“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.

“Are you serious?” He looks absolutely horrified. Maybe I’ve taken it a touch too far.

“I don’t know about not working in the city ever again, but I definitely won’t get a part if that director is involved.”

He releases me and runs his hand through his full, luscious, slightly curly hair and expels a long, slow breath. “I really screwed you, didn’t I?”

Well, you sure did screw my mouth. At first I think those words are in my head, until I watch his eyebrows rise.

“I screwed your mouth?”

“Uh. With your tongue. When you kissed me, with tongue. You screwed—” Oh God, Ruby, stop talking. “My mouth. With your tongue.” And he did it, very, very well. My lady parts agree with this assessment, based on the way they’re tingling. I must be on the mend if I have tingles. Or maybe I’m sicker than I thought.

He crosses his arms over his chest. A half-smirk tugs up the left corner of his mouth. “You kissed me back.”

I blink a couple of times. I guess he noticed that. I’m not going to admit it, though. “You caught me off-guard and I’d been drinking.”

“Drinking? Really? How do I know you weren’t just hungover and that’s why you hurled all over that director?”

Even the word hurl makes my stomach feel like it wants to stage another revolt. “I had one drink! And I’m still—” I make gestures instead of saying the word.

“You can’t have it both ways, sweetheart.”

“Both ways? What are you even talking about?”

“I’m talking about you coming up with bogus excuses to explain away why you kissed me back when you didn’t even know me.”

My mouth drops open. I clamp it shut, just in case, and glare at him. “I have a very low alcohol tolerance. I had one martini.” I hold my finger up in front of his face. “It hit me a lot harder than I expected.”

“Right.” His smirk is infuriating. I want to suck it right off his gorgeous face, with my lips, either set.

“You cocky f—” I bite back the nasty expletive and narrow my eyes. I’m so sweaty right now, and I don’t think it’s just the sickness. “You know, regardless of your perception of what happened the other night, considering how drunk and doped up you were, you are the reason I’m jobless, and now I’m about to be homeless, too. So I hope you’re well entertained by my misfortune.”

“Homeless?” That wipes that godforsaken gorgeous smile off his face.

I shouldn’t have said that part. “Never mind.” I turn around. I’m not sure what my plan is, whether I’m going to bolt, although the idea of leaving behind three quarters of a perfectly delicious, edible meal when I’m down to my last six packages of ramen noodles seems rather wasteful. I might not be able to finish it tonight, but I can certainly save it for another day. Primavera will last at least a few days in the fridge. I should be better by then.

“Whoa, whoa!” Bancroft grabs my arm, not hard, gently but firmly. “You can’t say something like that and just walk away.”

“It’s not like it affects you,” I bite out, embarrassed. I can’t believe I’ve gotten myself into this kind of situation.

“Right now it affects me, especially if I’m responsible for your predicament. I need you to explain the homeless part.”

I wave my hand around in the air while I debate whether I want to tell him the fabricated story Amie and I concocted or some version of the truth. I’m excessively flaily tonight. “There was a problem with my lease renewal. The rent was doable and nothing else out there is, especially without this job, so I’m screwed.” That’s not quite a hundred percent true, because even with that role, I wouldn’t have had the money to pay down the overdue rent and my place is already rented out, so either way I was going to end up homeless. But he looks like he’s feeling some guilt over this, and I need a place to live. I’m not above manipulation. Or girl tears. Plus he’s gorgeous.

“And you don’t have anyone who can help you out? What about your family?”

“My father’s not exactly supportive of my career choice, so asking him isn’t an option.” Here I go again, giving him far too much information. It’s like his voice is truth serum.

There’s that frown and that furrowed brow again. I’ve never seen such a sexy furrow. “You don’t think he would help you?”

“He’s made it very clear he won’t help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because he thinks I should be done playing make-believe and come home to work for the family like my brother and sister.” Before my dad married my mother he had another, shorter marriage that lasted only a few years. Long enough to give me two older siblings who lived mostly with their mother apart from summer holidays until they were old enough to be involved in the pharmaceutical company.