“See?” Armstrong flips a set of keys around his finger. “Have a safe trip.”

Amie gives me a quick hug. “Sorry about Armstrong, he doesn’t deal well with this kind of heat. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I ask.

“I don’t know. The move, everything being new.”

“I’m fine. Really.” Maybe a little nervous, but relieved I have a place to live.

“Call me later.”

“Will do.”

Bancroft opens the passenger door for me, as a gentleman would, and I climb in. It smells like him. There’s a massive console in the center and a huge backseat, which is where my luggage is currently stored.

This should be more awkward than it is, but I’m surprisingly comfortable around this man I hardly even know. Apart from how good he is at kissing, his penchant for unusual pets and willingness to take in strangers makes me like him even more.

He climbs in the driver’s side and turns the engine over. Hot air blasts through the vents, cooling quickly.

“I need to stop and get something to drink,” Bancroft says.

“Oh! I have water!” I spread my legs so I can get to my purse on the floor between my feet. I pull one out and hand it to him.

“You’re a goddess.” He twists off the cap and tosses it on the dash. Tipping his head back he opens his lovely, luscious mouth and basically pours the contents of the bottle down his throat in thirty seconds. It’s impressive.

“You want another one?”

“You have more?”

I produce the rest of the six-pack from my purse.

“What else do you have down there between your legs?”

I fight back a cough. “Should I assume you’re asking about the contents of my purse and not what’s in my shorts?”

“You can assume whatever you’d like, but if you’re hiding a water bottle in your shorts, I gotta say, I’d be curious to see how you managed that.”

“Oh my God. You did not just say that!”

He makes a face. “Too far?”

“Ya think?” Although, in truth I wouldn’t mind showing him what’s in my shorts. After I’ve had a shower. Dammit. I need to get a handle on where my head keeps going around this man.

“I’m blaming it on the dehydration.” He huffs a laugh and frees another bottle, twists off the cap and repeats the entire sequence, which I watch, raptly.

“I probably smell like a locker room right now. Can I get you to open the glove box for me?”

I hit the button and it drops open. He reaches over, his fingers brushing my knee as he grabs a stick of deodorant and a balled-up shirt.

Oh man. He’s going to change his shirt. In front of me. In an enclosed space. I wonder if I have enough time to grab my phone and snap a couple of pictures as he pulls the Harvard tee over his head.

Some men have nice faces and great bodies. Other men have great faces and okay bodies. This man has both. On a scale of one to smokin’, he’s on fire. And he has a tattoo. A big one on his right shoulder that travels along his biceps and ends above his elbow. Oh God. That’s so hot.

He’s quick to pull the fresh shirt over his head, covering his inky deviance. He follows with the deodorant, tosses it back in the glove box, and gives me a sheepish grin. “I feel better, I hope I smell a little better now, too.”

“You smelled fine to me. I’m pretty sure that was just an excuse to show me your abs.”

His smile grows a little. “You don’t think I was just trying to be courteous? That maybe I didn’t want to offend your delicate senses?”

“Do you see where I lived?” I motion to the building. It’s old and run down. Not a bad place to live, but definitely not Tribeca. “At least once a week someone set off the fire alarm and the whole building smelled like burned toast. I can endure man sweat.”

“But should you have to? That is the real question.”

He shifts the truck into gear, puts on his signal, and pulls into traffic.

“So, uh, how long have you lived in that apartment?” Bancroft asks. Now that we’re on the way back to his place, with all my things, he seems a little nervous. I wonder if he’s having regrets.

“Five years. I’m not sure I’m going to miss it all that much. Having my own place has been nice, but half of the appliances didn’t work all that well.”

“Right. Gotcha.” He taps the steering wheel. “So how’d you end up living in Harlem?”

“Amie’s parents had already bought a place for her by the time I accepted the placement at Randolph, where I went to college, but it was a one bedroom, so I needed to find my own place. My father was against me coming to the city to begin with so he set a small budget for rent, thinking that I’d go back home when I realized what it cost for an apartment in the city. But I wanted to be here and this was reasonable, plus it was furnished, and it came with no roommates.”

“Not a fan of roommates?” Bancroft asks.

“It’s not that. It’s just . . . living with someone else is tricky, right? We all have routines and quirks. If I was going to live with anyone it would’ve been Amie, so I thought it would be best to live on my own. What about you, ever had a roommate before?”

“Only when we were touring for games and tournaments. I like my space.” He does that finger tapping thing.

“Yeah. Me, too. Well, what little of it I had. At least it was mine, though, right? I could only bitch at myself if there were dishes left in the sink for days.”

“Are you a dishes-in-the-sink-for-days kind of woman?”

“Last week I was.” I don’t tell him I was also that woman the week before, and the month before that. He’s not going to be around to witness my poor housekeeping skills, thankfully.

It takes a little more than half an hour to get to his place in Tribeca. No traffic.

The building he lives in is exclusive and gorgeous. All windows and mirrored glass. With the help of two men who work in the building—who address Bancroft as Mr. Mills—we get all of my belongings into the service elevator. When I attempt to follow my things, Bancroft puts a hand on my shoulder. My nipples react immediately. They’re so slutty when a hot guy is around.

“They’ll bring everything up, we’ll take the other elevator,” he says.