Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

“Oh come on, Bancroft. Look at me.” I shrug out of my cardigan and gesture to my outfit. My skimpy, gauzy outfit. I’ve never actually felt sexier than I do when I’m dancing in this, but that’s beside the point.

“Oh, I’m looking.” The light turns green and he shifts into gear. I never learned how to drive stick—not the car kind anyway.

I huff and fume some more.

“You want to know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me regardless of what I say.”

“You’re the one who’s judging you.”

I bite the inside of my lip, trying to come up with some kind of sassy, snappy retort. But I don’t have one. Because he’s right. I am judging myself. I’m so worried about what the other people in my life are going to think about this temporary career move—which would be viewed as a complete and utter downgrade from what I’ve been attempting to accomplish in the theater industry—that I’ve labeled myself a failure, and I’m expecting everyone else to do the same. Even though it’s actually quite far from the truth.

“Of course I’m judging myself. This isn’t the direction I thought my career would go. But that doesn’t explain why you’re so angry with me.”

“You want to know why?” Bancroft sounds incredulous.

I throw my hands up in the air. It’s dramatic. “Yes. Why?”

“You lied to me.”

“I stretched the truth.”

Bancroft expels a long, slow breath. He’s gripping the steering wheel tightly. “That is a far cry from dinner theater, Ruby.”

“What did you want me to say? I got a job dancing half naked on a stage in a burlesque-style show?”

“Yes, Ruby. That’s exactly what I want. The truth.”

“I don’t see why it matters so much to you. I’m just your pet sitter.”

Bancroft’s jaw tics. I’m pretty sure I can hear his teeth grinding. He mutters something under his breath.

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Is that what you really think? That’s you’re just my pet sitter?”

“Aren’t I?” My stomach is churning. This is a dangerous conversation to have. I know I’m not just his pet sitter. That this thing between has turned into something else, but I’m so hung up on my fear of being financially dependent on him that I’ve ignored the real issue. I’m already emotionally dependent on him, which may be even worse.

He skirts the question with more of his own. “You live in my house. I gave you access to all of my things, codes, personal information. I put trust in you and you broke it. And why? Because you think I won’t approve of your choice of employment?”

“Well do you? Approve?”

“If you’re my pet sitter why would my approval matter?” He fires back.

“Stop answering questions with more questions,” I shout.

He licks his lips, eyes fixed firmly on the road. “I don’t like the neighborhood you’re working in. I don’t like that you have to take the subway home at the end of the night.”

I keep my eyes on the dash. “Sometimes I Uber when it’s really late.”

“Does someone walk out with you every night? Do they make sure you’re safe? Or are you on your own?” His tone is hard, angry.

I’m evasive with my answer. “It’s not that bad of a neighborhood . . .”

“It’s not a great one either.” His jaw tics with his frustration.

“My last apartment wasn’t exactly in an upscale neighborhood either, and no one ever tried to abduct me.”

He motions to my outfit. “Were you dressed like this?”

“Usually I change before I leave. Tonight’s an exception.”

Bancroft makes a right and pulls into the underground lot. I’ve never been down here before since the only other time I’ve been in his vehicle was when we moved me into his apartment. I hope this isn’t some kind of omen.

He stops at the valet, but tells the attendant he’ll park himself and backs skillfully into a spot. He lets me get out of the car on my own. “Not going to throw me over your shoulder this time?”

He looks me over. Beyond being angry, his gaze is hot. It makes my skin tingle, which is annoying.

“Would you like me to?”

“No.”

I follow him to the lobby. He angles his body in such a way that I’m partially eclipsed by his broadness as we pass the security guards.

“Worried someone’s going to judge you for being seen with me?” I mutter.

He gives me an icy glare, slides his keycard over the elevator sensor that takes us to the penthouse floor and ushers me inside. It’s dedicated, so very few people use it. The elevator ride to his condo is full of more silence and tension.

I’m relieved that we don’t run into anyone in the hallway. Particularly Ms. Blackwood. I’ve seen her a few times coming and going and she’s always polite, but in that way rich people are when really they think they’re better than you. Which is exactly the reason I’ve kept this job a secret, because I’ve grown up in an environment where that’s the rule, not the exception.

Bancroft lets the door close with a heavy slam. He throws his keys on the counter and kicks off his shoes, then starts down the hall.

“Where’re you going?” I call after him.

“To my room.”

I plant a fist on my hip. “That’s it?”

He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. “I’d like to get changed.”

“You came all the way to my work to glare at me and be pissy and drive me home, just to go to bed?”

He strides back down the hall toward me, eyes flashing. Jesus. Why is he so hot when he’s pissed off? “No. I came to your work so I could see for myself exactly how involved your lie was. I came to your work because I’m worried about the location and your safety. I came to your work because I wanted to see you perform. Now I would like to get changed and I think you should, too.”

“What if I don’t want to?” I’m being a combative brat right now. I think it’s because I’m scared; of this conversation, that I’ve ruined any possibility of this being more.

“I don’t think I can have this conversation with you while you’re dressed like . . . like—” he flails his hands around, gesturing at my outfit.

I jut my chest out. I’m rocking some insane cleavage. This outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. His eyes drop and have a hard time coming back up to my face.

“Like what?” I bark.

“Like this!” he snaps back.

“And what am I dressed like?” I know the answer to this question, but I want to hear him say it. I want a reason to go off on him because he’s a damn hypocrite if he can go out on a date with someone like Brittany who wears skimpy, slutty clothes on purpose, and get his balls all twisted because my costume is revealing. I mean, there is a lot of skin showing and half my butt is on display some of the time, but it’s not like I have a full coverage option for this gig. And it’s not as if I’d wear it off the stage.

Bancroft’s face is red. His eyes close and stay that way for a while before they open again. “Everyone was looking at you!”

I don’t get why he never seems to answer a question directly. I throw my hands up. “They’re supposed to! I’m performing.”