Bancroft’s jaw clenches. I can’t tell whether that’s a good or a bad thing. And I don’t have a chance to find out, because Amie comes around the corner.

“There you are. I was getting worried.” Her eyes dart back and forth between us. “Is everything okay?”

I step back, realizing just how close we are to each other, and smooth the front of my dress, putting on what I hope looks like a natural smile. “Just fine. We were on our way back to the table.”

“I’ll be right there,” Bancroft mutters and turns away, heading for the men’s room. It might be a figment of my imagination, but I swear he shakes out his left leg a little.

“Are you okay? What did he say to you?” Amie whisper hisses in my ear.

“I’m fine. He accused me of kissing him back.”

“He did what?” Amie stops walking, but her arm is linked with mine, so I’m jerked to a halt. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Well first he accused me of kissing him back and then he apologized.”

“I’m glad he apologized.” She looks relieved. “Why would he accuse you of kissing him back though?”

I get busy picking at imaginary lint on my dress.

“Ruby?”

I mutter something unintelligible.

“Did you kiss him back?”

I shrug.

“You didn’t even know who he was!”

“I was caught off guard. He’s a good kisser. And have you seen him? That man could revive a corpse with his hotness.”

“Sometimes you’re very creepy, you know that?” Amie looks over her shoulder and then sighs. “I’m so sorry about this, I didn’t realize Bancroft was the mystery kisser. I’ll figure something out. I won’t let you be homeless.” Her eyes light up, all devious-like.

It makes me nervous, it’s the same expression she used to wear when we were younger and she wanted to do something we could get grounded for.

“Actually, this might be perfect.”

“Perfectly humiliating?” I ask.

“Let me work my magic.”

“Your magic is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Chapter 5: Homes for the Homeless

RUBY

We return to the table. Armstrong looks a little put out that he’s been left alone. I assume it’s because dinner plates don’t act riveted by his engaging conversation.

I sit down and notice my meal is gone. “Did you have my pasta packed up?”

“Packed up?” Armstrong’s nose twitches, as if he’s trying to mask his disgust. I’m sure leftovers are only for the dog in his house. And the dog would be hypoallergenic and never bark.

“To take home?” I have to work hard to speak normally, and not like I’m addressing a toddler.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I hardly touched it.”

“I thought that was because you didn’t enjoy it.” He gives me a strained smile, his gaze moving from me to Amie, as if he’s uncertain whether he’s done something wrong or not.

“It’s not a big deal.” I smooth my napkin across my lap so I have somewhere to focus. This night is turning to crap. Not only is what little I’ve eaten not sitting all that well, now I can’t even enjoy the leftovers when my stomach finally settles. And the only things in my fridge are lemons and maybe some salad dressing and random condiments. If I wasn’t already highly embarrassed, I might want to cry.

“Why don’t we order dessert?” Amie suggests.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Armstrong asks.

If he’s implying that Amie needs to watch what she eats he needs a slap across the face, or maybe a punch, with brass knuckles, below the belt. Amie is stunning, with a fabulous body that she maintains with regular visits to the gym. Unlike me. I rely solely on my unfortunate dietary restrictions to maintain my current supermodel like figure. Which isn’t really all that supermodel-y, but my clothes have been a little bit looser lately.

“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m really looking forward to checking out their dessert selection.” Bancroft slides smoothly into the chair across from me.

Maybe they have sorbet or something that would be easy on my testy stomach.

When the waitress comes back, Amie orders some elaborate chocolate lava dessert, even though Armstrong makes comments about it not being gluten-free. She also orders a latte, but makes it nonfat. Bancroft orders apple pie with ice cream and a boozy cinnamon coffee and I opt for mint tea and watermelon gelato, because it seems like I might actually be able to eat it without irritating my sensitive tummy. Armstrong orders espresso. Black. No sugar. Of course.

“So Bancroft, you fly out this weekend, right?” Amie asks.

Here we go. I can tell by her expression that she’s planning her attack. Armstrong hasn’t been with her long enough yet to fully appreciate her mischievous and devious side.

“I do. You’re still okay to come by and take care of Francesca and Tiny while I’m gone?”

“I just have to feed them, right?”

“And change Francesca’s litter a couple of times a week,” Bancroft says.

Amie makes a face, like the idea of changing litter is a repulsive task. She grew up with a dog, but I don’t thinks she was responsible for taking care of his lawn deposits.

“Oh. Okay. I guess I can do that.”

“I have a list of instructions that should help make it easy for you.” He adjusts his tie, looking a little nervous. I’m assuming it’s directly related to her look of distaste. “I’m sorry I’m asking you to do this but I can’t really use a professional pet sitting service. I don’t have time to fully vet one and I just need someone I can trust.”

It made sense, even though Amie’s experience with pets has been fairly limited. Their family poodle, Queenie, was as high strung as her mother. Caring for Queenie consisted of the occasional pet and maybe a walk once in a while. That dog probably got more attention from me than her entire family combined. It’s not Amie’s fault. Her mother wouldn’t let her near the dog because she has allergies, even though Queenie was hypoallergenic as far as dogs go. She didn’t even shed.

“And I just need to stop in a few times a week, right?”