Chapter 6: Movin’ On Up

RUBY

Two days later my belongings are packed into a pitifully small pile of boxes and carted down to the lobby—thank God the elevator is working today—where Armstrong and Bancroft are waiting to load them into the truck.

That’s right. Bancroft drives a truck. It’s so not highbrow at all. It makes him even sexier. And it’s not even a rental, which is practically unheard of in New York. It’s a nice truck, one of those limited edition ones with all the upgrades, but it’s still a truck and very un–trust fund of him. I can understand why he wouldn’t want to get rid of it, however impractical it may be.

What’s also sexy is the way the muscles in his arms flex every time he picks up another one of the boxes and carries it out the door. He’s wearing a Harvard T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The only thing that sort of ruins the sexy a bit are his socks. They’re white and reach his shins. If he could just take them off, or maybe trade them for a pair of ankle socks, then he’d be perfect.

It’s hot, stiflingly so outside, and it’s even worse in my apartment since I don’t have air. Thankfully, there’s not much left in my apartment. I’m assuming Bancroft lives in some swanky place since it’s in Tribeca. With central air.

Bancroft insisted we take all of my things to his place rather than renting a storage unit since I don’t have a lot in the way of worldly possessions. I felt weird about it at first, until he said he has three bedrooms, two of which are rarely used. I also don’t have the money to rent a storage unit, so that settled that argument pretty quickly.

The elevator doors open and Amie comes out toting my luggage, which is filled with the contents of my dresser and my closet. Once upon a time those bags would’ve been full to bursting. Not so much anymore.

“That’s the last of it!” she says brightly. “Why don’t you do one last check and then we can get out of here.”

How she can still be so chipper and perfectly put together after spending the past hour riding up and down in an elevator is beyond me. I appreciate it, though, because I’m looking the part of a wilted flower. This flu bug thing Bancroft gave me is a real hanger-on-er.

“Sure thing.” Once I get up there I go through all the cupboards, checking to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind by accident. I stand in the middle of my tiny apartment, a little sad to be leaving it behind. Even if it isn’t the nicest place, it was mine.

I grab my purse and toss the six-pack of water bottles into it. As I’m about to close the door on this chapter of my life, quite literally, I scan the apartment one last time, taking in the bare mattress with the orange stain in the center where I spilled butternut squash soup last year.

My gaze lands on my lounge chair. The one piece of furniture that didn’t come with this apartment. There’s no way I’m leaving it here. It’s too heavy for me to carry, so I have to slide it across the floor. Then I have to jimmy it through the doorway. I’m sweating by the time I get it down the hall to the elevator. More than I was in the first place, anyway.

I shimmy it in there, hit the lobby button, and drop into the chair, out of breath from the exertion. The doors slide open when I reach the ground floor and I have to maneuver the chair back out.

“Want some help with that?” Bancroft’s deep, baritone comes from behind me.

“I’m good. I’ve got it.” The chair isn’t in the best shape. It’s pretty old. When I recline in it, it lists a little to the right. But it’s mine. So I want to take it with me, even if it should be destined for the dump. The elevator doors try to close on me as I’m dragging it out.

Bancroft chuckles. “Here.” He taps my hip. It feels like a lightning bolt just shot out of his fingertip and zapped me in the vagina. I’m instantly tingly down there. I jump out of the way and he graces me with that damn pretty smile. Then he picks up the entire eight-million-pound chair. “You want this on the sidewalk, or . . .”

I give him a dirty look. “It’s coming with me.”

One eyebrow arches and that grin of his grows wider. “You’re the boss.”

I watch his incredibly toned rear end as he carries it through the open door. I follow him outside. It’s hot and sticky. Like my panties. And the rest of me. Armstrong looks grossed out as Bancroft lifts the chair high enough to clear the tailgate.

“Doesn’t that belong on the curb?” Armstrong motions to my chair. “That thing looks like it has fleas. Are you dropping it off at the dump on the way back to your place?”

“Army,” Amie chastises.

“Amalie, how many times have I told you, I don’t like that nickname in public,” Armstrong snaps.

Amie’s referred to Armstrong by that nickname more than once, but never in his presence. I suppose now I know why.

“I love my chair,” I say defensively.

“Who else has loved that chair?” Armstrong mutters.

“Anything left up there?” Bancroft grabs the hem of his shirt using it to wipe the sweat trickling down his neck. His treasure trail appears first, followed by his navel—it’s an innie—and then he reveals a tight, defined six-pack I would happily lick every inch of, even in his totally disgusting sweaty state right now. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t go that far, but if he jumped in a shower I’d be totally game.

It’d be really great if he just took the shirt off right about now.

“Pardon?” he asks.

Did I say that out loud? I’m pretty sure it was an in-my-head thought. I clear my throat. “That’s everything.” It still comes out a little pitchy and breathless.

“Thank God. This heat is stifling. Amalie, let’s call the car and go home. I need a shower,” Armstrong says.

Amie frowns. “Aren’t we going back to Bancroft’s?”

“You’ve got this from here, right Bane? Besides, we have dinner with my parents tonight.”

“That isn’t for hours, though.”

“But you’ll need the time to get ready,” Armstrong argues.

Amie has never been a primper. She can go from yoga to ballroom ready in less than twenty minutes.

“We’re good. Ruby doesn’t have much stuff. It’ll all fit into the service elevator in one trip,” Bancroft replies.