Shacking Up(47)

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.



       
         
       
        

I text her, telling her to stop calling so I can call her. Half a second later she sends me the same message. I laugh and wait for two minutes, wondering when the standoff will end. I get a question mark, so I cave and call.

"I've been thinking about you all day," Amie says by way of greeting.

I flop down on Bancroft's bed. "Does Armstrong know you're fantasizing about me? I won't tell him if you don't."

She snorts-delicately. "Obviously you're feeling better if you're making dirty jokes again."

"Much, actually. I slept forever last night. Bancroft has the comfiest bed." I fluff the pillow behind my head, settling in.

"What? You slept with Bane?" Amie's voice is so shrill it sounds like a fire alarm.

I realize the error and bark out a laugh. "I mean the bed in his spare room. Not his bed."

"Oh. I was going to say, it's not really like you to just fall into bed with someone. Except that one time-"

"And we're never, ever going to speak of that again."

"I saw Drew recently."

"Did you miss the part about never again?" I briefly dated Drew McMaster in the second year of college. And by briefly I mean that we went on one damn date. He was an excellent flirt, and after several weeks of persistence on his part, I agreed to go out with him. I mistakenly fell for all of his lines and ended up in his bed. It was a lackluster experience at best. He spent the entire two minutes thrusting like a jackhammer was attached to his hips. At least he came, I didn't even get close. And his penis was incredibly subpar. I don't even think it was average.

That was the last date I went on with him. After that I made sure not to get naked, or even close to naked, with someone on the first date. If a guy is worth it, he can wait to experience the wonders inside my panties. That way I have a sufficient number of dates in which to engage in some make-out sessions. Foreplay is an art. If a guy sucks at that, he's probably going to suck in the sack. Although if I had met Bancroft, and wasn't dependent on him, I wouldn't say no to climbing into his bed, regardless of the rule. I bet he's incredible between the sheets, especially with those powerful thighs of his.

"Well I wouldn't have brought it up because I know it gives you nightmares, but I thought you might like to know that he's started balding."

"He's only twenty-six."

"Exactly."

"It's horrible how happy this makes me," I reply.

"It's not horrible, it's justified. He was a jerk."

"He really was." Speaking of jerks . . . "How was dinner with Armstrong's parents?" 

"It was fine. Good. It was good."

The way her voice raises to a pitch reserved for birdcalls tells me she's lying. "Amie."

"His mother's a bit cold."

That's an understatement. She's about as warm as a freezer, at least from what I experienced at the engagement party. "I'm sure she'll warm up to you. Everyone loves you. How about his dad? Is he any better?" I met him only in passing, a handshake and a brief introduction.