RUBY

On account of my bombing my audition Amie forces me into accompanying her to the party I was intent on avoiding. She thinks I need to get out and have some fun. I think a pint of Ben and Jerry’s sounds like a better time than spending my evening with a bunch of stuck-up snobs, but I haven’t seen much of Amie since moving into Bancroft’s condo, so I relent.

When Amie said “party” I stupidly assumed it meant there would be lots of people to mingle with. I could put on my “Ruby Snob” face, impart the occasional witty response, and rotate through the guests, air kissing and smiling. I also assumed it would be in a hall, or a ballroom of some kind, as is typical.

What I don’t expect is to end up at some last-name-first mansion with eleven other guests as the only single female in the room. Did I mention that there’s only one single man in the room, as well? This is possibly the worst and least subtle attempt at matchmaking ever. I don’t need to be set up with anyone. I have bigger things to worry about.

I’m holding a glass of prosecco, there seems to be no non-alcoholic option available at this point, and I’m thirsty. I spent an hour on Bane’s treadmill, staring at the life-sized portrait of him reflected in the window overlooking the river. Working out would be way easier if I could look at him all day, every day.

The impulse to pull a Ziploc baggie from my purse is strong as the server makes the rounds with a tray of appetizers. I’m slowly conditioning out that behavior. Thanks to Bane’s grocery delivery service, I finally know what it feels like to be full again. On real food that doesn’t come in a cellophane package. I’m actually starting to fill out this dress. It’s too bad my hips are the first to expand and my boobs are the last.

Last-Name-First #11, the single guy in the room, is droning on and on about his Ivy League education and how people assume the high-level position he has at Douchebags & Douchenozzles was handed to him, but that’s untrue, he worked hard to get where he is. I call bullshit. Not out loud. Just in my head. I know for a fact that Wentworth Williams’s—his name is even alliterated—father is a fifty-percent shareholder in the company, and that means if he wants his Ivy League–educated douche of a son to work there, all he has to do is send over a résumé and, poof, a new job title is created.

My father does not work this way. Not for me, anyway. I know I’ll be starting at the bottom rung. And that wouldn’t bother me so much if my siblings hadn’t been given corner offices and nice titles from the moment they started working for him. Not like I want to even work for him at all, but fair is fair. If I’m going to partake in nepotism, I should get what I can out of it.

Wentworth is still talking. I’m still nodding and smiling politely, asking the occasional question to appear interested when I tune into what he’s saying long enough to know he’s still going on about himself. It’s as if he’s sharing his entire résumé with me. Dating in the upper class is weird. People parade themselves around like show ponies, waiting for someone to pin them with first prize.

While he takes another truffle-steak-tartar-blah-blah and some goose liver paté on a blah-blah cracker I do a furtive check around the room. I’ve been standing for the last twenty minutes. I’m wearing heels and they’re becoming uncomfortable. My calves are seizing because of the hour spent on the treadmill.

Amie is halfway across the room. Armstrong has his arm around her waist. Actually, I’m pretty sure he keeps goosing her while she talks to one of the other fiancées based on the way her eyes go suddenly wide and his grin becomes pervy for a moment.

When her gaze meets mine from across the room she gives me one of her apologetic smiles. I just glare. She does the eye-widening, pleading thing. There’s no way she would try to set me up with the guy on purpose. I bet it was Armstrong’s doing. Asshole.

“Armstrong says you’re in theater.” Wentworth forces me to stop shooting death-ray lasers from my eyeballs and brings my attention back to him. It’s not exactly a question, but it’s the first thing he’s said that isn’t about him.

“I am.”

“But isn’t your family in pharmaceuticals?” He tilts his head a little, blinking a few times, a small smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. It’s an expression of fake attentiveness. His eyes keep dropping below my neck. I’m not surprised, my cleavage is epic. That I’m not currently following in my family footsteps makes me seem like a bit of a wildcard. Which admittedly I am. For some of these douchebags it means I’m something to tame.

“My father is, yes.”

“But not your mother?”

“They’re divorced. My mother’s an artist.” I’m hoping the divorce revelation will turn him off. It doesn’t.

“Ah. So that’s where you get your creative side from, then?” He leans in closer and fingers a lock of my hair. It’s pretty close to my boob, so a finger graze also happens. “Is that where your beauty comes from as well?”

I’m sure he thinks he’s smooth. I’m also sure many women would simper, put a hand on his forearm and giggle. I don’t do any of those things. Instead I ask a question I probably shouldn’t considering present company and Amalie’s future role in this unfortunate social circle. “Why? Are you into MILFs?”

His eyes go wide, because I’m being so scandalous, and then a questioning, somewhat uncertain smile spreads across his face. I suppose he’s attractive. He’s tall, more than six feet, but he’s lanky. He’s athletic enough, but it’s clear he spends more time and energy behind his desk than he does working out.

Normally that wouldn’t even factor into someone’s date-ability for me, but my standards seem to have shifted, in Bancroft’s direction.

Wentworth leans in even closer, so his mouth is next to my ear. He’s been drinking hard liquor, some expensive brand of scotch based on the peat moss scent, so his breath is sharp. “I’d like to get into you.”

I take a small step back. There are several possible interpretations for that horrible line. Based on his tone and his facial expression I have a feeling he means it in the naked horizontal sense. I decide to play it stupid. “I’m sorry?”

He blinks a couple of times, assessing my reaction. I’m feigning idiocy, although my distaste is actually real. He covers his dirty comment with another smile. “I’d like to get to know you.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I take a sip of my prosecco. My glass is almost empty.

“It’d be nice if we had a little more privacy, don’t you think?” He makes a small gesture to the rest of the party attendees. Most of them are engaged in a group conversation. It’s only me who’s been cornered. And Amie seems to be tethered to Armstrong.

I don’t have a chance to respond to that, because the chef appears from the kitchen to inform us that dinner is ready to be served. I try to sit beside Amie, but my attempt is thwarted by Wentworth. He puts himself between the two of us, which isolates me at the end of the table.

And then the real flirting begins. I get the knee brush about twenty times. Then he decides he’s worried about my hair ending up in my food, so he brushes it over my shoulder. By the time they bring out the main course, which is filet mignon and lobster tails, I’m about ready to stab him with my steak knife.

I’m also on my second glass of prosecco, or maybe it’s my third. One of the servers keeps topping it off when I’m not looking, so it stays at the same level of fullness consistently. My face is feeling rather warm, so now would be a good time to switch to water.

Just as they set my plate in front of me, my phone buzzes in my purse. I have it on vibrate, but I can feel it against my leg. I ignore it, I’m not expecting a call from Bancroft tonight because it’s a travel day. He has a flight to Amsterdam and I don’t think I’m supposed to hear from him until sometime tomorrow. Although with the time difference, it can get confusing.

The buzzing in my purse stops for a few seconds before it starts again. The third time my foot starts to vibrate I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I rummage through my purse on the way, hoping to locate my phone before it stops ringing. It’s Bancroft. He’s trying to video call me. My stomach does one of those little flippy things. I don’t even consider how rude it is that I’m taking a call in the middle of dinner. My excuse is that I’m staying in this man’s house, taking care of his pets, so if he contacts me it must be important. Mostly I’m just dying to talk to him as it’s been more than twenty-four hours since the last call.

I hit the answer button as I step into the powder room and close the door behind me. “Hey! Hi!” I have to slap around in the semi-dark to find the light switch.

“Ruby? Is everything okay?”

“Just fine.” The words come out whispery and a little breathless. I want to keep my voice down because, well, I’m on the phone in the bathroom in the middle of dinner, and also, Bancroft is reclined on a couch in a white undershirt. His hair is freshly washed but he’s sporting a serious five o’clock shadow. He looks exhausted. And sexy. And exhausted. But so, so hot.

His brow furrows. It’s also sexy. “Are you in a bathroom?”

“What?” I look around, like I’m unsure, even though I chose to lock myself in here. “Oh. Yes. I’m in a bathroom.” I think the prosecco is hitting me now.

“You’re not at home?” The way he says home sends a shiver down my spine, and a shot of warmth between my legs. I can imagine him stretched out on his couch back in the condo, me acting as his blanket. “Ruby? Where are you?”

“I’m at a party.”

“A party?” he parrots. He shifts in his chair, setting down his mug, the furrow in his brow growing deeper. “What party? Who’re you with?”

Now I don’t usually appreciate it when a guy pulls the territorial business. Mostly I’m very much a twenty-first-century woman and I feel like I have the right to do what I want, when I want, without having to answer for it. Obviously if I’m in a committed relationship I’m fully committed. I don’t play games or mess around. But there’s something about the way he’s asking, as if there’s a hint of panic, that warms all the parts below the waist. Well, warms them more than they already were, which means my panties are thinking about lighting themselves on fire.

“Ruby? Is the connection bad?”

“Oh! Sorry. You froze there for a second,” I lie. “Amie forced me to come out to this party. I didn’t ask enough questions, obviously, because it’s not at some huge event hall, it’s at some Richie Rich’s house. Well, house isn’t a very good descriptor, actually. I’m pretty sure this qualifies as a mansion seeing as this powder room is the size of my old apartment.”

“Who’s throwing the party? Is it one of Armstrong’s friends?” Bancroft voice is suddenly low and even.

“I assume so. Or maybe a colleague?” I’m distracted by the way Bancroft’s jaw is working. “Except me and him, everyone here is either engaged or married. I guess someone wanted to play matchmaker.”

“Amalie’s trying to set you up with someone?” Now he sounds incredulous.

I might not be the most civilized, refined woman out there, but I don’t think I’m a bad catch. Maybe a little untamed, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

“Not Amie, Armstrong apparently, and I shouldn’t have to sit at home alone every night,” I say defensively.

“You’re not alone. You have Tiny and Francesca and me.” The incredulity is replaced with irritation. “Who’s he trying to set you up with?”

“Wentworth something or other.” I’m trying to figure Bancroft out. The flirting and the sometimes overly sexual comments have become commonplace in our conversations and, frankly, something I look forward to. But earlier this week he called me babe, and now he says things like this, and he’s acting rather jealous. For all the distance currently between us, we’ve been spending an awful lot of time together. It’s blurring the lines I’ve made in my head a little.

“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.