Shacking Up

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.