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“You must be looking forward to getting your feet wet on this trip,” Armstrong says to Bancroft before popping an oyster—he decided they were a necessity—much to my stomach and my gag reflex’s dismay.
Bancroft lifts a shoulder. “It is what it is. Now that my rugby career is over, I don’t have much of an option but to immerse myself in the family business.”
I stop making patterns in the pool of olive oil on my plate with my pita triangle and check him out again. Now his size makes sense, as do the scars and the slightly imperfect nose. “You played professional rugby?”
He turns his attention to me, a half-smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. “I did. For seven years.”
“And you quit to take over your family’s business?”
“No. I blew out my knee.”
“You can’t recover from that?”
“I can, but if I have another accident like that there’s a good chance I won’t ever walk without assistance. I didn’t think it was worth the risk, and the agreement was, when my rugby career ended, I’d work with my father.” He doesn’t seem particularly excited about that. I completely understand his lack of enthusiasm, it’s the reason I’m still sitting here, trying to figure out how to get this man to let me move into his house despite how embarrassing this is.
“Rugby’s a pretty violent sport.” Wow. What an excellent conversationalist I am today.
“I prefer the term aggressive. Do you watch?”
“I don’t have a favorite team or anything, but I went to a couple of games when I visited Scotland a few years ago. I guess that aggression would work well if it translates from the field into the business world.” This is my way of finding out what kind of business Bancroft’s family runs.
“Hopefully I can find the same level of passion for hotel management as I did for rugby,” he says with some disdain.
“I’m sure it won’t be difficult to transfer your Harvard MBA skill set to the Mills empire.” Armstrong pats him on the back.
Mills? Holy crap. “The luxury hotel chain?” I ask.
“That’s the one.” He gives me a tight smile.
Mills hotels are legendary for their spas and extensive services. They’re not just a place to sleep, they’re an experience. At least that’s what the commercials say. I don’t even want to think about what his family is worth, although it wouldn’t take much to find out.
Armstrong shuts down the opportunity to segue into Bancroft’s trip by offering up information about my family legacy. “Ruby’s father is Harrison Scott, of Scott Pharmaceuticals.”
Bancroft regards me curiously. “Oh? That sounds familiar.”
“He specializes in erectile dysfunction medication,” I mutter.
“Is that right? Well, here’s hoping I won’t need those for a lot of years, if ever,” Bancroft replies.
Armstrong laughs.
Thankfully, dinner arrives, putting an end to that potentially embarrassing conversation. The men start talking business, and Armstrong goes into a serious monologue about his first year learning how to manage staff at the leading media conglomerate in the country. Amie hangs off every word as if he’s some cult leader looking to recruit her as his sacrificial virgin.
I pick at my dinner, my stomach continuing to do that unfortunate roll thing, even with the minimal amount of food I’m putting in it.
It doesn’t help that everything Armstrong ordered has a pungent aroma and is slightly disgusting to look at. Or maybe my current state of mind and body is the issue. When the gurgle becomes audible I excuse myself, praying I avoid further humiliation, except in a public restaurant rather than during an audition. Although I suppose this is an audition of sorts.
I lock myself in the end stall and take a few deep breaths, hoping I can manage to get my stomach to settle. These bathrooms are actually quite nice, but butts that aren’t mine have sat on them and left behind five-star-dinner remains or the aftermath of expensive champagne. I also feel bad about destroying a bathroom in a place as nice as this.
I push aside those unpleasant thoughts and concentrate on breathing. It takes a few minutes, but my stomach finally settles enough that I think I can manage sitting through the rest of dinner, as long as I don’t eat anything else substantial.
I check myself out in the mirror prior to vacating the bathroom. I need to get myself under control and fast if I want to secure a place to live. No one in their right mind would willingly let me stay in their home and care for their pets in my current state. I wish I’d had the good sense to stay the hell home tonight. I seriously look strung out, like someone coming off of a meth binge. Not that I actually know what that looks like outside of those intervention shows on TV.
I shakily pat my face with a wet paper towel—the thick kind that doesn’t disintegrate when they’re soaked with water. After eating a Listerine strip, reapplying lipstick, and dusting my cheeks with powder, I step out into the hall only to run into the same man I did the last time I exited a public bathroom.
I grab Bancroft’s shirt as I careen into him—unintentionally. Again. He isn’t wearing a suit jacket like the last time, so it’s easier to both see and feel all those hard packed muscles. Despite my recent near conversation with the toilet bowl, my vagina still notices how nice his body is.
“Are you okay?”
His voice has that deep, resonating baritone that juices me right up, quite literally.
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” It’s still more raspy croak than it is actual words.
“I don’t believe you.”
Sweet lord, this man is seriously intense. The way he’s looking at me makes me wish I had a breath mint, or another one of those mouthwash strips for good measure, just in case he accidentally kisses me again. Oh God. He better not kiss me again.
“If you’re thinking about molesting my mouth with your tongue again, you might want to reconsider your timing. I’m pretty sure my breath is horrible right now.” I wish my brain wasn’t as sick and stupid as my body.
“I really am sorry about that.” He skims my forehead with his fingertips, brushing away the stray hairs hanging in my eyes. He follows with the back of his hand. “Jesus. Do you have a fever?”
“I’m just a little warm.”
“A little warm? I could cook steak on your forehead.”
“That’s a super-sexy image.”
He frowns. “Is this really my fault?”
My first instinct is to tell him no, mostly because my upbringing wants me to take the blame for him. Also he’s hot and I don’t want him to feel bad, but in this case he’s absolutely at fault, and I’d really like a place to live, so if guilt helps make that happen, I’m all for it. “It really is.”
“I feel awful about this. I can’t believe I sexually assaulted you and made you sick.”
“And you ruined my audition.” For some reason he still has his arm around me. Not that I’m complaining. I’m feeling rather weak, so it’s nice to have someone supporting some of my weight.
“I did what?”
“I had an audition for a play the next morning, but I projectile vomited all over the director. It ruined my chances of ever working with him again, I’m probably blacklisted everywhere. I’ll never get another role in this city.” Okay, the last part is likely untrue, but if he feels bad enough, maybe he’ll agree to me pet sitting/squatting in his pad for the next five weeks.
