Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

Once I’ve poured myself a glass I return to the bedroom. Francesca is curled up on top of the comforter. As soon as I’m half lying down, she pulls her favorite move and wriggles her way under my shirt, peeking her head out through the neckline, between my boobs.

I show Bancroft, who seems to appreciate her choice of location. He tells me about his day, about a multimillion dollar mistake someone on his team made, and about the phone call from his father. His troubles don’t necessarily make me feel better, but they certainly put my own into perspective. At least one small error isn’t going to cost me millions.

Chapter 11: Party Time

RUBY

On account of my bombing my audition Amie forces me into accompanying her to the party I was intent on avoiding. She thinks I need to get out and have some fun. I think a pint of Ben and Jerry’s sounds like a better time than spending my evening with a bunch of stuck-up snobs, but I haven’t seen much of Amie since moving into Bancroft’s condo, so I relent.

When Amie said “party” I stupidly assumed it meant there would be lots of people to mingle with. I could put on my “Ruby Snob” face, impart the occasional witty response, and rotate through the guests, air kissing and smiling. I also assumed it would be in a hall, or a ballroom of some kind, as is typical.

What I don’t expect is to end up at some last-name-first mansion with eleven other guests as the only single female in the room. Did I mention that there’s only one single man in the room, as well? This is possibly the worst and least subtle attempt at matchmaking ever. I don’t need to be set up with anyone. I have bigger things to worry about.

I’m holding a glass of prosecco, there seems to be no non-alcoholic option available at this point, and I’m thirsty. I spent an hour on Bane’s treadmill, staring at the life-sized portrait of him reflected in the window overlooking the river. Working out would be way easier if I could look at him all day, every day.

The impulse to pull a Ziploc baggie from my purse is strong as the server makes the rounds with a tray of appetizers. I’m slowly conditioning out that behavior. Thanks to Bane’s grocery delivery service, I finally know what it feels like to be full again. On real food that doesn’t come in a cellophane package. I’m actually starting to fill out this dress. It’s too bad my hips are the first to expand and my boobs are the last.

Last-Name-First #11, the single guy in the room, is droning on and on about his Ivy League education and how people assume the high-level position he has at Douchebags & Douchenozzles was handed to him, but that’s untrue, he worked hard to get where he is. I call bullshit. Not out loud. Just in my head. I know for a fact that Wentworth Williams’s—his name is even alliterated—father is a fifty-percent shareholder in the company, and that means if he wants his Ivy League–educated douche of a son to work there, all he has to do is send over a résumé and, poof, a new job title is created.

My father does not work this way. Not for me, anyway. I know I’ll be starting at the bottom rung. And that wouldn’t bother me so much if my siblings hadn’t been given corner offices and nice titles from the moment they started working for him. Not like I want to even work for him at all, but fair is fair. If I’m going to partake in nepotism, I should get what I can out of it.

Wentworth is still talking. I’m still nodding and smiling politely, asking the occasional question to appear interested when I tune into what he’s saying long enough to know he’s still going on about himself. It’s as if he’s sharing his entire résumé with me. Dating in the upper class is weird. People parade themselves around like show ponies, waiting for someone to pin them with first prize.

While he takes another truffle-steak-tartar-blah-blah and some goose liver paté on a blah-blah cracker I do a furtive check around the room. I’ve been standing for the last twenty minutes. I’m wearing heels and they’re becoming uncomfortable. My calves are seizing because of the hour spent on the treadmill.

Amie is halfway across the room. Armstrong has his arm around her waist. Actually, I’m pretty sure he keeps goosing her while she talks to one of the other fiancées based on the way her eyes go suddenly wide and his grin becomes pervy for a moment.

When her gaze meets mine from across the room she gives me one of her apologetic smiles. I just glare. She does the eye-widening, pleading thing. There’s no way she would try to set me up with the guy on purpose. I bet it was Armstrong’s doing. Asshole.

“Armstrong says you’re in theater.” Wentworth forces me to stop shooting death-ray lasers from my eyeballs and brings my attention back to him. It’s not exactly a question, but it’s the first thing he’s said that isn’t about him.

“I am.”

“But isn’t your family in pharmaceuticals?” He tilts his head a little, blinking a few times, a small smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. It’s an expression of fake attentiveness. His eyes keep dropping below my neck. I’m not surprised, my cleavage is epic. That I’m not currently following in my family footsteps makes me seem like a bit of a wildcard. Which admittedly I am. For some of these douchebags it means I’m something to tame.

“My father is, yes.”

“But not your mother?”

“They’re divorced. My mother’s an artist.” I’m hoping the divorce revelation will turn him off. It doesn’t.

“Ah. So that’s where you get your creative side from, then?” He leans in closer and fingers a lock of my hair. It’s pretty close to my boob, so a finger graze also happens. “Is that where your beauty comes from as well?”

I’m sure he thinks he’s smooth. I’m also sure many women would simper, put a hand on his forearm and giggle. I don’t do any of those things. Instead I ask a question I probably shouldn’t considering present company and Amalie’s future role in this unfortunate social circle. “Why? Are you into MILFs?”

His eyes go wide, because I’m being so scandalous, and then a questioning, somewhat uncertain smile spreads across his face. I suppose he’s attractive. He’s tall, more than six feet, but he’s lanky. He’s athletic enough, but it’s clear he spends more time and energy behind his desk than he does working out.

Normally that wouldn’t even factor into someone’s date-ability for me, but my standards seem to have shifted, in Bancroft’s direction.

Wentworth leans in even closer, so his mouth is next to my ear. He’s been drinking hard liquor, some expensive brand of scotch based on the peat moss scent, so his breath is sharp. “I’d like to get into you.”

I take a small step back. There are several possible interpretations for that horrible line. Based on his tone and his facial expression I have a feeling he means it in the naked horizontal sense. I decide to play it stupid. “I’m sorry?”

He blinks a couple of times, assessing my reaction. I’m feigning idiocy, although my distaste is actually real. He covers his dirty comment with another smile. “I’d like to get to know you.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I take a sip of my prosecco. My glass is almost empty.

“It’d be nice if we had a little more privacy, don’t you think?” He makes a small gesture to the rest of the party attendees. Most of them are engaged in a group conversation. It’s only me who’s been cornered. And Amie seems to be tethered to Armstrong.