“Oh?” She gives me a speculative look. “Is she a friend of yours, then?”

“She is.”

“Mmm. Well, isn’t that nice. Welcome to the building, Miss Scott, is it?”

She holds out her wrinkly old hand, the one that in no way matches the stretched wrinkleless skin on her face.

I hold the top of my robe closed with one hand and take her offered palm with the other. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Blackwood.”

“Yes. Of course. Are you enjoying the accommodations so far?”

If she wasn’t pushing eighty I’d be worried about the look she’s giving Bancroft.

I’m not sure what’s going on here, but there seems to be some kind of weird tension between them. “Oh yes.” I turn a warm smile on Bancroft and bat my lashes. “Bancroft is an incredibly accommodating, attentive host.”

The tic in his cheek is back, except this time he’s working to keep his smile from growing too wide. There’s got to be a story with Ms. Blackwood.

“All right! Enjoy your time at the spa.” I fake a yawn and smile brightly at Bancroft. “Have a great trip. I think I’ll just go back to bed since you kept me up so late and woke me up so early. Call when you’re all settled.” I drop a quick kiss on his cheek and step out of reach.

Ms. Blackwood looks scandalized and Bancroft looks like he wants to rip my kimono off and maybe spank me. Okay, the last part is just me fantasizing. I’m going to take that back to bed with me.

I give them both a jaunty wave. “Bye Bancroft, bye Ms. Blackwood.” I close the door on her horrified face and lock it, then peek through the peephole. Bancroft looks over his shoulder once before disappearing down the hall to the elevators.

Five weeks of phone flirting with Bancroft might just kill me, and if it does, it’s going to be the sweetest death.

Chapter 9: Phone Calls

RUBY

I go back to bed, give myself an orgasm while thinking about Bancroft, and promptly fall back to sleep. I don’t get up until two in the afternoon. And the only reason I roll my lazy butt out of bed is because my bladder forces me to. That mattress is like sleeping on a cloud.

Once I’ve taken care of my bathroom needs, I make a trip down the hall to Bancroft’s room. The door is ajar. His bed is made this time, although it’s clear it was a hastily done job. The covers are wrinkly and uneven. I have the urge to smooth them out. While I’ve never been the best at keeping things organized and tidy, I’ve always made my bed. Even as a child when there was a housekeeper to take care of that kind of thing I was the one who made it. There’s just something comforting about slipping into a neatly made bed.

“Hi, Franny!” I say when she peeks her head out of a tube. She makes a little noise and runs back and forth across the cage as I undo the latch. She stretches up on her hind legs, eager to be free as I open the hatch.

I pet her head and lift her out. She cuddles into me for a few seconds, then pushes away, clearly wanting the freedom to roam. My stomach growls as I wander down the hall after her. I think I might actually be able to handle coffee for the first time since Bancroft made me sick.

I find all the components for coffee and reheat some of the leftovers from last night, watching them whirl around in Bancroft’s space-age microwave. Like everything else in Bancroft’s condo, all of his appliances are top of the line, which means they have seven million functions and buttons to press.

After I scarf down my food I take a coffee and Francesca to my room, closing the door so I can keep an eye on her while I go through the boxes. I’m grateful that Amie helped, because she labels everything. The only stuff I really need while I’m here is clothing and toiletries.

I check to make sure Francesca hasn’t burrowed under the covers before I set my massive, heavy suitcase on the bed and begin the process of transferring items into the dresser.

Francesca climbs into the drawer and sticks her head through a pair of underwear. Her nails get caught in the lace waistband so she frolics around in there, getting herself tangled up. I grab my phone and snap a picture, then send it to Bancroft without really thinking about what exactly she’s gotten herself tangled in.

I don’t hear back from him right away—I assume he may still be traveling since he’s headed to the UK—so I get to stew in my own idiocy while I put away the rest of my clothes and move on to my toiletries. At least they’re my nice undies. I’m careful about making sure all the chemical products are well out of the way and that anything with a cord is behind a closed door.

Once I’m done the bulk of my unpacking I return Francesca to Bancroft’s room, play a little hide and seek with her under the covers, making a mess of his hastily made bed until she tires out and wants to nap. She curls into a ball, puts her little head down, and falls asleep while I pet her. I can totally understand why he couldn’t bear to let Animal Control have her. She’s adorable.

At that point I return her to her cage so I can snoop around Bancroft’s bedroom. His bathroom is amazing with a huge soaker tub and a shower twice as big as the one in my room with twice as many jets. As far as man bathrooms are concerned, it’s not too disgusting. The toilet seat is down, which is a bonus. There’s a blue towel half hanging out of the laundry hamper and another draped haphazardly over the towel rack.

I leave his room for another, more detailed tour of Bancroft’s condo. Last night I was mostly paying attention to his biceps, and his butt, and all the other nice parts of him.

On my way to get a better look at the home gym I stop to check on Tiny. She’s sitting right beside her water dish, which I need to change. I follow the instructions in the binder and refill the dish. Since she’s eaten recently, I won’t need to feed her a cricket for several more days. She’s definitely going to be the easier of the two pets to take care of.

One detail I missed about his gym—and I’m not actually sure how—is the life-sized photograph of Bancroft hanging from the wall. Apparently he was the poster boy for the Rugby Championship a few years ago. The picture is an action shot of him mid-kick.

Holy sweet thighs. Holy sweet everything. The only thing that would make the picture better would be if he were shirtless. His face glistens with sweat, which should be unattractive but isn’t. His hair curls around his neck and sticks to his forehead. Every muscle in his body seems to be flexed with exertion. I wonder if I can take this off the wall and bring it into my bedroom. I check the edges and pull on the corner of the frame, but it doesn’t budge. Too bad.

My phone rings from somewhere in the condo, three bars of the same catchy tune repeating as I search for the location of the noise. The nice thing about living in a studio apartment is not having a lot of ground to cover when things go missing. Bancroft’s condo has to be somewhere around two thousand sprawling feet of living space, which means there are significantly more potential locations for items to get lost in. I’m notorious for leaving my phone in strange places. Like the fridge. The sound isn’t muffled enough for it to be there, though.

I miss the call, but find my phone in Bancroft’s room, on his bed. Excitement makes my toes tingle at the possibility that it might be him checking in. I have no idea how long his flight was, although I think that information might be in the binder.

I have a message, but it’s not from Bancroft, it’s from Amie. I call her back without listening to the message. I’m sent directly to voice mail though, so I try again, but the same thing happens.