The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  I reach across to end the call.

  “Wait!” Bancroft says.

  “I really do have to go.”

  “Are you angry with me?” he asks.

  I sigh. I’m not angry with him at all. I’m embarrassed to be in such a predicament that the money he’s offering seems massive. It’s an important lesson to learn. To know what it’s like to struggle, and not just have things dropped in my palm because I hold it out.

  “No. I’m not angry. Your generosity is overwhelming. It’s making you a ten-point-five, and it’s too much for me to handle.”

  “Ten-point-five.” His serious expression grows even sexier with his smirk.

  “You’re down to a ten again. Bye, Bancroft.”

  “Bye, Ruby.”

  I’m in the middle of scrubbing marshmallow out of the microwave when the phone rings again. The one attached to the answering machine. It’s Brittany. Again. Apparently she wants to make sure Bancroft hasn’t lost her number.

  I erase the message. And the other one she left for him. I don’t even feel an ounce of guilt either.

  * * *

  Two days later I pop by the bank to make a deposit on my credit card and my line of credit thanks to my great tips. I discover my account is no longer hovering in the low hundreds any longer. Not even close.

  As soon as I get home I video call Bancroft. “You lost six points,” I say by way of greeting.

  “Six? What could I possibly have done to dig myself that kind of hole?”

  “How did you even get my bank account information? Isn’t that fraud?”

  “It’s only fraudulent if I try to take money out of the account, not if I put it in there.”

  “That was sneaky.”

  “I told you I’d get the money to you one way or another. I wasn’t lying or being sneaky. I was being totally upfront about it.”

  I make an angry sound.

  “You can’t be angry with me, Ruby.”

  “Are you telling me how to feel?” Goddammit. I shouldn’t be so upset about this. It’s really not rational. It shouldn’t bother me this much that he wants to compensate me, beyond giving me a place to live, even if the amount is exorbitant.

  “Please don’t be upset with me. I feel responsible for you losing out on that audition. I cost you months of potential income, Ruby. Let me do what I can to make up for giving you that horrible flu bug.”

  “So this is guilt-induced?”

  Bancroft sighs. “I feel like you’re baiting me and nothing I say is going to be right here. I just don’t want you to be angry with me for doing what I think is right.”

  Suddenly I realize why the money thing is bothering me. Over these past weeks I’ve stopped looking at Bancroft as my pseudo-employer. I don’t think I ever really looked at him as my employer in the first place, if I’m honest with myself. Giving me a place to stay, food, and access to takeout was one thing, even the modest amount of money I could attribute to incidentals, but actual substantial payment for the pet sitting breaks the illusion that this is more. Or has the potential to be more. And it makes me feel kept, which makes me feel like the situation is no different than with my father. And I definitely don’t want this situation to feel anything like that.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you. I just want to be able to do this on my own.”

  “You are doing it on your own.”

  I motion to my surroundings. “Last time I checked, this wasn’t my condo, unless you’ve decided to transfer ownership into my name.”

  Bancroft gives me the eyebrow. “You know, it’s a damn good thing I’m not there right now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re being difficult, and if I were there I’d be able to make you stop.”

  I plant my fist on my hip. “Oh? You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “And how exactly would you do that?” The way he’s looking at me sends a shiver down my spine.

  He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, his smile is downright evil. “I don’t think I can answer that question honestly without putting the rest of my points at risk.”

  * * *

  On Thursday afternoon I get a call from Bancroft. I’m still half asleep from having been up so late. I didn’t get home until after three in the morning, which isn’t typical for a Wednesday, but the club was rented out for a big party. Tips were great. It took a long time to come down from the high of the evening so I’ve been out for less than six. I’m an eight-hour girl.

  It’s a video call from Bancroft, which is terrible, since I’m sure I look like hell. I didn’t even bother to take off my makeup last night. I probably look like a well-used hooker right now.

  I answer the call, but leave the screen pointing at the ceiling.

  “Ruby?”

  I glance over, but stay out of view. He looks like he’s in a car. “Hey.” My voice is raspy from sleep.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s okay. I should probably think about getting up.” And then go right back to bed.

  “I have some good news!”

  “Oh?” I lean over the phone and catch a glimpse of my messed-up hair. I have to use an ungodly amount of product to maintain my hairstyle for the duration of my performance, and I didn’t shower before bed. Based on the quick glimpse, I definitely should’ve.

  “Why can’t I see you?”

  “Because my face looks awful.”

  “Your face could never look awful.”

  “Let’s not test that theory right now. What’s the good news?”

  “I’m on my way home.”

  “What?”

  “We finished ahead of schedule. I’ll be home soon.”

  I pick up the phone. Then drop it just as fast. Good lord. I look like a hooker clown on crack. I grab the closest garment, which happens to be a tank top and wrap it around my head, which makes me look as though I’m wearing a babushka. There’s nothing I can do about the makeup still smeared under my eyes, but at least the insanity that is my hair is under cover.

  I want to be excited, and I am. I get to see Bancroft after four and a half weeks of constant phone conversations that included incredible amounts of innuendo. But the condo is a mess. And there’s little in the way of food in the fridge because I planned for him to be back two days from now.

  I pick the phone up.

  He barks out a laugh. “What’s going on over there Bo Peep?”

  I ignore the jab. “My hair looks awful.”

  “Want to tell me about this?” He motions to my face.

  “Performance makeup. So how soon are you going to be home? Tonight?”

  “Probably in about an hour, depending on how bad the traffic is.”

  “An hour?” It’s a shriek. A loud, almost ear-piercing noise denoting very clearly my panic. “But you’re not supposed to be home for two days. I’m not ready for you!”

  Bancroft’s smile turns downright lascivious. “All you need to do is wash your face and you’re perfectly ready for me, babe.”

  Sweet mother of vagina tingles. If I wasn’t in complete panic mode I might’ve been able to appreciate the low baritone, and the hot look in his eyes. But I’m 100 percent panicking because his room is a sty and the rest of the condo isn’t much better.

  I roll off the bed. “I gotta go. I gotta tidy up.”

  “Hey, are you in my bedroom?”

  “Uh—” Fuck. Fuck. What do I say to that? The answer is clearly yes. “I fell asleep playing with Franny last night while I was watching TV. See you soon! Safe travels.” I hang up. I hope there’s so much traffic walking would be faster.

  “Oh my God!” I yell to the room. I throw off the tank top wrapped around my head and then run around, trying to figure out where to start. My clothes are all over the floor. I’ve gotten lazy over the past few days, and the bathroom is loaded with my things. I need a bulldozer to manage this mess. The cleaning lady will be here in a couple of hours, which does
n’t help me now.

  Okay. Maybe it’s not quite that bad, but it’s still not good. Cleaning this room is priority number one. I grab one of the empty laundry baskets and get to work on picking up the dirty clothes from the floor. There are a lot of them.

  I strip the sheets and pillowcases, cringing at the black smears left from my excessive mascara. I can barely see over the top of the laundry basket it’s so full by the time I’m done.

  I dump it all in the machine, drop in a detergent tab, and rush back to Bancroft’s room with the basket again. I sweep all my crap off his vanity, grab all my things from the shower, including my body poof and all my used towels, and sprint back to my room with it. I’ll worry about putting it away later.

  I make up Bancroft’s bed, clean his vanity as best I can and then rush to the kitchen to tackle the mess there. It’s not terrible, but it’s definitely not awesome. There are a lot of little things lying around, and from what I witnessed on my first day here he’s pretty tidy. I don’t want him to come home to a messy house.

  I do the best I can with the little time I have. Which turns out to be less than an hour. I’m in the middle of trying to fit the last of the mugs from the sink in the overfilled dishwasher when I hear the ding of the elevator from the hall. I freeze and hold my breath, waiting. The code being punched in spurs me into action.

  I still look like a hooker clown. On crack. I leave the dishwasher open and sprint through the kitchen and down the hall. I slide across my bedroom floor, into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me as Bancroft’s deep, sexy voice travels through the condo and resonates in my happy clit—along with the rest of me. Oh God. He’s home. I am way too excited about this.

  I slap all the buttons in the shower, having forgotten how to use it since I’ve been using Bancroft’s for the past four-point-five weeks.

  “Ruby?” his muffled voice comes from somewhere in the condo.

  “Hey! I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I yell over the rushing water.

  I take the fastest, most violent shower of my life because I can’t figure out how to stop the jets until I’m almost done. I scrub the makeup off my face, run a brush through my hair, and step out into my bedroom—with the boxes still lining the walls—wrapped in a towel.

  Of course, that’s the exact moment Bancroft chooses to pass by. He’s carrying Francesca, cooing at her, looking adorable and sexy in his dress shirt and dress pants, and, sweet Lord, I’m mostly naked, and he’s here.

  Bancroft’s gaze starts from my toes and moves up, slowly, all the way to my face. “Hi.” It’s only one word, but there are a million questions in it.

  He’s so gorgeous, absently petting Francesca while he stands there, staring. I stare right back, eating up the visual beauty. He’s rocking sweet stubble and his shirt is wrinkled. He’s a little disheveled. It makes him even sexier.

  Anxiety makes my heart race. I want to run across the room and throw myself into his arms. I want him to cross the room, pick me up, and throw me down on the bed. I want his mouth on mine. I want it everywhere. I say and do none of these things. Instead I go with, “Hi.”

  A month of banter, of conversations spent half-undressed, or in bed, or in pajamas being flirty makes this one of the most awkward situations ever. Also, my being naked doesn’t help.

  “I see you washed your face.”

  “And the rest of me.”

  His eyes dip down and his tongue peeks out, dragging across his lip. “I see that, too.”

  I tighten my grip on my towel. My fingers would really like to let it drop to the floor just to see what he’ll do.

  He takes a step forward and so do I. My entire body hums with energy. Francesca wriggles in his arms and he loses his hold. She hops to the floor and skitters across the room, disappearing into the hall. Bancroft doesn’t seem to care as he advances on me. Is he going to kiss me? Is that a good idea? I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want it to matter.

  He’s only a foot away when a crash startles us both. He hesitates and glances over his shoulder. It’s a second or two before he decides it doesn’t matter. In that time, I allow my towel to loosen, exposing the tops of my breasts. If I drop it another inch, he’ll see nipple. Just as he turns back to me there’s another louder crash. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I’ll be right back.”

  He whirls around, hands balled into fists as he stalks down the hall.

  I expel a breath and check the time. Dammit. It’s already after two. I actually have to leave for work soon, which leaves me no time to enjoy ogling Bancroft or to hear about his trip.

  I close my door and rush to get dressed, throwing on a pair of shorts, a sports bra, and a loose shirt, because they’re pretty much the only clean things I have in here.

  I hastily pack my work bag so I’m ready to go, luckily having never unpacked it from last night. Then I take a few deep, cleansing breaths. We just have to get past the initial awkwardness of seeing each other again for the first time after a month of daily phone conversations and a lot of sexual innuendo. It’ll be fine. I don’t have to jump him right away. I probably shouldn’t, truth be told. I’m so excited to see him, though. Too excited. I need to calm down.

  I open the door and step out into the hall. I can hear him in his bedroom. The one I’ve been sleeping in for weeks. I check my bag, making sure it’s zipped up. I haven’t even told Amie the truth about where I’m working. I don’t want her to accidentally let it slip to Armstrong. He seems like the gossipy type.

  Bancroft is visible through the crack in the door. A laundry basket sits at his feet, his suitcase lies open on the bed. He tosses items from the suitcase into the basket, red boxer briefs among them.

  I knock on the door and peek my head around the jamb. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, Francesca got up on the counter and knocked a bunch of stuff over, but it’s fine. Nothing broken, or anything. Come on in.”

  Oh God. His voice is so damn sexy. And deep. Like the ocean. Like . . . I don’t know what else. But it sounds even better in real life than it does on the phone, and it does things to my body. Good things. Incredible things.

  He stops what he’s doing when I peek my head inside, his eyes moving over me. He glances at the bag hanging from my shoulder and frowns. “Do you have to go somewhere?”

  I drop it on the floor outside his room. “I have work.”

  That frown deepens. “Oh. I thought you wouldn’t have to go until later.”

  “We have rehearsal this afternoon.” I glance around his room, making sure I managed to put away all my things. It looks pretty good.

  “Will you be home for dinner?”

  I shake my head. “I won’t be back until late.”

  “Oh.” He misses the laundry basket with a pair of pants and doesn’t bend down to pick them up. “What about tomorrow night?”

  “I’m working then, too.”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, that’s no good. When are we going to catch up?”

  I’m not sure what we have to catch up on, other than his flight, since we’ve talked pretty much every day, but I don’t mind that he wants to spend time with me. I certainly wouldn’t mind spending time with him, naked, in his bed, playing hide and seek with his penis in my vagina. Dammit. I really need to get a handle on where my brain keeps going. It was much easier when he was an ocean away.

  “I have Monday and Tuesday night off.”

  “That’s four days from now.”

  “We can catch up in the morning?”

  “I have to be up early.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’m still living here, so it’s not like we’ll lack opportunities to see each other, right?” Why is this so awkward? I don’t want it to be uncomfortable between us. I can’t tell if it’s me or him or both of us.

  “Right. Yeah. Of course.” He nods, but he’s chewing his lip, still looking displeased “I guess I’ll probably go into the office in a bit, then.”

  “But you just got back. Don’t you get a day
off?”

  Bancroft shrugs. “Not much to do around here once I’m unpacked. I have lots of debriefing and meetings in the next few days. I might as well get a head start. Besides, it’ll keep me from falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “That’s a good idea.” I hate how uncomfortable this is right now. “Okay. Well, I should go. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning?”

  “Sounds good. Break a leg tonight.”

  I grimace, not because I’m actually worried about breaking anything, aside from my recent, botched auditions, I’m typically graceful, but because it feeds into the lie.

  “Is that the wrong thing to say?” Bancroft asks.

  I force a smile. “No, not wrong at all. Thanks. Thank you.” I’m stumbling over my words, aware I need to leave, but I’m having a hard time not going in for a hug.

  It turns out I don’t need worry about it. As I step around Bancroft his huge hand wraps around my wrist. The sensation is damn well magical. It’s been almost five weeks since he’s touched me. Longer than that since he’s kissed me—accidentally or not. In that time I’ve been flirting my ass off with him on the phone. So much flirting. So much self-gratifying once I’m no longer on the phone with him.

  And right now he’s touching me. I must make some kind of noise, because his gaze locks on mine and he hesitates. It’s only for the briefest moment. I don’t want to lose this opportunity, so I step toward him. It’s enough of a positive signal. He tugs me closer still, and wraps his free around me.

  Now the contact isn’t limited to his hand wrapped around my wrist, it’s his entire, massive frame pressed up against mine. He winds an arm around my waist, his palm smoothing over my lower back, pulling me in tighter. I imagine how much different this would’ve been had it happened when I was still just wearing a towel.

  I swear I hear a hum come out of him. And I barely resist the urge to drop my hand to his ass and give it a squeeze.

  I’m pretty sure I feel his nose in my hair and his breath on my neck before he lets me go. When he steps back he jams his hands in his pockets.