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.

Amie’s referred to Armstrong by that nickname more than once, but never in his presence. I suppose now I know why.

“I love my chair,” I say defensively.

“Who else has loved that chair?” Armstrong mutters.

“Anything left up there?” Bancroft grabs the hem of his shirt using it to wipe the sweat trickling down his neck. His treasure trail appears first, followed by his navel—it’s an innie—and then he reveals a tight, defined six-pack I would happily lick every inch of, even in his totally disgusting sweaty state right now. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t go that far, but if he jumped in a shower I’d be totally game.

It’d be really great if he just took the shirt off right about now.

“Pardon?” he asks.

Did I say that out loud? I’m pretty sure it was an in-my-head thought. I clear my throat. “That’s everything.” It still comes out a little pitchy and breathless.

“Thank God. This heat is stifling. Amalie, let’s call the car and go home. I need a shower,” Armstrong says.

Amie frowns. “Aren’t we going back to Bancroft’s?”

“You’ve got this from here, right Bane? Besides, we have dinner with my parents tonight.”

“That isn’t for hours, though.”

“But you’ll need the time to get ready,” Armstrong argues.

Amie has never been a primper. She can go from yoga to ballroom ready in less than twenty minutes.

“We’re good. Ruby doesn’t have much stuff. It’ll all fit into the service elevator in one trip,” Bancroft replies.

“See?” Armstrong flips a set of keys around his finger. “Have a safe trip.”

Amie gives me a quick hug. “Sorry about Armstrong, he doesn’t deal well with this kind of heat. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I ask.

“I don’t know. The move, everything being new.”

“I’m fine. Really.” Maybe a little nervous, but relieved I have a place to live.

“Call me later.”

“Will do.”

Bancroft opens the passenger door for me, as a gentleman would, and I climb in. It smells like him. There’s a massive console in the center and a huge backseat, which is where my luggage is currently stored.

This should be more awkward than it is, but I’m surprisingly comfortable around this man I hardly even know. Apart from how good he is at kissing, his penchant for unusual pets and willingness to take in strangers makes me like him even more.

He climbs in the driver’s side and turns the engine over. Hot air blasts through the vents, cooling quickly.

“I need to stop and get something to drink,” Bancroft says.

“Oh! I have water!” I spread my legs so I can get to my purse on the floor between my feet. I pull one out and hand it to him.

“You’re a goddess.” He twists off the cap and tosses it on the dash. Tipping his head back he opens his lovely, luscious mouth and basically pours the contents of the bottle down his throat in thirty seconds. It’s impressive.

“You want another one?”

“You have more?”

I produce the rest of the six-pack from my purse.

“What else do you have down there between your legs?”

I fight back a cough. “Should I assume you’re asking about the contents of my purse and not what’s in my shorts?”

“You can assume whatever you’d like, but if you’re hiding a water bottle in your shorts, I gotta say, I’d be curious to see how you managed that.”

“Oh my God. You did not just say that!”

He makes a face. “Too far?”

“Ya think?” Although, in truth I wouldn’t mind showing him what’s in my shorts. After I’ve had a shower. Dammit. I need to get a handle on where my head keeps going around this man.

“I’m blaming it on the dehydration.” He huffs a laugh and frees another bottle, twists off the cap and repeats the entire sequence, which I watch, raptly.

“I probably smell like a locker room right now. Can I get you to open the glove box for me?”

I hit the button and it drops open. He reaches over, his fingers brushing my knee as he grabs a stick of deodorant and a balled-up shirt.

Oh man. He’s going to change his shirt. In front of me. In an enclosed space. I wonder if I have enough time to grab my phone and snap a couple of pictures as he pulls the Harvard tee over his head.

Some men have nice faces and great bodies. Other men have great faces and okay bodies. This man has both. On a scale of one to smokin’, he’s on fire. And he has a tattoo. A big one on his right shoulder that travels along his biceps and ends above his elbow. Oh God. That’s so hot.

He’s quick to pull the fresh shirt over his head, covering his inky deviance. He follows with the deodorant, tosses it back in the glove box, and gives me a sheepish grin. “I feel better, I hope I smell a little better now, too.”

“You smelled fine to me. I’m pretty sure that was just an excuse to show me your abs.”

His smile grows a little. “You don’t think I was just trying to be courteous? That maybe I didn’t want to offend your delicate senses?”

“Do you see where I lived?” I motion to the building. It’s old and run down. Not a bad place to live, but definitely not Tribeca. “At least once a week someone set off the fire alarm and the whole building smelled like burned toast. I can endure man sweat.”

“But should you have to? That is the real question.”

He shifts the truck into gear, puts on his signal, and pulls into traffic.

“So, uh, how long have you lived in that apartment?” Bancroft asks. Now that we’re on the way back to his place, with all my things, he seems a little nervous. I wonder if he’s having regrets.

“Five years. I’m not sure I’m going to miss it all that much. Having my own place has been nice, but half of the appliances didn’t work all that well.”

“Right. Gotcha.” He taps the steering wheel. “So how’d you end up living in Harlem?”

“Amie’s parents had already bought a place for her by the time I accepted the placement at Randolph, where I went to college, but it was a one bedroom, so I needed to find my own place. My father was against me coming to the city to begin with so he set a small budget for rent, thinking that I’d go back home when I realized what it cost for an apartment in the city. But I wanted to be here and this was reasonable, plus it was furnished, and it came with no roommates.”

“Not a fan of roommates?” Bancroft asks.

“It’s not that. It’s just . . . living with someone else is tricky, right? We all have routines and quirks. If I was going to live with anyone it would’ve been Amie, so I thought it would be best to live on my own. What about you, ever had a roommate before?”

“Only when we were touring for games and tournaments. I like my space.” He does that finger tapping thing.

“Yeah. Me, too. Well, what little of it I had. At least it was mine, though, right? I could only bitch at myself if there were dishes left in the sink for days.”

“Are you a dishes-in-the-sink-for-days kind of woman?”

“Last week I was.” I don’t tell him I was also that woman the week before, and the month before that. He’s not going to be around to witness my poor housekeeping skills, thankfully.

It takes a little more than half an hour to get to his place in Tribeca. No traffic.

The building he lives in is exclusive and gorgeous. All windows and mirrored glass. With the help of two men who work in the building—who address Bancroft as Mr. Mills—we get all of my belongings into the service elevator. When I attempt to follow my things, Bancroft puts a hand on my shoulder. My nipples react immediately. They’re so slutty when a hot guy is around.

“They’ll bring everything up, we’ll take the other elevator,” he says.

The other elevator has a black marble floor and mirrored walls, which allows me an incredible view of Bancroft from all angles. The socks are still really distracting.

When we reach the penthouse floor Bancroft ushers me out. The hallway is wide, walls painted champagne, and more black marble leads us down the hall. The doors are spread far apart and I assume it’s because these condos are much larger than my little apartment.

At the end of the hall Bancroft keys in a code, opens the door with a somewhat nervous smile, and ushers me inside.

I step past him into the foyer and come to a halt. My apartment could fit into this space ten times over. Bancroft crashes into me from behind. I stumble forward and his arm, his thick, well-defined, muscular arm, wraps around my waist, preventing me from face planting into the gorgeous, gleaming hardwood floors.

His hard chest presses against my back for a few brief seconds. I’m almost positive I can feel the ridges in his abs. Too bad this didn’t happen when he had his shirt off. It’s also too bad my shirt is on, along with the rest of our clothes. Sadly, he’s quick to set me back on my feet. “Whoa. Sorry about that.”

“My fault.” I take a few more steps inside. “This is really nice.”

“It’s all right,” he mumbles.

“I think it’s a little better than all right.”

Bancroft’s condo is huge. This is the kind of place I should be accustomed to, but having lived in my apartment for the past five years, I’ve grown used to small spaces and crappy appliances that don’t work well.

To the left is a kitchen. A big, beautiful kitchen full of shiny, stainless steel and granite countertops. To the right is a hallway with a set of double doors at the end. Directly in front of me are floor-to-ceiling windows providing a gorgeous view of the East River, rather than a view of a brick wall—which was what I had.

The living room boasts a huge leather couch and a massive chair covered in a funky pattern that doesn’t seem to match Bancroft’s personality at all. Although I don’t really know him well enough to make an astute, informed opinion yet.

I kick off my shoes and head straight for that chair, flopping down in it. The space is so open. It’s not particularly warm or welcoming. There aren’t any knickknacks or little things that tell me anything about who Bancroft is as a person.

Across from the chair I’ve thrown myself in is a floor-to-ceiling wall unit, and that’s really saying something since it appears I’m looking at twelve-foot ceilings. A gigantic TV takes up the middle of the wall unit. Square shelves hold a variety of neatly stacked books. A rugby-playing reader, now that’s sexy.

I glance past the wall unit. “Holy crap! Do you have a home gym?” I bounce out of the chair and rush across the open space, barely containing the urge to do a few spins on the way, because I have the room.

On the other side of the wall unit are a series of workout machines. There’s a treadmill, a recumbent bike, a Pilates machine, and a variety of weights, as well as a bench for lifting.

“Wow, no wonder you look like this.” I motion to his athletic form, then to the elaborate home gym setup. “Do you use this every day?”

He runs a palm over his chest. “I try to.”

“This is fantastic.” My gym is probably a half-an-hour from here and that’s on a good day when the subways are running properly. It’s a busy gym, so sometimes it’s hard to access the equipment I want. Bancroft’s treadmill is set up so it overlooks the river as well. The view is spectacular.

Opposite the gym is an office, a very neat office with a very nice desktop computer and a monitor large enough to watch movies on. To the left of the office, against the wall is a terrarium. “Oh! Is this where Tiny lives?”

“It is.”

I tiptoe over, I’m not sure exactly why. It’s not as if I’m going to frighten her and she’s going to come flying out of her glass enclosure. I drop down into a crouch so I’m at eye level with the terrarium. Long, fuzzy legs appear over a small stone as she comes into view. “Holy crap. She’s huge,” I whisper.

Bancroft’s reflection appears in the glass. My stomach tightens as he drops down in a crouch behind me, his chest brushing my shoulder. My gaze locks onto his mouth, which moves in close to my ear. His breath is warm when it breaks across my neck. For a second I think maybe I’m going to get to feel those lips on my skin again.

Until he whispers, “She can smell your fear.” Then he makes this weird noise that reminds me of horror movies. I shudder and he laughs, pushing up to stand. “Relax. She’s really harmless.” Bancroft lifts the lid off the tank.

If I turn my head to the left I’ll be looking at his junk. It’s a real challenge not to follow through on that. Instead I stay where I am as he slips his hand in and taps Tiny on the butt, making her scamper forward.

She’s a gigantic spider, her legs spanning Bancroft’s massive palm. God, his hands are huge. I wonder if the rest of his assets match.

I give in and side eye him. He’s wearing basketball shorts, which are loose, so I’m unable to confirm or deny whether his unit size is directly related to his hand size. And he’s still wearing those damn socks.

“Would you like to hold her?” Bancroft asks.

“What? Oh. I don’t know about that.” I scramble back a bit and land on my ass.

“You’ll be fine. I’ll be right here to save you from her if she gets aggressive.” He lowers himself to the floor and crosses his legs, like we’re getting ready for storytime in kindergarten. Except it’s not storytime. He’s holding a giant spider. After a few seconds of hesitation, I mirror his pose.

He crooks his free finger. “Come a little closer.”

God. Why am I turning everything he says into something dirty? If he wasn’t holding that spider, the thought of climbing into his lap, right after I take off all my clothes, would seem rather appealing. God. I really need to get a handle on where my mind keeps going whenever I’m close enough to touch him.

I scoot a couple of inches closer. He rolls his eyes and slides forward until his knees hit mine. Well, my knees actually hit the middle of his shin, but now our bodies are touching. Not particularly exciting parts, but my nipples don’t seem to understand that with the way they’ve perked right up.

Of course, then he has to go and hold up his spider hand and all the perking is overshadowed by the fuzzy, eight-legged beast staring at me with all eight of her eyes. “Give me your hand.”

At my reluctance, he grabs my right hand, which I immediately ball into a fist. “She’s not going to launch herself at you and even if she bit you, she’s not poisonous. How are you going to take care of her if you can’t even touch her?”

He has a point. I unfurl my fingers and his thumb smooths over my palm. For someone as big as he is, he sure is gentle. And all my important, sensitive parts are responding to that touch as if they’re going to be on the receiving end of it as well. I mentally tell my hormones to back off, which isn’t all that difficult when he scoots Tiny from his palm onto mine.

I shiver at the feel of her legs, then giggle. “It tickles.”

“You’ll get used to it.” His hand is still cupping mine.

“What do I do?”

“Just hold her, no sudden movements, that kind of thing. They’re actually pretty fragile, so you don’t want to drop her.”

I hold her for a minute. She’s actually not at all scary now that I’m touching her. “How do you feed her? What do you feed her?”

“I feed her crickets, or grubs, depending.”

“Live ones?” I glance up.

“Yes. Live ones.”

“How often? Every day?”

“No, only once or twice a week. You’ll need to change her water daily, though. Are you going to be okay with that?” His expression turns serious for a moment.

I nod. “I can do that. Do I just stick my hand in the cage? Will she attack me?”

“Just put a pen in front of her first so she doesn’t think you’re food and you can easily change out the water. I’ll show you how to do that later. And I can even show you how to feed her, although she might not be hungry right now, she fed a few days ago.”

“Okay.”

I let her explore my forearm, her fuzzy legs tickling my skin. The sound of the doorbell startles all three of us. “That’s your things.” Bancroft scoops her up gently before she can skitter off and puts her back in her terrarium while I run to get the door.

My luggage and boxes are neatly piled in the hall. It takes the servicemen all of five minutes to bring my belongings into the foyer. My chair is the last thing to arrive. It’s rather pathetic in this particular environment.

I grimace and look to Bancroft. “Maybe I really should consider getting rid of that.”

“Why?” he asks as the servicemen close the door behind them. They leave the dolly, though, so we can move the boxes to my room, I suppose. Or the room I’ll be staying in while I’m here. I guess I’m glad I don’t have a lot of stuff, otherwise the unpacking part would be unpleasant.

“Well, look at it.” I motion to the dilapidated chair. “It doesn’t really fit with the décor.”

“I didn’t choose the décor in this place, so you’re welcome to put your touch on whatever you want while you’re here.”

I can think of a few parts of him I’d like to put my touch on, starting with losing those damn socks. And the rest of his clothes. Permanently. Maybe I can just burn his entire wardrobe. Or shrink it in the dryer while he’s away.

I wag my eyebrows as I look him over. “You might regret giving me free rein like that.” One side of his mouth quirks up, as if he knows where my mind has gone. I look away and gesture to the boxes. “I guess I should get these out of the way?”

Bancroft gives his head a small shake. “Right. I’m not being a very good host. I should probably show you where you’ll be staying, shouldn’t I?” I get a sense that he’s a little apprehensive, as am I. This is a fairly unconventional situation, and we don’t really know each other, apart from dinner and an accidental kiss. I guess now that I’m in his space the awkwardness is finally starting to set in.

He loads a few boxes on the dolly and I grab the handles on my wheelie suitcases and follow him down the hall to the second door on the right.

“I have two spare rooms, this is the bigger of the two. If you’d prefer, we can keep your boxes in the other room, but it’s really up to you.” He pushes the door open and moves aside.

“Oh wow.” This room is pretty much the size of my entire apartment. And the bed is a queen, which is a serious upgrade from the double I’ve been sleeping on for the past five years.

“It’s pretty plain, but like I said, it’s yours to do with while you’re here. You can look at the other room as well, if you’d like.”

“No, no. This is perfect. I love this room.” The walls are a pale, icy blue-gray. The comforter is off white, the bedframe the same creamy color. It’s pretty without being overly feminine. I wonder who did the decorating if it wasn’t him.

“There’s a bathroom through there, and a walk-in closet. I can store the boxes in there if you want them out of your way.”

“Just against the wall is good. I can move the ones I don’t need into the closet later.”

“Sure.” Bancroft wheels the dolly across the room and props the boxes against the far wall.

I cross over to the bathroom. It’s five-star fabulous. There’s a deep tub I could probably do laps in, and a separate stand-up shower with a huge rainfall showerhead. There’s even a double-sink vanity.

I have a moment in which emotions swirl to the surface, the kind that make me want to cry a little. It’s been so long since I’ve had nice things. I mean, of course when I go home to visit my father I have nice things, but I’m usually only there for a day or two before I come back to the city, back to the worn-down little apartment I’d been in for the past five years. I’ve always treated the visits home like a stay in a hotel: temporary luxury.

And for the next five weeks this level of luxury is going to be mine. Moving back into a shitty apartment is going to suck. And that’s assuming I’m going to be able to land a job that will allow me to rent more than a room in some frat house. I better enjoy this blip while I can.

After we move all the boxes and luggage into my room Bancroft stands at the doorway with his hands shoved into the pockets of his basketball shorts looking a little uncertain.

“I can, uh, give you some time to unpack? Then maybe we can order dinner and I can go over feeding schedules and all the other stuff.”

I don’t know what other stuff he’s talking about, but dinner definitely sounds good. “Sure. But can I meet Francesca first?”

He laughs a little. “Right. Yeah, of course. That’s why you’re here. Come with me.” He steps out into the hall and motions for me to follow him to the door at the end. “Usually I keep her out in the living room area, but I didn’t want all the noise and moving your stuff in to freak her out, so I put her in my room.”

He opens the door. For half a second I imagine that the accidental kiss he laid on me turned into something else. A one-night stand, or possibly a marriage proposal.

His bedroom is a cave. Not literally. It’s not fashioned out of stone. But it’s incredibly large. And the bed. Don’t get me started on the bed. I think I’m becoming obsessed with beds. Big ones. And it is huge.

This is 100 percent a man’s room. More than that, it’s an athletic man’s room. Gym shorts hang off the end of the footboard and a pair of running shoes sits below them, along with discarded socks. The same kind of socks he’s currently wearing right now. Ones that hit his shins and ruin my view of his nice, muscular legs with seriously defined calves.

The walls are a paler version of the room I’m staying in and the comforter is dark blue. Someone, a woman I’m guessing—maybe his mom or a sister, if he has one—has decorated his bed with a couple of throw pillows.

I’m choosing to avoid the possibility of a past girlfriend’s involvement, or even a current one considering his recent date with Brittany. I’m hoping his accidental behavior has put an end to that budding love story. Anyway, the throw pillows are tossed on the comforter like they’re a pain in his ass, as throw pillows often are.

On the massive bed is an open suitcase and three suit bags, unzipped. It’s a good thing. If they weren’t there I might have succumbed to the urge to ask how he feels about naked pillow fights. As it is, I’m having a hard time not imagining one.

“Sorry about the mess.” He rushes over and picks up the few discarded items from the end of the bed, crosses the room, and tosses them in the closet.

While he worries about tidying up, I glance around the room, and finally notice Francesca’s cage. It’s a wonder that I missed it until now, as it’s the second most prominent item in the room. Like the rest of condo, it’s a luxury setup with clear tubes and several levels, giving her lots of room to run around while she’s caged during the day.

“Hi there, pretty,” I say softly when she peeks her head out of a tube. Her pink nose twitches, her sable head lifting, the black swatch fur making her look like a masked bandit as she regards me curiously. She slides out of the tube, her long, brown body dropping to the wood chips. She does a little roll, showing us her pale belly. She is so flipping adorable.

“There’s my girl,” Bancroft says from behind me. The affection in his voice makes all my sexy parts excited. More excited than they already were. Men who love animals are so hot. So that takes Bancroft to volcanic levels.

He opens the cage and gently lifts her out. As soon as she’s in his arms she scales his chest and wraps herself around his shoulders, nipping at his jaw, then grooming his stubble. I want to do exactly the same thing. Except after he showers.

He coos at her and lets her snuggle into him. She’s so cute, and so is he, being all sweet with her. I think my ovaries are melting, or crying, or calling for his sperm.

After a minute of cuddles he asks. “Would you like to hold her?”

“Of course!”

“You can either take her by the scruff”—he gently grabs the loose skin at the back of her neck, holding her up—“or hold her under the front and back paws.”

I choose the latter because it would mean I would also come into physical contact with Bancroft. Having started off at a seven million on the hotness scales, he moved up several notches to off-the-charts with all his sweetness, patience, and consideration. Especially with how awkward this entire situation could be. How is this man not taken already? Maybe he has some weird quirks, beyond the socks.

Francesca is adorable and full of mischief, which is the allure of owning a ferret. As soon as I have her in my arms I remember exactly what it was like when I worked at the rescue sanctuary and why I’d wanted to adopt the one that ended up there. I’m in love with her within five minutes.

I put her down on the floor with Bancroft’s permission and she takes off, bounding for the door. She’s down the hall and into the living room in seconds.

“She’s fast,” I observe.

“She is. The condo’s pretty much ferret-proof, though, so it’s safe. All the wires are hidden and covered so she can’t get to them.” He gestures to the wall where the cords that would normally be visible coming out of sockets are not.

“That must’ve been a lot of work.”

“I had a professional come in and do it for me. It took a bit of getting used to, but she’s worth the effort. I always wanted a dog as a kid, but my mom’s allergic, and my dad traveled too much, and I played competitive rugby, so there were a lot of away games. It wouldn’t have been fair to do that to a dog.”

“So why did you decide on a ferret instead of getting your own dog?”

“It was accidental. Someone snuck a ferret into one of my father’s New York hotels a while ago. They’re uh . . . illegal to have as pets in some states, and she was at risk of being exterminated, so I brought her home instead.” He looks nervous as he waits for my reaction.

“Really? It’s illegal in some states?” I had no idea.

“Just a few.”

“But not New York, right?”

He purses his lips but stays silent.

I lean around him and smooth my hand across his back, between his shoulder blades. The muscles flex and he draws in a sharp breath.

“What’re you doing?”

“Checking for your angel wings.”

He laughs and then motions to Francesca whose head is peeking out from under the couch. She bounds across the living room and skids into the kitchen. “Look at her. How could I let them do that?”

“Exactly. That’s really great that you decided to keep her. And your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone you’re harboring a fugitive ferret.”

“I appreciate your discretion. I didn’t realize quite how involved the whole process would be, but she’s proved to be worth it. I also wasn’t expecting to do a lot of traveling, so I thought it wouldn’t be an issue. I’m hoping that part will only last a short while.”

Francesca finds a ball with a bell in it, the same kind you’d give a cat, and rolls it across the floor. I snatch it up before she can get to it. “Wanna play, little lady?” I toss it across the room and she races after it.

Once she catches it, she brings it right back to me. I look over my shoulder at Bancroft who’s watching me with an amused expression.

“She plays fetch!”

“It’s her favorite. She also loves snuggles while we watch TV.”

“I’m in love with her already.”

He mutters something I don’t catch. “If you’re all right with her, do you mind if I have a quick shower? Or I can put her back in her cage and you can have one, too.”

For half a second I take that completely the wrong way. Probably because the second he said shower I started picturing him naked and wet. “Why don’t you go now and I’ll have one when you’re finished.”

“Sure. Great. Then I’ll order dinner?”

“Um, you don’t have to order in. I’ll eat pretty much anything.” Except for everything Armstrong ordered the other day. And I can’t really afford to splurge on expensive takeout.

“My fridge isn’t well stocked. It’ll be my treat.”

I feel some guilt over accepting more handouts from him, but I’m hungry enough to agree. “Okay. Sure.”

“Excellent. I won’t be long.” I smile and turn back to Francesca when she nudges my hand, the ball already at my feet.

I toss it and watch her bounce across the floor. She really is the cutest little thing. The next time she comes back she has a new toy. It’s a mouse, so I dangle it and she jumps for it. When Bancroft returns from the shower I’m lying on my back on the floor with one mouse dangling from the tail between my toes, and jingling the bell ball in my hand.

His feet show up in my field of vision first. His socked feet. What the fuck? Maybe he’s got a thing about bare feet. Maybe he hates feet. Maybe he really loves socks. At least these are ankle socks and not the ones that cover up his amazing calves. I look up, past his knees to the cargo shorts, the black belt that cinches at his waist, and the half-unzipped fly. I get a very brief glimpse of red as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. Too bad he’s not commando. Not that I’d be able to do anything about it if he was, but I’d have five weeks of self-pleasure fodder.

I remember, rather vividly, what it felt like when what he’s hiding behind his fly was pressed up against my stomach during our accidental kiss. I keep going, up, up, up that very mountainous body. He’s wearing a red T-shirt. That’s rather disappointing. No shirt would be greatly appreciated. Maybe I should make a sign while he’s away, one that says No Socks, No Shirts Required or something. He seems like the kind of guy who might find that funny. And who might accommodate me by taking it seriously.

“Want to take a break from entertaining Francesca?” he asks.

“Sure.” I toss him the ball, which he catches underhand with a quick step to the side thanks to my poor aim.

Francesca scampers over to him and tries to scale his leg. Instead of throwing the ball, he scoops her up. “I can order dinner while you’re getting cleaned up, then we can go over the house rules.”

“House rules?” I raise a brow. “You mean like no boys in my room after nine?”

Bancroft frowns. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not at the moment.” But I’d sure like to be friends with whatever’s hiding behind the fly of those cargo shorts he’s wearing. I do a half bridge and roll up to a stand. “Does this mean I have to cancel the kegger I was planning for tomorrow night?”

Bancroft’s eyebrow lifts.

“I’ll just remove that post I put up a couple hours ago. I think only, like, two hundred people responded.”

He cracks a grin. “Only two hundred?”

“Tomorrow I was planning to take an ad out in the Times, pass out a few thousand fliers, that kind of thing, but I guess I’ll just cancel those. I was thinking to charge like twenty dollars a person, but now I’ll just have to settle for cable TV and chilling with Franny and Tiny.” I brush past Bancroft on my way to my temporary room, enjoying his wide-eyed uncertainty.

“You are kidding, right?” he calls after me.

I just laugh and close the door, leaving him to wonder.

Once I’m in my room I survey the boxes, glad I had Amie’s help packing, otherwise I’d have no idea where anything is. Thankfully the box labeled bathroom is close to the top of the stack, so it’s easy enough to get to. I carry it into the bathroom and then realize I have no idea how the shower works. There are seven-hundred buttons and levers and I don’t know what belongs to what.

I make a guess and press one of the buttons in the middle. Cold water shoots out of a jet in the wall at face level. I scream and try to hit it again, but I manage to hit the wrong one, activating yet another jet. So of course, I scream again. The water goes from freezing to scalding in a matter of seconds. I back away from the jets, into the corner, instead of out the open shower door. Now they’re alternating scalding spray from all six jets. It’s like a very hot game of Whack-A-Mole, except no one’s hitting me over the head with a mallet, I’m being blasted with fiery sprays of water.

There’s a knock in the middle of my yelps. It sounds like it’s outside my door. Bancroft’s muffled voice follows. “Ruby? You okay in there?”

“I think I need some help!” I call back.

“Is it okay if I come in, then?”

“Please!”

“Ruby?” Bancroft’s voice is closer now, inside my room but outside the bathroom.

“I’m in here! I’m trapped in the shower!” I call out.

“Trapped?” Worry makes his voice a little deeper.

“The jets are shooting scalding water at me.” I yell back. “I can’t get past them.”

“Can’t you just turn them off?” Now it sounds like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.

“I did try!”

“Are you—” there’s a brief moment of hesitation, followed by the clearing of his throat. “—decent?”

“I’m being cooked in your shower and you’re worried about my state of dress?”

The door opens slowly and Bancroft’s dark hair appears, followed by his eyes, which dart toward the shower. His brows come down and then pop up. Crinkles appear in the corners of his eyes. He pushes the door wide. “How’d you end up in the shower fully dressed?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed. It was an accident,” I snap.

“Geez, there’s water all over the floor. Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going? Don’t leave me in here!”

“I’m putting Francesca in her cage so I can save you, give me a second.” He disappears, but he’s back again quickly.

It takes him all of three seconds to figure out the timing of the intermittent jet spray before he reaches in and hits three buttons. The water stops. The only part of him that’s wet is his forearm. I, on the other hand, am soaked head to foot.

My tank top, which is pale blue, sticks to my skin, and its soaked state renders it transparent. Which means Bancroft can see the darker blue bra underneath. My shorts are drenched as well, showing off my panty-line. There isn’t much of one since I’m sporting a thong.

Bancroft’s gaze seems to get stuck on my chest.

“Can I have a towel, please?” Now that I’m no longer being pelted with scalding water the air-conditioning is doing its job, making my skin pebble, among other body parts. My nipples are particularly obvious thanks to the lack of padding in my bra.

“Right. Yeah.” He grabs one from the rack and hands it to me as I step out of the shower.

“Thank you.” Since the danger of being burned by water has passed, I’m now appropriately embarrassed. As I should be. Especially with the way Bancroft looks like he’s trying to hold back his smile. “Do not laugh at me.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, his cheek ticking. “I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t wait until tomorrow to shower or you would’ve been stuck in there until the hot water ran out.”

“It was like being blasted by a volcano.”

“It’s not that hot. There’s a sensor that won’t let the temperature get too high. I’m not sure why you didn’t just run past the jets and save yourself, but I’ll take white knight status.”

“I have sensitive skin and I panicked,” I reply.

“Too bad you didn’t panic after you were naked. I didn’t even get to see anything good.”

My mouth drops. “So much for being a white knight.”

His grins widens. “I still saved you from my molten lava shower.”

“Only because you thought you were going to see me naked, apparently.”

His eyes drop again, slowly perusing my body until he reaches my feet, where a puddle has formed. “I can be a white knight with a dirty mind, can’t I?”

“You know what would be really nice?” I pull the towel tighter around me.

“What’s that?” It takes a while before his gaze finally reaches mine. There’s heat in it. The kind that makes me want to drop my towel and strip out of my clothes. The kind that begs the question, what kind of dirty happens in that mind of his? I’d capitalize on that hungry look he’s wearing—if I wasn’t relying on this man for a place to live while I sort out my messed-up life.

I clear my throat and try to come across as affronted, rather than turned on. “It’d be nice if you’d stop making fun of me and show me how to use your space-age shower.”

“You’re a little high strung, aren’t you?” He’s still smiling. It’s as sexy as it is infuriating.

I just give him a look, more because I’m worried about what might come out of my mouth right now if I don’t keep it shut.

Bancroft shows me what each button is for. It turns out I can actually set the temperature. This is a crazy high-tech shower. He adjusts the spray to rainfall and I tell him when it’s the right temperature for me.

“Seriously?” he asks, feeling the tepid water.

“I told you my skin was sensitive.”

“This is lukewarm.”

“So? It’s not like you’re getting in there with me. What’s it matter to you?”

His eyebrow dip, along with his eyes. “You wouldn’t need hot water if I was getting in there with you.” He smirks at my semi-fake outraged gasp. “I’ll leave you to it.”

I watch his ass leave the bathroom—and the rest of him, but it’s his finely sculpted rear view that’s my focus. And his fucking ankle socks. I don’t know why they bother me so much.

Once I hear the door to my room close—my very nice, large room—I strip out of my wet clothes and step under the spray. It’s a little on the cool side, but I’d rather that than the inferno water. Also, I could use a little cooling down after that.

The rain showerhead is so nice, the water pressure far superior to that in my old apartment. After a few minutes, I bump up the temperature a degree or two, because Bancroft is right, it’s pretty cool, and now that he’s not heating up the room with his comments and his hotness, I can make up for it with water temperature.

Once I’m done it takes me another five minutes to find a reasonable outfit. Everything I own is a wrinkly mess since it’s been packed in suitcases for the past two days, but there’s not much I can do about that. I can’t even find a pair of decent underwear, so I’m forced to go commando, and all I can locate in the bottoms department that’s even remotely reasonable is a pair of running shorts, a cami with a built-in bra, and a loose tank to throw over it.

It’s not like I’m trying to impress Bancroft. Or seduce him with my sexy outfits. Not while I’m depending on him for a roof over my head. That could make things messy. But that doesn’t mean I can’t flirt.

Bancroft is stretched out on the couch watching sports with Francesca curled up in his lap. Right on top of his penis. What a whore. I wish I was her.

He glances over. “Looks like you recovered from the shower trauma.”

“Ha ha.” My lounger has been moved into the living room alongside the funky oversized chair. It looks even more dilapidated beside his nice furniture. “Did you pick this chair?”

“No. My mother did. She likes furniture a lot. She thinks this place doesn’t have enough”—he flops his hand around—“personality or whatever.”

“Ah. Do you agree with her?”

Bancroft shrugs. “She was excited that I was moving back to New York and I was recovering from knee surgery, so interior decorating wasn’t high on my list of priorities. She’s always been involved in that part of the hotels so I let her do her thing here because it makes her happy.”

“That’s sweet. It doesn’t really seem like your style.”

“What’s my style?” he asks.

“Hmm. Good question.” I tap my lip. “Maybe you should replace it with a throne. You know, to go with your white knight status.”

He makes a snicker-y, snortish kind of noise.

Instead of taking a seat, I step into the gap between the couch and the coffee table. Bancroft gives me a questioning look as I lean over and give Francesca a pet.

“Uh, what’re you doing?”

If I’m not mistaken, I hear a hint of excitement in his voice.

“What does it look like? Petting your ferret.”

Francesca opens her eyes, blinking sleepily. I give her one long, full body stroke, considering the other thing underneath her that I wouldn’t mind giving a stroke.