"Have a safe trip. I promise I'll take great care of Francesca and Tiny while you're gone."
"I'm sure you will. I'll send a message when I land. And I'll check in later in the week."
"Okay." We stand there for a few seconds, staring at each other, neither one of us making any kind of move. I'm half a second away from making a colossally bad decision by grabbing him by the lapels of his suit jacket and dragging those luscious lips of his down to mine when he looks away and clears his throat. It's enough to break me out of my fantasizing.
"Okay. I have to go." He's said that already. He brings a hand up to his hair, but drops it. Pats his pockets, then crosses to his bags.
"I'll get the door for you." I rush ahead of him, flip the lock, and hold it open.
He pauses at the threshold. He looks like he wants to say something.
"I promise they'll be fine with me. We can always video chat if you miss them."
"Yeah. Okay. That might be good."
I'm a hugger. I've always been a hugger. Usually in my world you're allowed to do the air-kiss, back-pat, so it's on impulse, and maybe a small hormonal component, that I lean in toward him. I realize too late that my reflexive action isn't the best idea. And that I've shocked him.
"Oh. Okay," he mumbles as my face hits his chest and my arm comes around his waist. I'm about to release him when he returns the embrace, his thick arms wrapping around me. God, he's solid. And he smells incredible. Like warm laundry with a hint of cologne. His arms tighten and his head drops, his freshly shaved cheek brushes against my temple.
The press of his palm against my low back has me tilting my pelvis just the tiniest little bit. I both hear and feel his heavy exhalation against my cheek, and then his other hand is smoothing up my back, between my shoulder blades, under my hair. It makes me want to follow through on the lapel-grabbing and lip-locking.
I stop breathing when his fingertips brush over the back of my neck and his lips touch my ear. I suck in a gasping breath when the hand pressed against the dip in my spine eases just a bit lower. "I was managing just fine before the fucking lace panties," he murmurs.
The sound of another door opening and the yippy bark of a dog has us awkwardly shoving away from each other.
"Bancroft!" The heavy accent belongs to a woman wearing more makeup than a circus clown. I have no idea how old she is, or whether she's related to humans or aliens based on the amount of cosmetic surgery she's likely had to achieve the false youthful look she's sporting. A tiny dog jumps around her feet, yipping and nipping. It tries to make a run for Bancroft's door, but Clown Woman yanks on the leash. "No, Precious! Sit!"
Precious doesn't sit, in fact, Precious growls and snaps at Bancroft. The woman snatches Precious up into her arms, chastising and then cooing.
"Hello, Ms. Blackwood. Hello, Precious. You're up early today." Bancroft's smile is as tight as Clown Woman's skin as he takes a small, but obvious step away from me, creating more distance. He also shoves his hands in his pockets, possibly doing some rearranging. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling too wide.
"I'm off for a week at the spa." The Spa must be a highbrow code for a visit to the plastic surgeon, or rehab. I'm guessing it's the former rather than the latter. Ms. Blackwood's gaze travels over Bancroft-her ogling is quite obvious-and then slides to me. "Who is this you're hiding?"
Bancroft's cheek tics, as if he's trying to keep his smile from dropping. He looks just as annoyed as I feel. "This is Ruby Scott. She'll be taking care of my place while I'm away on business."
"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.