"Right. Gotcha." He taps the steering wheel. "So how'd you end up living in Harlem?"
"Amie's parents had already bought a place for her by the time I accepted the placement at Randolph, where I went to college, but it was a one bedroom, so I needed to find my own place. My father was against me coming to the city to begin with so he set a small budget for rent, thinking that I'd go back home when I realized what it cost for an apartment in the city. But I wanted to be here and this was reasonable, plus it was furnished, and it came with no roommates."
"Not a fan of roommates?" Bancroft asks.
"It's not that. It's just . . . living with someone else is tricky, right? We all have routines and quirks. If I was going to live with anyone it would've been Amie, so I thought it would be best to live on my own. What about you, ever had a roommate before?"
"Only when we were touring for games and tournaments. I like my space." He does that finger tapping thing.
"Yeah. Me, too. Well, what little of it I had. At least it was mine, though, right? I could only bitch at myself if there were dishes left in the sink for days."
"Are you a dishes-in-the-sink-for-days kind of woman?"
"Last week I was." I don't tell him I was also that woman the week before, and the month before that. He's not going to be around to witness my poor housekeeping skills, thankfully.
It takes a little more than half an hour to get to his place in Tribeca. No traffic.
The building he lives in is exclusive and gorgeous. All windows and mirrored glass. With the help of two men who work in the building-who address Bancroft as Mr. Mills-we get all of my belongings into the service elevator. When I attempt to follow my things, Bancroft puts a hand on my shoulder. My nipples react immediately. They're so slutty when a hot guy is around.
"They'll bring everything up, we'll take the other elevator," he says.
The other elevator has a black marble floor and mirrored walls, which allows me an incredible view of Bancroft from all angles. The socks are still really distracting.
When we reach the penthouse floor Bancroft ushers me out. The hallway is wide, walls painted champagne, and more black marble leads us down the hall. The doors are spread far apart and I assume it's because these condos are much larger than my little apartment.
At the end of the hall Bancroft keys in a code, opens the door with a somewhat nervous smile, and ushers me inside.
I step past him into the foyer and come to a halt. My apartment could fit into this space ten times over. Bancroft crashes into me from behind. I stumble forward and his arm, his thick, well-defined, muscular arm, wraps around my waist, preventing me from face planting into the gorgeous, gleaming hardwood floors.
His hard chest presses against my back for a few brief seconds. I'm almost positive I can feel the ridges in his abs. Too bad this didn't happen when he had his shirt off. It's also too bad my shirt is on, along with the rest of our clothes. Sadly, he's quick to set me back on my feet. "Whoa. Sorry about that."
"My fault." I take a few more steps inside. "This is really nice."
"It's all right," he mumbles.
"I think it's a little better than all right."
Bancroft's condo is huge. This is the kind of place I should be accustomed to, but having lived in my apartment for the past five years, I've grown used to small spaces and crappy appliances that don't work well.
To the left is a kitchen. A big, beautiful kitchen full of shiny, stainless steel and granite countertops. To the right is a hallway with a set of double doors at the end. Directly in front of me are floor-to-ceiling windows providing a gorgeous view of the East River, rather than a view of a brick wall-which was what I had.
The living room boasts a huge leather couch and a massive chair covered in a funky pattern that doesn't seem to match Bancroft's personality at all. Although I don't really know him well enough to make an astute, informed opinion yet.
I kick off my shoes and head straight for that chair, flopping down in it. The space is so open. It's not particularly warm or welcoming. There aren't any knickknacks or little things that tell me anything about who Bancroft is as a person.
Across from the chair I've thrown myself in is a floor-to-ceiling wall unit, and that's really saying something since it appears I'm looking at twelve-foot ceilings. A gigantic TV takes up the middle of the wall unit. Square shelves hold a variety of neatly stacked books. A rugby-playing reader, now that's sexy.
I glance past the wall unit. "Holy crap! Do you have a home gym?" I bounce out of the chair and rush across the open space, barely containing the urge to do a few spins on the way, because I have the room.