Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

I text her, telling her to stop calling so I can call her. Half a second later she sends me the same message. I laugh and wait for two minutes, wondering when the standoff will end. I get a question mark, so I cave and call.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Amie says by way of greeting.

I flop down on Bancroft’s bed. “Does Armstrong know you’re fantasizing about me? I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

She snorts—delicately. “Obviously you’re feeling better if you’re making dirty jokes again.”

“Much, actually. I slept forever last night. Bancroft has the comfiest bed.” I fluff the pillow behind my head, settling in.

“What? You slept with Bane?” Amie’s voice is so shrill it sounds like a fire alarm.

I realize the error and bark out a laugh. “I mean the bed in his spare room. Not his bed.”

“Oh. I was going to say, it’s not really like you to just fall into bed with someone. Except that one time—”

“And we’re never, ever going to speak of that again.”

“I saw Drew recently.”

“Did you miss the part about never again?” I briefly dated Drew McMaster in the second year of college. And by briefly I mean that we went on one damn date. He was an excellent flirt, and after several weeks of persistence on his part, I agreed to go out with him. I mistakenly fell for all of his lines and ended up in his bed. It was a lackluster experience at best. He spent the entire two minutes thrusting like a jackhammer was attached to his hips. At least he came, I didn’t even get close. And his penis was incredibly subpar. I don’t even think it was average.

That was the last date I went on with him. After that I made sure not to get naked, or even close to naked, with someone on the first date. If a guy is worth it, he can wait to experience the wonders inside my panties. That way I have a sufficient number of dates in which to engage in some make-out sessions. Foreplay is an art. If a guy sucks at that, he’s probably going to suck in the sack. Although if I had met Bancroft, and wasn’t dependent on him, I wouldn’t say no to climbing into his bed, regardless of the rule. I bet he’s incredible between the sheets, especially with those powerful thighs of his.

“Well I wouldn’t have brought it up because I know it gives you nightmares, but I thought you might like to know that he’s started balding.”

“He’s only twenty-six.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s horrible how happy this makes me,” I reply.

“It’s not horrible, it’s justified. He was a jerk.”

“He really was.” Speaking of jerks . . . “How was dinner with Armstrong’s parents?”

“It was fine. Good. It was good.”

The way her voice raises to a pitch reserved for birdcalls tells me she’s lying. “Amie.”

“His mother’s a bit cold.”

That’s an understatement. She’s about as warm as a freezer, at least from what I experienced at the engagement party. “I’m sure she’ll warm up to you. Everyone loves you. How about his dad? Is he any better?” I met him only in passing, a handshake and a brief introduction.

“Fredrick is lovely. He’s been so pleasant with me. I don’t actually understand how someone so nice can be married to such an ice queen.”

“Maybe she lets him in the back door.”

“Ruby!” Her shock turns to laughter.

“Men will tolerate a lot for anal.”

Amie snickers. “I think she already has something stuck up there. There probably isn’t room for anything else.”

This is the Amie I know. The one I love who can have dirty conversations with me, not the one who has to look over her shoulder when the word vagina is spoken.

“Okay. Let’s not talk about my future mother-in-law’s sexual habits anymore. I have to see her for lunch this week and I don’t want to be thinking about where Fredrick puts what. How are you settling in? How was Bane last night?”

“I’m settling in fine. He seems really nice. Very organized.” I don’t tell her about the shower incident, or hugging him both last night and this morning and how it got a little awkward there with his neighbor, or how it seemed as if he was going to kiss me this morning before Ms. Blackwood interrupted.

“Armstrong said he can be a little . . . intense. He’s always been nice to me, but then I’ve only met him a few times. Armstrong says he’s a bit rough around the edges.”

I imagine his career as a rugby player might make him less pickle-up-the-ass than what Armstrong is used to.

I remember his comment from this morning, when he said he wasn’t always polite. That, combined with the ass grab and the bit about my lace panties, sends the ghost of a shiver down my spine. I’d like his rough edges to rub all over mine. Especially the rough edge of his stubbly jaw, on my vagina. I need to back the horny bus up, at least until I’m off the phone with Amie.

“He was well enough mannered for me, which is almost unfortunate since I already know he’s an amazing kisser.”

My phone buzzes against my cheek and I check the screen, which means I don’t hear most of Amie’s reply. I have a new text. From Bancroft. Speak of the kissable devil. I put Amie on speakerphone so I can check the message.

“—meet Armstrong’s friends.”

“Sorry. I missed that. Who am I meeting?”

“There’s a party next Friday night, you should come. I can introduce you to some of Armstrong’s friends you didn’t get to meet at the engagement party. It’ll be casual.”

“Yeah. I don’t know about that. Is it going to be all coupley? You’re not going to try and set me up with one of those guys, are you?” Amie sometimes like to play matchmaker. She was especially fond of setting me up with her boyfriend’s friends in high school. It was rarely successful.

“No setup. I promise. Although he does have a few cute friends.”

“I’ll go, but cute or not, I’m not dating anyone in your new inner circle.” As much as I love spending time with Amie, whenever I go to one of her parties I feel like I’m interviewing for the position of a stand-in wife or a mistress. The older men—the ones who have already succumbed to male-pattern baldness—have a tendency to tout their bankroll stats between conversations about their sports cars and their property acquisitions or their stock market investments.

The younger ones talk about their next big promotion in blah, blah, blah company and how much they love blow jobs in the bathrooms. That last part I’m making up, but none of them would say no if it was offered, not even the married ones.

I finally manage to get Bancroft’s message up:

Bancroft: At the hotel. Time for a call?

Ruby: On the phone with Amie. Give me 2.

I interrupt Amie, who’s still talking about the party next weekend to let her know Bancroft has arrived at his destination and wants to call.

“Oh! Okay. Tell him I said hello. We’ll talk tomorrow. Let’s figure out when we can see each other this week.”

“’Kay. Sounds good. Thanks for all your help yesterday.”

We end the call and a minute later my phone rings again, Bancroft’s number appearing on the screen. I answer the call, my stomach flipping a little with excitement. “Hello?”

The connection is full of static for a few seconds before the line clears. “Hello? Ruby?”