Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

“Maybe I should stop while I’m ahead, or less behind, anyway.”

“Good plan.” She leans over and grabs the remote to turn on the TV. I guess that conversation is over. For now.

We finish our dessert in silence. Not uncomfortable silence, but there’s weight in it. Every so often I look over at Ruby, thinking I feel her looking at me, but maybe it’s just in my head. Or maybe I’m looking for a reason to keep baiting her.

The next time I look over her eyes are closed. Her legs are still hanging off the edge of the chair, but she’s slouched down and her head looks like it’s at an uncomfortable angle. If she stays like that too long her neck is going to be sore. The tiramisu container is empty and resting against her thighs, right over a different kind of dessert I’d like to try. She’s still holding the spoon and there’s a smear on her tank. She must be exhausted and still recovering from that flu bug I passed on to her.

“Ruby.”

She makes a little noise and shifts around, her brow furrowing as she tries to get comfortable, but can’t because of the limited amount of room she has to maneuver.

I turn off the TV aware I need to go to bed, so I can manage my early morning flight. I have hours of work to accomplish on the plane.

I push up from the couch, pluck the empty container from her lap, and slip the spoon out from her fist.

Her hands immediately smooth down her stomach and nestle between her legs as she tries to roll to the side. I’d like to get my hands between her legs, among other parts of my body. Not while she’s sleeping, obviously. That would just make me a creepy douche.

I shake her shoulder. “Ruby.”

Her eyes pop open and she blinks blearily, confusion knitting her brows together as she looks at me and then at her surroundings.

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh.” She glances down at her hands, tucked between her legs, and pulls them free.

It takes her a moment to get her bearings. She stretches, arms going over her head, chest pushing out as she stands. Her tank rides up, exposing toned abs, and wait . . . is that a belly ring? How did I miss that before now? There’s definitely a streak of rebellion in this one.

She shuffles across the floor, a shiver running up her spine and goose bumps break across her arms. Her shorts are askew, half of one butt cheek on display again. She has a tiny mole on the right one, not that I’m looking that closely or anything.

I toss the empty containers in the trash and drop the spoons in the sink. Ruby stands half in, half out of her temporary room. “What time do you leave in the morning?” Her voice is raspy with sleep.

“Early. Before six.”

Her nose scrunches up. “Yuck. That’s an awful time to be awake.”

“It’s pretty typical for me.”

“Sometimes that’s when I go to bed.”

“Partying hard?”

“Just a nighthawk. Productions tend to be in the evening, it makes my schedule a little unconventional, when I have a role.” She leans her head against the doorjamb. “I don’t think sleeping is going to be a problem tonight, though.” She stifles a yawn. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in five weeks.”

“I’ll check in once I’m settled.”

“Great.”

We stare at each other for a few long seconds and then she takes a tentative step forward. “Thanks again for trusting me to take care of your babies.” Suddenly her body is flush against mine as her arms come around my waist.

I barely have enough time to return the hug before she releases me and steps away, eyes darting down as her cheeks flush pink.

“I’m glad it worked out for both of us.”

“Me, too.” She bites her lip, her gaze shifting to me. “Have a safe trip, Bancroft. G’night.”

“Night.”

She gives me a small smile, slips into her room and closes the door. I head to mine so I can take care of the issue that’s been plaguing me all night before I catch a few hours of sleep. And then leave this woman in my home for five weeks while I learn how to manage hotel properties.

Chapter 8: Bon Voyage

RUBY

Noise wakes me at 5:36 in the morning. It takes me a few seconds to orient myself to the unfamiliar surroundings. I’m not used to the mostly quiet, so the footsteps and the sound of a suitcase being wheeled down the hall seem louder than they probably are.

Bancroft must be leaving for the airport. We said good-bye last night, but I’m suddenly very awake, and alert. I won’t see him for five weeks. I stare at the ceiling while I listen to him tooling around in the kitchen, trying to decide if I should get up and say good-bye again or stay where I am. My vagina decides for me. She wants a visual hit of Bancroft before he leaves for the next month.

I throw off the covers and tiptoe to the bathroom, blind myself with the light and check myself out in the mirror. My hair’s pretty screwed and I have puffy sleep eyes, but otherwise I’m fine. Well, fine-ish. I rinse with mouthwash, and finger-comb my hair so it doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard, but I also don’t look like a troll, either. I clear my throat and find it doesn’t hurt anymore, and my stomach actually rumbles.

Opening my bedroom door a crack, I peek out. Light filters down from the kitchen. I shiver as I walk down the hall, the hardwood floor cool beneath my feet. I’m definitely not accustomed to the air-conditioning. Two black suitcases come into view as I approach the foyer.

And then there’s Bancroft. Holy sweet mother of one-hand-clapping material, is this man ever not hot? He’s standing at the kitchen counter, writing something on a piece of paper, dressed in a black suit, complete with jacket and tie. His broad shoulders and narrow waist make it look absolutely fantastic. His hair is styled, the dark curls tamed with some sort of product. I want to run my fingers through it and mess it up. He’s freshly shaven, unlike last night, and completely put together.

“Hey.” My voice comes out all gravelly, possibly from sleep, possibly because I’m thinking about how fun it would be to peel that suit off him. With my teeth. And get to all the good stuff underneath.

His head jerks and he glances up to where I’m standing at the edge of the hallway, half in the dark. I step into the foyer and his eyes flare, sweeping over me.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” His voice matches mine in rasp. He reaches up and adjusts his tie. His hand smooths over the shock of electric blue fabric. I follow the movement, watching as he fastens the button of his jacket. He was dressed similarly at the engagement party, but I didn’t have an opportunity to appreciate it the way I can now.

I’ve been staring and he’s said words. I’m also biting my knuckle. I release it from my teeth. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to hearing traffic, so the silence is going to take some time to get used to.”

His eyes keep darting down and then back up to my face. They seem to stay down longer and longer each time.

I follow his gaze trying to figure out what the deal is when I realize that my current attire isn’t all that appropriate. I’m wearing a white tank, which isn’t a problem, it covers all my important parts—aside from my perky nipples. What I didn’t take into consideration was the fact that my bottom half is covered only by a pair of underwear. At least they’re full coverage. They also happen to be lacy, since they were the only pair I could find in my semi-sleepy haze last night. I’ve worn less during dance competitions, but contextually, this isn’t awesome. Or maybe it is considering the way he doesn’t seem to be able maintain eye contact any better than me.