I put her down on the floor with Bancroft's permission and she takes off, bounding for the door. She's down the hall and into the living room in seconds.
"She's fast," I observe.
"She is. The condo's pretty much ferret-proof, though, so it's safe. All the wires are hidden and covered so she can't get to them." He gestures to the wall where the cords that would normally be visible coming out of sockets are not.
"That must've been a lot of work."
"I had a professional come in and do it for me. It took a bit of getting used to, but she's worth the effort. I always wanted a dog as a kid, but my mom's allergic, and my dad traveled too much, and I played competitive rugby, so there were a lot of away games. It wouldn't have been fair to do that to a dog."
"So why did you decide on a ferret instead of getting your own dog?"
"It was accidental. Someone snuck a ferret into one of my father's New York hotels a while ago. They're uh . . . illegal to have as pets in some states, and she was at risk of being exterminated, so I brought her home instead." He looks nervous as he waits for my reaction.
"Really? It's illegal in some states?" I had no idea.
"Just a few."
"But not New York, right?"
He purses his lips but stays silent.
I lean around him and smooth my hand across his back, between his shoulder blades. The muscles flex and he draws in a sharp breath.
"What're you doing?"
"Checking for your angel wings."
He laughs and then motions to Francesca whose head is peeking out from under the couch. She bounds across the living room and skids into the kitchen. "Look at her. How could I let them do that?"
"Exactly. That's really great that you decided to keep her. And your secret is safe with me. I won't tell anyone you're harboring a fugitive ferret."
"I appreciate your discretion. I didn't realize quite how involved the whole process would be, but she's proved to be worth it. I also wasn't expecting to do a lot of traveling, so I thought it wouldn't be an issue. I'm hoping that part will only last a short while."
Francesca finds a ball with a bell in it, the same kind you'd give a cat, and rolls it across the floor. I snatch it up before she can get to it. "Wanna play, little lady?" I toss it across the room and she races after it.
Once she catches it, she brings it right back to me. I look over my shoulder at Bancroft who's watching me with an amused expression.
"She plays fetch!"
"It's her favorite. She also loves snuggles while we watch TV."
"I'm in love with her already."
He mutters something I don't catch. "If you're all right with her, do you mind if I have a quick shower? Or I can put her back in her cage and you can have one, too."
For half a second I take that completely the wrong way. Probably because the second he said shower I started picturing him naked and wet. "Why don't you go now and I'll have one when you're finished."
"Sure. Great. Then I'll order dinner?"
"Um, you don't have to order in. I'll eat pretty much anything." Except for everything Armstrong ordered the other day. And I can't really afford to splurge on expensive takeout.
"My fridge isn't well stocked. It'll be my treat."
I feel some guilt over accepting more handouts from him, but I'm hungry enough to agree. "Okay. Sure."
"Excellent. I won't be long." I smile and turn back to Francesca when she nudges my hand, the ball already at my feet.
I toss it and watch her bounce across the floor. She really is the cutest little thing. The next time she comes back she has a new toy. It's a mouse, so I dangle it and she jumps for it. When Bancroft returns from the shower I'm lying on my back on the floor with one mouse dangling from the tail between my toes, and jingling the bell ball in my hand.
His feet show up in my field of vision first. His socked feet. What the fuck? Maybe he's got a thing about bare feet. Maybe he hates feet. Maybe he really loves socks. At least these are ankle socks and not the ones that cover up his amazing calves. I look up, past his knees to the cargo shorts, the black belt that cinches at his waist, and the half-unzipped fly. I get a very brief glimpse of red as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. Too bad he's not commando. Not that I'd be able to do anything about it if he was, but I'd have five weeks of self-pleasure fodder.
I remember, rather vividly, what it felt like when what he's hiding behind his fly was pressed up against my stomach during our accidental kiss. I keep going, up, up, up that very mountainous body. He's wearing a red T-shirt. That's rather disappointing. No shirt would be greatly appreciated. Maybe I should make a sign while he's away, one that says No Socks, No Shirts Required or something. He seems like the kind of guy who might find that funny. And who might accommodate me by taking it seriously.