Shacking Up

by Helena Hunting

  “Are you always this antagonistic?” She throws up her hands. “You kissed me. You smelled good and you’re good with your tongue so I went with it. Stop judging me.”

  “I’m not judging, I’m just asking. So on top of being incredibly attractive and smelling good I’m also an excellent kisser.”

  “I never said excellent, you added your own adjective. And if you keep talking about how attractive you are you’ll go from a ten to a nine pretty fast.”

  “Oh? So I’m a ten?”

  “You were an eleven before you started pushing this angle. That last question puts you at an eight-point-five.”

  “I guess I should change the subject before I’m in the negative.”

  “You just earned back half a point.”

  “Maybe I should stop while I’m ahead, or less behind, anyway.”

  “Good plan.” She leans over and grabs the remote to turn on the TV. I guess that conversation is over. For now.

  We finish our dessert in silence. Not uncomfortable silence, but there’s weight in it. Every so often I look over at Ruby, thinking I feel her looking at me, but maybe it’s just in my head. Or maybe I’m looking for a reason to keep baiting her.

  The next time I look over her eyes are closed. Her legs are still hanging off the edge of the chair, but she’s slouched down and her head looks like it’s at an uncomfortable angle. If she stays like that too long her neck is going to be sore. The tiramisu container is empty and resting against her thighs, right over a different kind of dessert I’d like to try. She’s still holding the spoon and there’s a smear on her tank. She must be exhausted and still recovering from that flu bug I passed on to her.

  “Ruby.”

  She makes a little noise and shifts around, her brow furrowing as she tries to get comfortable, but can’t because of the limited amount of room she has to maneuver.

  I turn off the TV aware I need to go to bed, so I can manage my early morning flight. I have hours of work to accomplish on the plane.

  I push up from the couch, pluck the empty container from her lap, and slip the spoon out from her fist.

  Her hands immediately smooth down her stomach and nestle between her legs as she tries to roll to the side. I’d like to get my hands between her legs, among other parts of my body. Not while she’s sleeping, obviously. That would just make me a creepy douche.

  I shake her shoulder. “Ruby.”

  Her eyes pop open and she blinks blearily, confusion knitting her brows together as she looks at me and then at her surroundings.

  “You fell asleep.”

  “Oh.” She glances down at her hands, tucked between her legs, and pulls them free.

  It takes her a moment to get her bearings. She stretches, arms going over her head, chest pushing out as she stands. Her tank rides up, exposing toned abs, and wait . . . is that a belly ring? How did I miss that before now? There’s definitely a streak of rebellion in this one.

  She shuffles across the floor, a shiver running up her spine and goose bumps break across her arms. Her shorts are askew, half of one butt cheek on display again. She has a tiny mole on the right one, not that I’m looking that closely or anything.

  I toss the empty containers in the trash and drop the spoons in the sink. Ruby stands half in, half out of her temporary room. “What time do you leave in the morning?” Her voice is raspy with sleep.

  “Early. Before six.”

  Her nose scrunches up. “Yuck. That’s an awful time to be awake.”

  “It’s pretty typical for me.”

  “Sometimes that’s when I go to bed.”

  “Partying hard?”

  “Just a nighthawk. Productions tend to be in the evening, it makes my schedule a little unconventional, when I have a role.” She leans her head against the doorjamb. “I don’t think sleeping is going to be a problem tonight, though.” She stifles a yawn. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in five weeks.”

  “I’ll check in once I’m settled.”

  “Great.”

  We stare at each other for a few long seconds and then she takes a tentative step forward. “Thanks again for trusting me to take care of your babies.” Suddenly her body is flush against mine as her arms come around my waist.

  I barely have enough time to return the hug before she releases me and steps away, eyes darting down as her cheeks flush pink.

  “I’m glad it worked out for both of us.”

  “Me, too.” She bites her lip, her gaze shifting to me. “Have a safe trip, Bancroft. G’night.”

  “Night.”

  She gives me a small smile, slips into her room and closes the door. I head to mine so I can take care of the issue that’s been plaguing me all night before I catch a few hours of sleep. And then leave this woman in my home for five weeks while I learn how to manage hotel properties.

  Chapter 8: Bon Voyage

  RUBY

  Noise wakes me at 5:36 in the morning. It takes me a few seconds to orient myself to the unfamiliar surroundings. I’m not used to the mostly quiet, so the footsteps and the sound of a suitcase being wheeled down the hall seem louder than they probably are.

  Bancroft must be leaving for the airport. We said good-bye last night, but I’m suddenly very awake, and alert. I won’t see him for five weeks. I stare at the ceiling while I listen to him tooling around in the kitchen, trying to decide if I should get up and say good-bye again or stay where I am. My vagina decides for me. She wants a visual hit of Bancroft before he leaves for the next month.

  I throw off the covers and tiptoe to the bathroom, blind myself with the light and check myself out in the mirror. My hair’s pretty screwed and I have puffy sleep eyes, but otherwise I’m fine. Well, fine-ish. I rinse with mouthwash, and finger-comb my hair so it doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard, but I also don’t look like a troll, either. I clear my throat and find it doesn’t hurt anymore, and my stomach actually rumbles.

  Opening my bedroom door a crack, I peek out. Light filters down from the kitchen. I shiver as I walk down the hall, the hardwood floor cool beneath my feet. I’m definitely not accustomed to the air-conditioning. Two black suitcases come into view as I approach the foyer.

  And then there’s Bancroft. Holy sweet mother of one-hand-clapping material, is this man ever not hot? He’s standing at the kitchen counter, writing something on a piece of paper, dressed in a black suit, complete with jacket and tie. His broad shoulders and narrow waist make it look absolutely fantastic. His hair is styled, the dark curls tamed with some sort of product. I want to run my fingers through it and mess it up. He’s freshly shaven, unlike last night, and completely put together.

  “Hey.” My voice comes out all gravelly, possibly from sleep, possibly because I’m thinking about how fun it would be to peel that suit off him. With my teeth. And get to all the good stuff underneath.

  His head jerks and he glances up to where I’m standing at the edge of the hallway, half in the dark. I step into the foyer and his eyes flare, sweeping over me.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.” His voice matches mine in rasp. He reaches up and adjusts his tie. His hand smooths over the shock of electric blue fabric. I follow the movement, watching as he fastens the button of his jacket. He was dressed similarly at the engagement party, but I didn’t have an opportunity to appreciate it the way I can now.

  I’ve been staring and he’s said words. I’m also biting my knuckle. I release it from my teeth. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to hearing traffic, so the silence is going to take some time to get used to.”

  His eyes keep darting down and then back up to my face. They seem to stay down longer and longer each time.

  I follow his gaze trying to figure out what the deal is when I realize that my current attire isn’t all that appropriate. I’m wearing a white tank, which isn’t a problem, it covers all my important parts—aside from my perky nipples. What I didn’t take into consideration was the fact that my bottom half is covered only by a pair of underwear. At le
ast they’re full coverage. They also happen to be lacy, since they were the only pair I could find in my semi-sleepy haze last night. I’ve worn less during dance competitions, but contextually, this isn’t awesome. Or maybe it is considering the way he doesn’t seem to be able maintain eye contact any better than me.

  “Oh.” I drop my hands and cover my crotch, as if that’s going to help. “Uh. I’ll be right back.”

  Bancroft’s eyebrows climb a little, and a half smile appears as I turn and rush down the hall, with my hands shielding my ass.

  “Don’t feel compelled to put more clothes on for my benefit,” he calls after me.

  I grab my kimono from the back of the bathroom door—one of the very few items I unpacked last night before I passed out—and shrug it on. On the plus side, my cheeks now match the color of the flowers decorating my robe, so at least I’m coordinated. I return to the kitchen where Bancroft is now sipping a cup of coffee. He regards me over the rim of his cup, his amusement apparent in the arch of his brow.

  “Sorry about that. I’ve been living alone for a long time.”

  “No need to apologize. Your wardrobe choices are your own. I’m certainly not going to complain.” He’s wearing a devilish smirk as he gives me another lingering once-over.

  I prop a hip against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s not polite to ogle?”

  His gaze lifts to mine and he leans in close, voice dropping to a whisper as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “I’m not always polite.”

  Oh God. I’d like to experience his not polite all over this condo. Right here on the kitchen island would be a good place to start. I go with snark rather than offering to be his breakfast. “You’re going to drop below a nine again if you keep it up.”

  That sexy smile of his widens. “I guess it’s good that I’m leaving. I’d hate to bring myself down to a lowly eight-point-five again.”

  I’m first to break the stare down. “What’s this?” I motion to the scribbled notes on the counter. There are also a couple of envelopes. The one on top has my name on it, but the notes are first to grab my attention. “Isn’t the hundred-page care manual enough?”

  He blushes a little. “It’s just a few things I forgot to tell you. And we didn’t discuss payment.”

  “Payment? For what?”

  “For taking care of Francesca and Tiny.”

  “You’re giving me a place to live and free groceries.”

  “You’ll have other expenses. You need a stipend. Will two a week be enough? I’ve left a little cash to start.” He taps the envelope. “I’ll get bank details from you later.”

  “Sure, that sounds reasonable.” Two hundred a week on top of having a place to live and food already taken care of will definitely make things manageable while I look for a job.

  I pick up the pages, the writing is nearly illegible. “I’m supposed to be able to read this? What is it, hieroglyphics?”

  “My writing isn’t that bad.”

  “Is that what your mom told you when you were in grade school?”

  “I’ll just email you later.” He tries to grab the notes from me but I hide them behind my back. It pushes my chest out, drawing his attention there.

  “It’s fine. I’ll just do some Internet research later on runes. It’ll be like one of those hidden-message puzzles.”

  He opens his mouth, likely to shoot back another barb at me, but his phone rings. He pats his pockets and locates the device. “I have to get this.” He answers the call. “Bancroft Mills speaking.” A short pause follows. “I’ll be right down.” Once he ends the call he pockets his phone again. “It’s my car for the airport.” He gives me another lingering stare, and it could be in my head, but he looks like he’s not all that excited about leaving at the moment.

  “Have a safe trip. I promise I’ll take great care of Francesca and Tiny while you’re gone.”

  “I’m sure you will. I’ll send a message when I land. And I’ll check in later in the week.”

  “Okay.” We stand there for a few seconds, staring at each other, neither one of us making any kind of move. I’m half a second away from making a colossally bad decision by grabbing him by the lapels of his suit jacket and dragging those luscious lips of his down to mine when he looks away and clears his throat. It’s enough to break me out of my fantasizing.

  “Okay. I have to go.” He’s said that already. He brings a hand up to his hair, but drops it. Pats his pockets, then crosses to his bags.

  “I’ll get the door for you.” I rush ahead of him, flip the lock, and hold it open.

  He pauses at the threshold. He looks like he wants to say something.

  “I promise they’ll be fine with me. We can always video chat if you miss them.”

  “Yeah. Okay. That might be good.”

  I’m a hugger. I’ve always been a hugger. Usually in my world you’re allowed to do the air-kiss, back-pat, so it’s on impulse, and maybe a small hormonal component, that I lean in toward him. I realize too late that my reflexive action isn’t the best idea. And that I’ve shocked him.

  “Oh. Okay,” he mumbles as my face hits his chest and my arm comes around his waist. I’m about to release him when he returns the embrace, his thick arms wrapping around me. God, he’s solid. And he smells incredible. Like warm laundry with a hint of cologne. His arms tighten and his head drops, his freshly shaved cheek brushes against my temple.

  The press of his palm against my low back has me tilting my pelvis just the tiniest little bit. I both hear and feel his heavy exhalation against my cheek, and then his other hand is smoothing up my back, between my shoulder blades, under my hair. It makes me want to follow through on the lapel-grabbing and lip-locking.

  I stop breathing when his fingertips brush over the back of my neck and his lips touch my ear. I suck in a gasping breath when the hand pressed against the dip in my spine eases just a bit lower. “I was managing just fine before the fucking lace panties,” he murmurs.

  The sound of another door opening and the yippy bark of a dog has us awkwardly shoving away from each other.

  “Bancroft!” The heavy accent belongs to a woman wearing more makeup than a circus clown. I have no idea how old she is, or whether she’s related to humans or aliens based on the amount of cosmetic surgery she’s likely had to achieve the false youthful look she’s sporting. A tiny dog jumps around her feet, yipping and nipping. It tries to make a run for Bancroft’s door, but Clown Woman yanks on the leash. “No, Precious! Sit!”

  Precious doesn’t sit, in fact, Precious growls and snaps at Bancroft. The woman snatches Precious up into her arms, chastising and then cooing.

  “Hello, Ms. Blackwood. Hello, Precious. You’re up early today.” Bancroft’s smile is as tight as Clown Woman’s skin as he takes a small, but obvious step away from me, creating more distance. He also shoves his hands in his pockets, possibly doing some rearranging. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling too wide.

  “I’m off for a week at the spa.” The Spa must be a highbrow code for a visit to the plastic surgeon, or rehab. I’m guessing it’s the former rather than the latter. Ms. Blackwood’s gaze travels over Bancroft—her ogling is quite obvious—and then slides to me. “Who is this you’re hiding?”

  Bancroft’s cheek tics, as if he’s trying to keep his smile from dropping. He looks just as annoyed as I feel. “This is Ruby Scott. She’ll be taking care of my place while I’m away on business.”

  “Oh?” She gives me a speculative look. “Is she a friend of yours, then?”

  “She is.”

  “Mmm. Well, isn’t that nice. Welcome to the building, Miss Scott, is it?”

  She holds out her wrinkly old hand, the one that in no way matches the stretched wrinkleless skin on her face.

  I hold the top of my robe closed with one hand and take her offered palm with the other. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Blackwood.”

  “Yes. Of course. Are you enjoying the
accommodations so far?”

  If she wasn’t pushing eighty I’d be worried about the look she’s giving Bancroft.

  I’m not sure what’s going on here, but there seems to be some kind of weird tension between them. “Oh yes.” I turn a warm smile on Bancroft and bat my lashes. “Bancroft is an incredibly accommodating, attentive host.”

  The tic in his cheek is back, except this time he’s working to keep his smile from growing too wide. There’s got to be a story with Ms. Blackwood.

  “All right! Enjoy your time at the spa.” I fake a yawn and smile brightly at Bancroft. “Have a great trip. I think I’ll just go back to bed since you kept me up so late and woke me up so early. Call when you’re all settled.” I drop a quick kiss on his cheek and step out of reach.

  Ms. Blackwood looks scandalized and Bancroft looks like he wants to rip my kimono off and maybe spank me. Okay, the last part is just me fantasizing. I’m going to take that back to bed with me.

  I give them both a jaunty wave. “Bye Bancroft, bye Ms. Blackwood.” I close the door on her horrified face and lock it, then peek through the peephole. Bancroft looks over his shoulder once before disappearing down the hall to the elevators.

  Five weeks of phone flirting with Bancroft might just kill me, and if it does, it’s going to be the sweetest death.

  Chapter 9: Phone Calls

  RUBY

  I go back to bed, give myself an orgasm while thinking about Bancroft, and promptly fall back to sleep. I don’t get up until two in the afternoon. And the only reason I roll my lazy butt out of bed is because my bladder forces me to. That mattress is like sleeping on a cloud.

  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.