Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

“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.