RUBY

We return to the table. Armstrong looks a little put out that he’s been left alone. I assume it’s because dinner plates don’t act riveted by his engaging conversation.

I sit down and notice my meal is gone. “Did you have my pasta packed up?”

“Packed up?” Armstrong’s nose twitches, as if he’s trying to mask his disgust. I’m sure leftovers are only for the dog in his house. And the dog would be hypoallergenic and never bark.

“To take home?” I have to work hard to speak normally, and not like I’m addressing a toddler.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I hardly touched it.”

“I thought that was because you didn’t enjoy it.” He gives me a strained smile, his gaze moving from me to Amie, as if he’s uncertain whether he’s done something wrong or not.

“It’s not a big deal.” I smooth my napkin across my lap so I have somewhere to focus. This night is turning to crap. Not only is what little I’ve eaten not sitting all that well, now I can’t even enjoy the leftovers when my stomach finally settles. And the only things in my fridge are lemons and maybe some salad dressing and random condiments. If I wasn’t already highly embarrassed, I might want to cry.

“Why don’t we order dessert?” Amie suggests.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Armstrong asks.

If he’s implying that Amie needs to watch what she eats he needs a slap across the face, or maybe a punch, with brass knuckles, below the belt. Amie is stunning, with a fabulous body that she maintains with regular visits to the gym. Unlike me. I rely solely on my unfortunate dietary restrictions to maintain my current supermodel like figure. Which isn’t really all that supermodel-y, but my clothes have been a little bit looser lately.

“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m really looking forward to checking out their dessert selection.” Bancroft slides smoothly into the chair across from me.

Maybe they have sorbet or something that would be easy on my testy stomach.

When the waitress comes back, Amie orders some elaborate chocolate lava dessert, even though Armstrong makes comments about it not being gluten-free. She also orders a latte, but makes it nonfat. Bancroft orders apple pie with ice cream and a boozy cinnamon coffee and I opt for mint tea and watermelon gelato, because it seems like I might actually be able to eat it without irritating my sensitive tummy. Armstrong orders espresso. Black. No sugar. Of course.

“So Bancroft, you fly out this weekend, right?” Amie asks.

Here we go. I can tell by her expression that she’s planning her attack. Armstrong hasn’t been with her long enough yet to fully appreciate her mischievous and devious side.

“I do. You’re still okay to come by and take care of Francesca and Tiny while I’m gone?”

“I just have to feed them, right?”

“And change Francesca’s litter a couple of times a week,” Bancroft says.

Amie makes a face, like the idea of changing litter is a repulsive task. She grew up with a dog, but I don’t thinks she was responsible for taking care of his lawn deposits.

“Oh. Okay. I guess I can do that.”

“I have a list of instructions that should help make it easy for you.” He adjusts his tie, looking a little nervous. I’m assuming it’s directly related to her look of distaste. “I’m sorry I’m asking you to do this but I can’t really use a professional pet sitting service. I don’t have time to fully vet one and I just need someone I can trust.”

It made sense, even though Amie’s experience with pets has been fairly limited. Their family poodle, Queenie, was as high strung as her mother. Caring for Queenie consisted of the occasional pet and maybe a walk once in a while. That dog probably got more attention from me than her entire family combined. It’s not Amie’s fault. Her mother wouldn’t let her near the dog because she has allergies, even though Queenie was hypoallergenic as far as dogs go. She didn’t even shed.

“And I just need to stop in a few times a week, right?”

“Uh . . . well, Francesca needs some attention, so—”

“What kind of attention. I should take allergy pills before I go, shouldn’t I?” she turns to me. “Maybe you could come with me? In case I have a reaction and need help.”

I shrug. “If you want.” Amie half-wasted her potential. She could easily have become an actress with the performance she’s currently putting on.

Amie turns a bright smile on Bancroft. “Ruby’s great with animals. She probably could’ve been a vet.”

That’s untrue. I discovered in high school biology that I’m not good with strong smells and cutting open small, helpless animals. Even if they’re dead and embalmed.

Bancroft studies me for a moment as he folds his napkin and places it neatly on the table. Oh, yes, this man is definitely from good breeding. Which is a horrible thing to notice. I hate that it’s ingrained in my DNA.

“Have you ever owned pets?”

“Not since I moved to New York. But I grew up with two dogs and a cat, and for a while my mother had a raven.”

Bancroft raises an eyebrow. “A raven?”

“It kind of adopted my mother.” Until some stupid kid with a BB gun shot it.

Bancroft looks around and drops his voice. “Have you ever taken care of a ferret?”

“You have a ferret? I thought you said it was a bunny or a guinea pig.” I say to Amie.

Amie shrugs. “They’re both furry and they live in cages, right?”

My opinion of Bancroft shifts slightly. Ferrets are atypical pets. I became a little obsessed with them as a teenager thanks to my time spent working in an animal sanctuary. I’d wanted to adopt one who ended up there, but I wasn’t allowed—for a barrage of reasons. First of all, they’re stinky until they have the gland business taken care of, a fact I hadn’t been aware of. They also have to be caged because they’re small and can get into very tight spaces. And my dog probably would have eaten it.

“I also have a tarantula.” Bancroft taps on the table, awaiting my response.

I try to keep my voice from going too high. “Oh wow. That’s um . . . unusual.”

“Are you afraid of spiders?” he asks.

“Not really, no.” I don’t particularly love spiders, but I’m not the kind of person who will get up on a chair and scream like a banshee if I see one. I’m also more likely to usher them outside rather than stomp on them if they happen to be sharing my space.

“She’s pretty harmless if you know how to handle her.”

“I’ve never held a tarantula.”

“Well we’ll have to change that, won’t we?” Bancroft gives me a warm smile that makes me all melty and blushy—beyond the fever I’m still rocking, anyway.

“So you’re okay with—” Armstrong makes hands gestures to go with his pinched expression. “—odd animals,” he finally finishes.

“I wouldn’t call them odd, they’re just a little unconventional. I volunteered at an animal sanctuary when I was in high school.”

“Really? How would that benefit your résumé?” Armstrong asks.

“It didn’t. I volunteered because I wanted to.” And also so I wouldn’t have to spend my weekends and afternoons at my father’s office, filing papers or editing the pamphlet for his penis-inflating prescriptions.

Bancroft taps the table and leans in closer. “Ruby, how would you feel about taking care of Francesca and Tiny?”

“Francesca’s the ferret, isn’t she?” I can feel my nose wrinkle with my smile. I try to tone it down. My father always told me it makes me look childish and silly.

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.