Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

“Ugh,” the woman preening moans. “Do you think this dress makes me look fat?”

I make a face at the door and hold in a snort. She’s rail thin.

“You look amazing. I bet you look better than Armstrong’s fiancée. I don’t know why he’s even marrying her. Her family doesn’t have nearly as much money as his.”

“But they’re old money, and you know what that means.”

Her friend makes a disapproving sound. “Still.”

“Her dress is so last year. Anyway, I think my date with Banny is going really well.”

“Now that he’s not doing that soccer thing anymore and he’s taking a role in his family business, he’s definitely more appealing.”

“He played rugby, not soccer, and I totally agree.”

I roll my eyes at their conversation. These girls are the exact reason I rebel against the entire room of people out there and everyone associated with them. So shallow.

“Do you think you’ll get an invite back to his place?” her friend asks.

“I really hope so. That would be ideal, but I don’t know, he’s been sick or something. He’s been taking cold medication all night. Not that it matters. Do you think I should have sex with him if he does invite me back, or should I play it coy? I need another date out of this, so I don’t want to come across as too easy.”

“Maybe just a blow job, then?”

“That’s a good idea.”

“And don’t let him take your clothes off.”

“Of course not. I did send him that picture of me sucking on a lollipop a few minutes ago. You don’t think that was too forward, do you?”

“He used to be a professional athlete, I’m sure he’s used to forward.”

Wow. This is a seriously classy conversation. I finish my business and avoid eye contact as I head for the sink and turn on the water hoping to drown out their conversation.

There are little bottles of lotion, packaged mints, and, ironically, lollipops arranged by the disposable hand towels. I select a grape one, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. I also take a package of mints. If I was alone, I might have hocked everything in that little basket.

I drape my shawl over my hand so I don’t have to touch the handle, or anything really.

As I’m passing the men’s room the door swings open and a huge suited-up guy steps out. He’s a tank of a man, his shoulders so broad he has to turn a bit to get through the door. He’s staring at the phone in his hand and nearly walks into me. I have the self-preservation required to attempt to get out of his way, lest he mow me over. But my grace has taken a vacation and I stumble into him instead of away, while simultaneously trying to get the lollipop out of my mouth so I don’t appear completely trashy.

“Hey!” His voice is a low, deep rasp. Like sex dragged over smooth stones.

I grab the lapels of his suit jacket to stop from toppling over and he wraps an arm around my waist, to keep me upright I suppose.

I barely get a glimpse of his face before he’s right in mine. “You’re a bit forward, aren’t you?” His nose brushes my cheek as he speaks, warm breath caressing my lips. Warm breath that smells like booze.

“I don’t think—” My attempt at a protest doesn’t have the desired effect since he takes the parting of my lips as an invitation for his tongue to enter.

The first thing I notice is how much he tastes like scotch. What’s worse is that I can probably name the brand if I think about it hard enough.

He groans into my mouth and his arm tightens around my waist. Obviously this guy’s made a mistake, but as shocked as I am, I have to admit, he’s a great kisser.

Aside from the boozy taste, his lips are full and soft, and he does this sweep thing with his tongue that makes my knees forget their purpose—which is to keep me upright or knee him in the nuts for attacking me with his mouth. All the right parts of my body start to warm and tingle as our tongues dance—that’s right, I said our, because I’m definitely kissing him back, even though I’m not the intended tongue target.

My eyes are wide as a result of the unexpected, although not unwelcome, assault, so I can see his long, pretty lashes resting against his cheek and the straight slope of his nose. I think in addition to being huge, he might also be hot.

I flatten my hands on his chest with the intention of pushing him away, because that’s what I should do instead of allowing the continued tongue gymnastic routine. I note first, the solid wall of muscle underneath, followed by the softness of the fabric. Instead of creating space between us, I accidentally smooth my hands over the lapels, up past the collar where I’m met with warm skin. His hand shifts from my hip to my ass. Suddenly, I can feel a whole lot of something going on behind his fly. At my gasp he makes another low noise in his throat.

Before I can decide whether I should still shove him away or keep making out with him, a shrill, familiar voice cuts through Awesome Kisser’s rumbling groan. It’s close. Like right in my ear. “Ban—What are you doing?”

His tongue retracts from my mouth and his hand from my ass. Turning his head toward the horrific noise, his confused gaze flips between me and the bathroom selfie girl, and then he coughs, right in my face.

I make a gagging sound and use my shawl to wipe his spit from my cheek while Awesome Kisser apologizes—to whom I’m uncertain. He searches his pocket for something—a tissue maybe?

Bathroom girl gives me a look of revulsion and turns her angry gaze on Awesome Kisser. “This”—she sweeps a hand down, gesturing to her ultra-fit body wrapped in her tight dress—“could’ve been yours tonight.” She spins on her eleven-inch heels, her hair fanning out impressively as she sashays past us down the hall.

“Brittany, stop! I thought she was you!”

Of course her name is Brittany. It’s a common money name, like Tiffany and Stephanie and all the other names that end with an ie or any. Not that mine is any better. How I ended up with a name like Ruby, I’ll never know. I’m not even born in July, so it has nothing to do with my birthstone.

The only similarity between Brittany and me is that we’re female, with hair on our heads. Hers is close to the same color as mine in this awful lighting, but it’s about eight inches shorter. We’re also both wearing dresses. They’re both dark, mine a deep wine color and hers black. Mine hits a few inches above my knee, hers barely skims the bottom of her ass.

Brittany spins dramatically to face her could’ve-been-bed-partner, her expression incredulous. She gestures a perfectly manicured hand at me. “How drunk are you? You think this bargain-basement-wearing slut looks like me?”

I huff. “Seriously? If your dress was half an inch shorter your vagina would be showing, and you’re calling me a slut?” Mostly I’m jealous of how good she looks in it, but she’s the one who started with the insults. Besides, I’m not at fault here. It’s the amazing kisser who stuck his talented tongue in my mouth and subsequently ruined the hotness by coughing in my face.

Awesome Kisser steps between us, his wide shoulders almost blocking out my view of the angry skankatron. “Whoa, ladies, it’s a simple misunderstanding, let’s not get nasty.” I note the barely imperceptible slur at the end, extending the s. He reaches out and puts a hand against the wall, as if he’s barring a potential attack, except then I realize it’s to steady himself. He’s definitely drunk. Which would explain the accidental tongue-nastics.