RUBY

Being employed is very good for one’s ego, even if the employment is of a questionable nature. I’m choosing to look at it as a fringe role in a fringe-type production in order to make myself feel reasonably okay about the whole thing. I have a job. That’s the most important part.

The potentially scandalous nature of the employment is secondary to the actual income I’m about to generate. And it won’t be provided by Bancroft. It means when he comes back I won’t be reliant on him for money. That brings me one step closer to self-sufficiency. I’d really like to see whether all this flirting will turn into something else, but not when it feels like I’m being bought or kept.

That’s exactly what it’s felt like with my father; he paid for my education and my life, but it came with an expiration date and huge side of shame. It’s also how my mother seemed to exist for a long time. He bought her complacency in their marriage until she decided it wasn’t worth the price anymore. Moving to Alaska was an extreme measure, but I understand it better now that I’m getting out from under his bricks of money, and I never want to end up in that kind of situation ever again.

When Bancroft calls later I’m all smiles. Until I realize I’m going to have to fudge my job title. Theater is one thing, burlesque isn’t quite on par with what’s acceptable employment in my world, and if it gets back to my father it won’t be good. I also don’t want Bancroft to know. He went batshit when he thought I was showing cleavage to one of Armstrong’s friends. He’d probably have a coronary if he saw what I was going to wear on a daily basis at work. I don’t need to deal with that at the moment.

“You’re in a good mood,” he observes.

I’m lying on his bed with Francesca, who’s playing in my hair. My feet are killing me, but I don’t care. I have a job.

“I’m gainfully employed.”

“That’s fantastic, Ruby. You had an audition? Or was it a job interview? Either way we should celebrate. I’ll order some champagne and you can open a bottle on your end.”

“We’re not having champagne. It’s not that kind of job.”

“It’s a job, that’s all that matters. Go get yourself a drink.”

“You’re a little bossy aren’t you?” I don’t argue, though, I wouldn’t mind a drink, and sometimes it’s important to celebrate, even if it’s the little things. I pour myself a glass while he orders room service. I’m halfway through glass number one by the time his bottle arrives. Bancroft insists I top my glass up, so I do.

“So tell me about this job of yours,” he says, as I make my way back to his bedroom, where I’ve left Francesca.

If I’d gotten a role in an actual play it wouldn’t be an issue. But this is not quite the same. “It’s like . . . dinner theater.” They serve food there, so it counts. Sort of.

“That’s good isn’t it?”

“It’s a start and a paycheck.”

“Both good things.”

“Exactly. How about you? How’re things in London?” I settle back on his bed.

“Running smoothly now. I’m looking forward to coming home. It’ll be nice to sleep in my own bed again.”

“I bet. It’s a nice bed. You must miss it.”

“I do. Especially right now.”

“Why right now?”

“Because you’re in it.”

I prop the phone up against a pillow and rest my chin on my fist. I’m trying not to take that the way I want to. I lower my voice to a sultry whisper. “Are you jealous?”

He gives me the evil eye. “Maybe a little.”

“Just a little?” I stretch my arms and legs out, starfishing on top of the comforter. “Look at how much room I have.” I make a big production of rolling back and forth across the king-size bed. “It’s so firm,” I groan and roll to one side, then roll back the other way until I’m in front of the screen again on my stomach. “And it’s so big,” I draw out the word big and flutter my lashes, biting my lip through a grin.

Bancroft’s tongue peeks out and then disappears. “You know, I’m going to be home soon and I’ll be able to get you back for all this tormenting.”

“You think I’m tormenting you?”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not, with the way you’re moaning, rolling around on my bed, dressed the way you are.” He gestures to me from his side of the screen.

I push up on my arms. My tank gapes at the chest as I sit back on my heels. It’s one of those ones with the built-in bra. I run a hand over my camisole. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

“Are you fucking shitting me with that question, Ruby?”

“I’m ready for bed.”

“I can see your nipples.”

I cup my breasts. “It’s cold. The air-conditioning is always on full blast in here.”

“Are you even wearing a bra?” Bancroft’s arm unfurls, the hand tucked behind his head is suddenly on the move, down his chest and then out of sight.

I lean in, as if it’s going to change my view. “What’re you doing?”

“Aren’t you going to answer my question?”

His bicep is flexing. What the hell is he doing?

“Ruby?”

I shift my gaze up. “Huh?”

“My question? Are you going to answer it or not?”

I’m too busy trying to figure out where his hand has gone to pay attention to questions. “Um . . . what was it again?”

“You’re not wearing a bra, are you?”

“No.” His bicep keeps flexing, it’s mesmerizing.

“What about panties?”

Dear lord. When his voice drops like that it makes me want to take off all my clothes.

“You should just do that.”

“What?”

“Take off all your clothes.”

Shit. I must have said that aloud. “You want me to roll around on your bed naked?”

“Yes.”

“While you watch?” I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking.

“Fuck yes. Or maybe just in your panties if you’re feeling shy.”

Sweet baby Jesus. I’m pretty sure we’re crossing every platonic line there is tonight. I also think Bancroft might be a bit of a dirty boy, which is fine by me. “What if I’m not wearing panties?” I rise up on my knees which means only my chest to mid-thigh is visible to him.

“Even better.”

I ease my hands down my sides until I reach the waistband of my shorts. As far as shorts go, they don’t really cover much, and half the time they double as underwear, which is pretty much their function right now. I hook a thumb in each side of the waistband and drag it down over my hips.

“Oh shit,” Bancroft groans.

I keep pulling them lower, but I stop before I give him a real peek at the goods. Then I trail the fingers of one hand back up. Catching the hem of my cami I start lifting, up over my navel.

“Tell me about the belly ring,” Bancroft says.

“This?” I look to where his eyes have gone and circle the little jewel dangling from the barbell with a fingertip.

“When’d you get that?”

“When I was a teenager. My father forbade it, obviously.” I give him a cheeky grin. “See how well that worked.”

“Of course you didn’t listen.”

I shake my head and lift my tank higher, past my ribs.

“Such a naughty girl, aren’t you?” Bancroft asks, eyes following the increasingly visible skin.

I pause when I graze the underside of my breast and let out a little moan. It’s not fake. Bancroft’s full lips are parted, his stare is rather intense. I imagine if we were in the same room I’d already be naked and under him. And I still have no idea what’s going on with his hand that’s disappeared. And that’s when I realize what I’m doing probably isn’t a great idea. What exactly am I going to do if I follow through on getting naked? He’s not here to help me out and there’s no way I’m going to masturbate for him on video chat. We’re not exactly at that stage in our relationship. We’re not even in a relationship.

I let the tank drop.

“Wait. What the fuck.”

My shorts snap back into place.

Bancroft’s expression is the most comical thing I’ve ever seen. “No, no, no. Babe, what’re you doing?” He reaches out and snatches up the phone, as if he can climb through it. “Why’re you stopping?”

“It’s after midnight. I need to go to bed and you need to go to work.”

“Fuck work. You need to get naked like you said you would.”

“I never said I’d get naked, you just suggested it.” I pick up the phone and roll onto my back, I pucker up and give him an air smooch. “Have a great day. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait, wait!” His eyes are wide and darting around. “I—I forbid you to take your clothes off.” His smile screams of victory.

I laugh. “That’s not how it works, Bane.”

“Come on, Ruby, that’s not nice.”

“I’m not always nice.” And then I hang up and put my phone on airplane mode.

I spend the next twenty minutes making myself feel good. I have the best damn dreams ever.

* * *

Over the next few days Bancroft and I play phone and message tag. He makes no mention of what went down the other night, or what didn’t, and neither do I. Conversation timing shifts again. Instead of talking while he’s getting ready for work, we talk while he’s eating dinner, usually at a desk with a noisy background that makes real conversation impossible. It’s lunchtime for me, which means I’m stocking up on carbs so I can manage to make it through hours of dancing in heels.

As the weekend approaches I become increasingly anxious and giddy. Anxious because Sunday night I’m being given my first shot at the third set. Sunday is the quietest of the weekend nights, but it still pulls in a decent crowd.

I’m giddy because Bancroft is scheduled to return at the end of next week. I have his flight times marked on the calendar. I’ve made sure to schedule the cleaning lady early and order groceries so his fridge is stocked for his return.

My job at EsQue is going well. As I gain more hours the tips get better and better. If I can keep making this kind of money consistently for the next few weeks I might actually be able to get a down payment for an apartment together. So, when I’m offered a small part in an Off-Off-Broadway production, I have to seriously weigh what I’ll make against what I’m pulling in at EsQue. It’s not comparable, so I end up turning it down.

On Monday I get up at a reasonable hour and make a quick trip to the mini-grocer down the street. I woke with a hankering for s’mores. Not the best in terms of breakfast food, but since I’m burning a lot of energy at my new job, I can afford the sugar consumption.

I’m juggling my purse, and three bags of groceries, while stuffing marshmallows in my face as I walk down the hall. I adore marshmallows in a terribly irrational way. I splurged on the name-brand graham crackers and I have a jar of Nutella waiting to be cracked. My plan is to make microwave s’mores because I’m starving and impatient.

I shove two marshmallows in my mouth while I punch in the code to the condo. As soon as I’m inside, the phone starts ringing. Not my cell, which is stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans, but the real phone attached to the vintage answering machine at the far end of the kitchen.

It’s the first time I’ve heard the thing ring. There are a couple of messages on there, but I haven’t bothered to check as per Bancroft’s instructions. I allow it to ring since it isn’t going to be for me.

After five rings a beep sounds and Bancroft’s deep, masculine, panty-dissolving voice booms through the condo. Okay, maybe not booms, but it sounds like he’s somewhere on the other side of the room.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Bancroft Mills. I’m unable to take your call, but if you leave your name, number, and a message at the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

It’s pretty standard as far as messages go, but I’d listen to it on repeat just to hear his voice. I drop the bags on the counter, apart from the marshmallows, which I keep shoving into my mouth, and walk over to the answering machine. I stare down at the little tape, waiting for it to start whirling. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated. I think it’s sweet that Bancroft misses his grandma enough to keep this ancient thing around. It’s so out of place in his condo, much like my horribly ugly lounger—which I haven’t sat in once since Bancroft left.

I’m disappointed when no one leaves a message. Shrugging I give some attention to Francesca, who’s skittering around her cage. Flipping the latch, I pick her up and give her a snuggle. “Did you have a good snooze, pretty girl?” She makes her little happy noises then jumps out of my arms and bounds across the room to the answering machine, pawing at the leg of the table. I should probably do some organizing over there. I’ve been dumping Bancroft’s mail on the table and the pile is heaping and messy.

“Did you hear Bancroft? I bet you miss him like crazy.”

I go back to my groceries and unload my glorious booty. I locate the graham crackers and tear open the box. Arranging four on a plate, I top each with a marshmallow and put it in the microwave. I hit the start button just as the phone rings again. I pause in my quest for a s’more breakfast to listen to Bancroft’s sexy voice again.

I think he’s supposed to call soon, but I can’t remember exactly what time we agreed upon today. He was wearing a suit with the tie hanging loose when we talked yesterday, speaking words and all I heard in my head was Take off all your clothes, Ruby, and I’ll let you take off mine. I’m pretty sure he made no mention of clothing removal this time, but my imagination has been working overtime since the night I was rolling around in his bed, in a camie and shorts.

The message plays again, and in my mind, I change the words to something more along the lines of:

You’ve reached the voice mail of Bancroft Mills. I’m too busy orally pleasuring the gorgeous woman living in my condo, so don’t bother leaving a message because I won’t be able to get back to you for at least another week, maybe two.

My daydreaming is brought to an abrupt end when a high, nasally female voice cuts in:

“Hi, Banny! It’s Brittany. I know you’re away on business, but since you’ll be back soon I wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking about you while you’ve been gone and I’m really hoping we can go out on another date when you’re back in town.”

“Date?” I scoff. “Like Bancroft wants to date you.” I pick up the jar of Nutella with the intention of throwing it at the machine, but then I consider the vintage-ness of it, and its sentimental value, along with the probability that replacing it will either be expensive or impossible.

Brittany rambles on about how it’s so nice to spend time with someone so grounded and in control of their career and how she really hopes next time he’ll be feeling better so they can find out if their chemistry’s compatible.

“Bancroft is not interested in your chemistry!” I fire a marshmallow at the machine, then another and another. It’s not nearly as satisfying as the Nutella jar would’ve been.

A huge pop startles me and I drop the bag of marshmallows on the floor. “Oh shit!”

The ones in the microwave have exploded like the Stay Puft marshmallow man in Ghostbusters. It appears I set the time for two minutes instead of twenty seconds. I hit end but it’s too late. Marshmallow coats the window of the microwave. That’s going to be one hell of a mess to clean up.

“ . . . Okay. Well, I’ll talk to you soon, Banny. Byeee!”

“His name is Bancroft, you stupid cow,” I grumble.

I give the microwave a few seconds to cool down before I open the door to check the damage. Oh, yeah. It’s marshmallow carnage in there. I swipe a finger across the plate and yelp because it’s burning hot.

As if there isn’t enough going on, my cell rings. Except it’s not a phone call. It’s a video chat. And it’s Bancroft. I don’t know why I don’t let it keep ringing. It’s a lot smarter than what I do, which is answer the call.

“Hey! Hi! Hello!” I’ve covered every possible greeting.

“Hey. Did I catch you at a bad time?” He’s wearing a white dress shirt and a black tie. It’s pulled loose and his hair is a little messy, like he’s run his hand through it recently. He’s yummier than s’mores.

“Oh no. Not a bad time. I’m just making breakfast and having some play time with Francesca.”

“How’s my girl? Where is she? Can I see her?” The my girl part makes me all swoony. I think it’s adorable how much he loves his ferret. And that’s not even a euphemism.

“Of course you can. Hold on and let me get her.” I leave the phone on the counter and call for her. I find her over by the answering machine, nibbling on a marshmallow. “Oh, no, Franny! Those aren’t for you!”

She jumps off the table, scattering mail all over the floor as I confiscate the treat. An envelope opens and a pile of twenty dollar bills flutters across the tile floor. I don’t have time to manage the sudden money storm because Francesca is going after another marshmallow.

“Is everything okay over there? Did she get into something she shouldn’t have?”

“It’s fine! I just dropped a couple of marshmallows on the floor when I was unpacking groceries.” I scoop up the marshmallow bombs before Francesca can get her paws on another one. They’re a little goopy, as if she’s tried to taste them all. I dump them in the garbage so she can’t get to them. I carry a slightly disgruntled Francesca over to the phone, wiping marshmallow bits off her whiskers on the way.

“Here we are!” I pick the phone up while awkwardly trying to hold a squirming Francesca. She’s not having it, though. She wants to explore the grocery bags I’ve yet to unpack.

“Let me set this up better.” I rearrange the phone on a bunch of bananas so I don’t have to hold it and reclaim Francesca. “Say hi to Daddy!” I wave her little paw at him and mumble a high pitched. “Hi, Daddy.”

The smile that breaks across Bancroft’s face could light all the panties in the world on fire.

“Is she making mischief on you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I figured. How’s Tiny?”

“She’s good. Ate a big fat cricket yesterday for dinner and she’s been chilling out ever since.”

Bancroft laughs. It’s probably one of my favorite sounds ever. “What about you? How are you?”

“I’m good.” I glance at the bills scattered over the floor. Now that I’m not so discombobulated and marshmallows aren’t exploding in the microwave, and slutty Brittany isn’t whining into his answering machine, I can see that it’s not just twenties. There are fifties and hundreds on the floor as well. Who sends that much cash in the mail? “So . . . I have a question for you.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rise. “What kind of question?”

“Not a dirty one, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Mmm. That’s unfortunate. Is everything okay?”

“I think so, but I was moving the mail around and there’s a pile of cash on the floor. Can you explain that?”

He frowns. “A pile of cash?”

“Yeah. Francesca knocked the mail on the floor and all of a sudden it was raining large bills. I thought you might want to know, just in case some crazy drug dealer shows up here looking for his brick or what have you.”

“Can you show me?”

“Sure.” I hold the phone over the pile of mail and money.

“Can you find the envelope it fell out of?”

“Give me a second.” I prop the phone against the answering machine, drop to the floor, and gather the letters and cash. All the envelopes are sealed, apart from one, which has my name and #2 scrawled on it in what looks like Bancroft’s writing. It’s not sealed, and there are a few lingering twenties still inside. I hold it up so he can see it. “Why does this have my name on it?”

Bancroft’s brow furrows. I don’t know how a brow furrow can be so sexy, but it really is. “Shit. Because I left it for you. It was in the notes from the morning I flew out.”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s referring to. “You mean your hieroglyphics?”

“My writing really isn’t that bad.”

“That’s debatable. I still don’t understand why you left me another envelope of cash, there was already too much in the first one.” I filter the bills out from the mail. There are a lot of them.

“It seemed better than a check.”

“A check for what?” I sort them by denomination. I can’t count and listen at the same time.

“For taking care of Francesca and Tiny. It’s the weekly stipend we agreed upon.”

I pause to meet his two-dimensional gaze. I have the urge to mock him when he uses words like stipend and phrases like agreed upon. “But the first envelope you left already had double the amount we agreed upon for the entire time I’m here.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Yes, it did.”

“There was two thousand dollars in there,” I argue.

“Exactly. Two thousand a week for five weeks.”

“Two thousand a week? For taking care of your pets? That’s insane. I thought you meant two hundred.”

Bancroft’s expression is intense as he adjusts his tie. His gaze shifts away and then back again. “It’s not insane, it’s reasonable. You’re taking care of the things I love while I can’t, so I, in turn, will take care of you.”

All the sensitive parts of my body feel like they’re being stroked by his words. Normally the whole I’ll take care of you line would get my back up, but the way he frames it makes it sound sexy instead of douchey.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes I do. And I still owe you for the last two weeks. If you give me your bank account number I can wire more.”

“That’s unnecessary. More is unnecessary. This is already too much.” I could actually make a real dent in my credit card debt with this, if I planned to take it, but I don’t. The first two-thousand is more than enough.

“How have you been surviving if you don’t have an income, Ruby? Please tell me you didn’t stick to the two hundred dollars a week.”

“I didn’t have to pay for groceries, so it was totally manageable, and you left the first envelope, remember?”

“Did you use it though?”

“Some of it.” I focus on unpacking the groceries so I don’t have to look at him. This conversation makes me uncomfortable for reasons I don’t quite understand.

Bancroft huffs. “Look at the money like a salary.”

“Two thousand dollars a week for pet care is not a reasonable salary.” That Bancroft doesn’t even bat an eyelid at parting with two thousand a week reminds me of how vastly different our financial situations are. The minimum scale on Broadway isn’t even that high.

“I disagree.”

“You’re welcome to your opinion, however wrong it may be.”

“Ruby.”

“Bane.” I walk away from the phone so I can put away the boxes of sugary cereal I splurged on.

“You’re not going to use the money, are you?” He sounds frustrated.

“No.” I’m being unreasonable about this. I should take some of the money. It would go a long way in helping me manage some of the debt I’ve gotten myself into, but the amount is excessive for five weeks of pet sitting, especially since it comes with a bedroom in a luxury condo and a meal plan.

Part of me is also reluctant to grow accustomed to having money again. The idea is actually somewhat terrifying. I’m also tired of handouts. Accepting them from a man I’d like to get naked with feels wrong.

“You know I’ll find a way to get it to you.”

“Not without my account number, you won’t.”

“And you don’t think I can get that?”

I turn around to face him again, propping a hand on my hip. Oooh. He looks annoyed. This must be the uptight side of him Armstrong was talking about. I think I might approve of it. “What are you? A professional hacker on the side?”

“I don’t know why you’re so intent on fighting me on this, but rest assured, I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

“Good luck with that.”

“You do realize you’re being difficult, babe.” He taps on the table, drawing my gaze to his restless fingers.

“I’m being reasonable. You’re trying to give me too much money for doing not enough.” I check the time. It’s already after one. I need to clean the microwave and get myself together so I can be at work on time. “I have to go. Work calls.”

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 doesn’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 to 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 arm 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.

“I’m glad you’re home,” I say. “Safely. Home safely,” I tack on at the end, although it doesn’t help much with the breathless quality of my voice or the fact that every nerve in my body is singing.

“Me, too.” Based on the gravelly tone, I’d like to think I’m not alone in this feeling.

“Okay. Well, I should really go now.”

“’Kay.” He nods a bunch of times.

“See you in the morning.” It’s only possible if I’m still awake when he gets up.

“Definitely.”

I leave the condo before I say or do anything stupid. Now more than ever it’s apparent that I need to find a new place. I have feelings for this man, and it’s not just about wanting to get naked with him. The feelings have become real over the past several weeks. For me at least.

If I keep socking away the money from my tips, I should have enough for first and last in the next month or so, maybe sooner. The longer I stay here, the more difficult it’s going to be to manage the sexual tension between us, if this welcome home is any indicator.

At this point, I’d really like to get out of his space before I get into his bed. Sleeping with him while I’m still dependent on him for a place to live creates an inequity I don’t want to deal with. I never want to be in a position where I feel like I’m being kept and that’s exactly what this will be for me.