problem I suppose, because I’m not her boyfriend and she’s supposed to move out when I get back.

  I have no idea if she’s been dating anyone, casually or otherwise, while I’ve been away. I certainly haven’t had time for that. Well, I suppose that’s not 100 percent true. There have been a few women who have expressed interest in spending time with me, but my schedule doesn’t accommodate dates. Not when I have calls with Ruby scheduled in the evening. Although while I’ve been in Amsterdam I started calling first thing in the morning instead since I’m an early riser and she seems to be a nighthawk. Her bedwear is my favorite. Little tanks with shorts. Sometimes I can see her nipples through the fabric.

  But it’s not just about nipple visuals. It’s far more than that. Ruby is a vibrant, gorgeous woman with a mind of her own. She has fire and sass. I like her. A lot. She’s funny and witty and sweet. We seem to share the same views on how frustrating family expectations can be. I like talking to her and hearing her perspective is always refreshing. She doesn’t just say things to bolster my ego. It’s a nice change from some of the women I’ve dated in the past. She’d be a great plus-one at some of these terrible, stuck-up parties I’m forced to attend. I want to take her out. I want to take her to bed. My bed. The one she’s always lying on with Francesca.

  None of that is going to happen though if she starts seeing someone else in the time I’m gone. It could happen. Beyond how lovely she is to look at, her father’s bankroll is desirable. That alone would be reason enough for many of the single guys in Armstrong’s circle to be interested. It would make her doubly alluring for an asshole like Wentworth.

  I try calling again, but I get tossed into voice mail. She must’ve turned her phone off. That’s fine. I have other ways to get in touch with her. I call Armstrong’s phone, but unfortunately I get his voice mail, too. So I call again. And a third time.

  “Hello?” He sounds annoyed.

  “Hey, Armstrong.”

  “Bane! How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Good.”

  He murmurs something and I hear the sound of a chair moving across the floor and voices in the background.

  “That’s great. I hear the projects are going well. How’s Amsterdam? Have you been taking advantage of some of the perks over there?”

  Of course that’s his first question. “If you’re referring to the weed cafés, the answer is no.” I’m sure Lex is out partaking. He’s been off for the last few weeks and I can’t figure it out. Regardless, one of us needs to be able to pay attention at the morning meetings.

  “I was thinking along other lines.”

  “I’m not risking the health of my dick for a trip to the red-light district.” It’s definitely something I could see Armstrong doing, prior to Amalie.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Bane. You can’t even be bothered to enjoy yourself while you’re in a country where prostitution is legal.”

  “Too bad it’s me here and not you, huh?”

  “I’d certainly be taking full advantage of the perks.”

  I snort. “Except you’re engaged.”

  “It’s another time zone. It doesn’t count.”

  I don’t laugh
at his joke. “Listen, Ruby mentioned that she was going out for dinner tonight with you and Amalie, is she available? I’ve tried to call her, but maybe she has her phone on silent.”

  “She’s here. We’re in the middle of dinner, though. Can I have her call you back?”

  “It’s a bit of an emergency. It would be better if I spoke with her now.” The lie sits uncomfortably in my throat. Even I’m questioning what I’m doing right now.

  “I’ll get her.” His voice is muffled as he covers the receiver.

  I hear Ruby’s confused voice, also still muffled.

  “He said it’s an emergency.” That’s Armstrong.

  “Oh? Okay.”

  The phone must change hands. I hear the muted clip of heels and a door opening and closing, followed by Ruby’s muttered, “Emergency, my ass.” A second later her annoyed voice is right in my ear. “Are you fucking kidding me with this, Bancroft?”

  I love it when she says my name. I love that she rarely shortens it and when she does it always sounds a little breathless. I also love that she’s pissed off at me and swearing. I have a problem. I know.

  “Did you turn your phone off?” I don’t know why this is my leading question.

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  Her heavy exhalation of breath does amazing things to my dick. I adjust my semi and smile.

  “I can when you’re acting like an asshole,” she snaps.

  “I’m concerned.”

  “About what? I told you I wouldn’t hook up with Douchey McHornball. What more do you want?”

  “That’s not what you said at all.”

  “That’s exactly what I said.”

  I wish I could see her right now. I imagine her with a hand propped on her hip, chin tipped up in defiance. “No. You said you wouldn’t bring him back to my condo. You left that wide open for interpretation and other possibilities.”

  “What are you even talking about?” She falters a little.

  It’s all I need. “And I think you did it on purpose.”

  “You’re not making sense,” her voice wavers. “Is there a purpose to this phone call, or are you just looking to start a fight over perceived context?”

  “It’s not perceived context.”

  “You’re infuriating. What exactly is the issue here?”

  “I already told you, I’m concerned.”

  “Because?”

  “You’re under the influence and you’re susceptible to making bad decisions when you’ve been drinking.”

  “Oh my God. You are seriously pissing me off right now.”

  “You kissed a perfect stranger after one drink in the past. You don’t think that’s a poor decision?” I’m pushing her buttons. It’s a bad idea, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t want someone like Wentworth to get her intoxicated and take advantage of her. I want to be the one to do that, repeatedly. Okay, that sounded bad in my head. I’d like her to be sober and willing when I get her naked.

  “This is your emergency? You’re going to shame me over kissing you back, for what purpose? To ensure I don’t sleep with some jerkoff friend of Armstrong’s? I assure you, I’m not the least bit interested in Wentworth. He’s the exact opposite of my type, but if you call again tonight and try and pull more of this bullshit on me I’m going to sleep with him out of spite.”

  “You will not.”

  “Are you still trying to tell me what to do?”

  I’m pretty sure she would reach through the phone right now if she could and throttle me. “There’s no way you would sleep with someone just to spite me.”

  “Are you sure about that, Bane?” Her voice is suddenly soft, menacing even. “Are you willing to test that theory?”

  There’s no right answer to that, I realize, as I open and close my mouth and no words find their magical way out. I’m not totally sure. I think I’m right. I hope I’m right. I get the sense that Ruby is a bit more traditional than she likes to let on, or at least she’s more selective.

  Her embarrassment over kissing me back tells me this. I also think she’s far more liable to make rash, poorly thought-out decisions when she’s been drinking—hence her kissing me back in the first place. Which I don’t regret in the slightest. What I do regret, maybe just a little, is not staking some kind of claim prior to leaving her in my condo. Although, at the time, I had only known her for two days. That might’ve been a little weird and preemptive.

  All it would’ve taken was a few words. If Ms. Blackwood hadn’t interrupted our good-bye I would’ve followed through on that kiss and maybe we wouldn’t be having this argument.

  I take a deep breath and go with honesty. “Ruby Scott, I know better than to think I can tell you what to do, but the very last thing I want is for someone as dickish as Wentworth to get his hands on you, especially if it’s solely for the purpose of spite.”

  I get breathing for several seconds. Deep breathing. The kind I’m not opposed to. The kind I’d like to hear as a result of my abilities to make her feel extraordinary. In a very sexual way.

  “I’m going to hang up now, Bane, and you’re not going to call me back tonight, because I don’t think you want to see how far you can push before you reach my limit.”

  I don’t get another word out before the dial tone happens. As much as I want to call her back right away, I know it’s a bad idea. A very bad idea. So I keep it together and leave things alone. It’s late. I should go to bed. But I can’t, because all I can think about now is that fuck Wentworth and how one man can put things in perspective and screw everything up for me at the same time.

  * * *

  It’s been forty-eight hours. I tried to call Ruby yesterday. The only response I received were pictures of Tiny and Francesca, like they’re ransom notes in image form. Tiny was on the back of her hand. Francesca was hiding under my sheets. My messed-up sheets. A reminder that she has my pets and she has access to all my things, including my bed.

  I may not have reacted well to the Wentworth situation. I called Armstrong the next day and ripped him a new asshole. Except he seemed to think my reaction was hilarious and uncalled for. Then he went on to tell me I had nothing to worry about because Ruby was a frigid bitch as far as he could tell, and he doubted she opened her legs or her mouth for anyone. I ripped him an additional asshole for that comment.

  I also know that’s untrue. She opened her mouth for me. And I’m hoping her legs will, eventually, follow.

  A full fifty-seven hours later she finally picks up when I called her via video chat. I had apology flowers delivered this morning hoping it would defrost her a little. “Hey,” I say by way of greeting.

  She glares at me through the two-dimensional screen. If I was in my condo with her, there are so many ways I could wipe that glare off her face. But I’m an ocean away, so all I have are words.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The side of her mouth twitches, just a little. It’s barely a tic. She’s eating pasta. She dips her fork into the bowl and lifts it, twirling the noodles slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on her food. Ruby opens her mouth. Her luscious-looking mouth. The one I’ve had my tongue in. The one I’d like to have wrapped around my . . . the fork slides between her lips.

  A noise startles her. And then I realize it’s me. Groaning.

  The fork slides out from between her lips. She’s eating pasta primavera. The sauce is oil and garlic based. Her breath would be horrible right now, but her lips are glistening and I have no control over my head or where it goes—or how hard the one in my pants gets.

  She has the upper hand. She knows it. She raises a brow and chews slowly. It takes forever before she speaks. “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes.” It comes out low and raspy. Goddamn it. I need to get a handle on myself. Not a real handle, well, at least not while I’m talking to her . . . afterward maybe. Why is she so sexy? Why do I like that she refuses to let me get away with the shit I pulled the other night? Why am I looking so forward to her wrath
?

  “What exactly are you sorry for? Being an asshole?”

  “The flowers came?” I sort of expected them to smooth things over for me a little better than they have.

  “They did. They’re beautiful. But I’d still like to know what exactly you’re sorry enough for that you’d send flowers.”

  That’s a great question. It’s also legitimate. The card didn’t exactly allow for an extended inscription, so I went with Sorry for being an asshole. I need to word my explanation in a way that isn’t going to get me into more trouble. “For questioning your character.” When all I get is more staring, I continue. “I’m well aware that you’re an intelligent woman who is more than capable of making sound decisions. My concern wasn’t your ability to make decisions, but Wentworth’s propensity for taking advantage when he sees opportunity.”

  Her silence is long. Her chewing is slow. She sets her fork down and dabs daintily at her mouth with a napkin. “Well, I suppose your concern is warranted. Wentworth is a massive douche and I did kiss a random stranger under the influence of a single martini. But in my defense, it was rather unexpected and he was incredibly attractive.”

  Now I’m silent. “Was?”

  “Mmm.”

  “But isn’t incredibly attractive anymore?”

  “Recent behavior has taken him down a few points.”

  “A few?”

  “I’m sure with some good behavior he’ll be able to recover most of them.”

  “How many points did I lose?”

  “You think I’m talking about you?” The lightness in her tone drops as she continues, and her focus moves away from me to her pasta. “How do you know I haven’t kissed any other random strangers under the influence of a single martini while you’ve been off enjoying the extracurriculars in Amsterdam?”

  “Extracurriculars?”

  She lifts her fork, twisting the noodles, but they slip off, along with what appears to be false bravado. “Come on, Bane, you’re in the country where narcotics are legal and so is prostitution. I’m sure it’s not all work and no play.”

  “You think I’d pay for sex just because it’s legal?”