Shacking Up(57)

"You're not at home?" The way he says home sends a shiver down my spine, and a shot of warmth between my legs. I can imagine him stretched out on his couch back in the condo, me acting as his blanket. "Ruby? Where are you?"

"I'm at a party."

"A party?" he parrots. He shifts in his chair, setting down his mug, the furrow in his brow growing deeper. "What party? Who're you with?" 

Now I don't usually appreciate it when a guy pulls the territorial business. Mostly I'm very much a twenty-first-century woman and I feel like I have the right to do what I want, when I want, without having to answer for it. Obviously if I'm in a committed relationship I'm fully committed. I don't play games or mess around. But there's something about the way he's asking, as if there's a hint of panic, that warms all the parts below the waist. Well, warms them more than they already were, which means my panties are thinking about lighting themselves on fire.

"Ruby? Is the connection bad?"

"Oh! Sorry. You froze there for a second," I lie. "Amie forced me to come out to this party. I didn't ask enough questions, obviously, because it's not at some huge event hall, it's at some Richie Rich's house. Well, house isn't a very good descriptor, actually. I'm pretty sure this qualifies as a mansion seeing as this powder room is the size of my old apartment."

"Who's throwing the party? Is it one of Armstrong's friends?" Bancroft voice is suddenly low and even.

"I assume so. Or maybe a colleague?" I'm distracted by the way Bancroft's jaw is working. "Except me and him, everyone here is either engaged or married. I guess someone wanted to play matchmaker."

"Amalie's trying to set you up with someone?" Now he sounds incredulous.

I might not be the most civilized, refined woman out there, but I don't think I'm a bad catch. Maybe a little untamed, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

"Not Amie, Armstrong apparently, and I shouldn't have to sit at home alone every night," I say defensively.

"You're not alone. You have Tiny and Francesca and me." The incredulity is replaced with irritation. "Who's he trying to set you up with?"

"Wentworth something or other." I'm trying to figure Bancroft out. The flirting and the sometimes overly sexual comments have become commonplace in our conversations and, frankly, something I look forward to. But earlier this week he called me babe, and now he says things like this, and he's acting rather jealous. For all the distance currently between us, we've been spending an awful lot of time together. It's blurring the lines I've made in my head a little.

"Wentworth Williams?" The incredulity turns to something like anger.

"That's it. Yes."

"Oh, fuck no. You can't date him."

"Pardon me?" I set the phone down on the vanity and start rummaging around in my purse for my lipstick. I hate being told what to do.

"He's an elitist fuckhead cocksucker. He's not allowed in my condo. Ever. You can't date him. I forbid it."

"You forbid it?"

"Yes."

"Really?" I prop a hand on my hip, then realize Bancroft's current view is of my purse, not me. I move it aside. Now he has a very good view of my dress, which I'm filling out nicely these days. The angle is actually rather flattering and it makes my boobs look amazing.

Bancroft runs a rough hand through his hair. It's an absolute mess. He's all furrowed brow and ticking jaw. Goddamn it. Why does he have to look so hot when he's being a jerk?

"What're you wearing?" he snaps.

"A dress. What does it look like?" I think I look nice.

"I see cleavage. You have cleavage. Don't you have a shawl? Can't you cover up?"

"Excuse me?" I look down at my chest and cup my boobs, making sure I'm not flashing anyone anything they shouldn't see. Everything is right where it should be. "My cleavage looks fantastic, and it's modest, not excessive."



       
         
       
        

"I just-you can't. Wentworth is an asshole. He dated my friend's sister's cousin last year and she found out he was cheating on her, with three other women, and one of them was a damn escort." He's not sitting down anymore. I think he might be pacing with how unsteady the phone is.

"Escort? Isn't that just a nice term for prostitute?"

"Yes."

"That's dirty."

"Yes, it is. So you understand why I forbid you to date him."

The forbid makes me bristle. It's a word my father used to toss around all the time. While I have zero intention of pursuing anything with Wentworth, I don't think it hurts to keep Bancroft on the edge a little, especially since I hate that word and he's being bossy. "I don't think he's interested in dating me."