On Monday I get up at a reasonable hour and make a quick trip to the mini-grocer down the street. I woke with a hankering for s’mores. Not the best in terms of breakfast food, but since I’m burning a lot of energy at my new job, I can afford the sugar consumption.

I’m juggling my purse, and three bags of groceries, while stuffing marshmallows in my face as I walk down the hall. I adore marshmallows in a terribly irrational way. I splurged on the name-brand graham crackers and I have a jar of Nutella waiting to be cracked. My plan is to make microwave s’mores because I’m starving and impatient.

I shove two marshmallows in my mouth while I punch in the code to the condo. As soon as I’m inside, the phone starts ringing. Not my cell, which is stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans, but the real phone attached to the vintage answering machine at the far end of the kitchen.

It’s the first time I’ve heard the thing ring. There are a couple of messages on there, but I haven’t bothered to check as per Bancroft’s instructions. I allow it to ring since it isn’t going to be for me.

After five rings a beep sounds and Bancroft’s deep, masculine, panty-dissolving voice booms through the condo. Okay, maybe not booms, but it sounds like he’s somewhere on the other side of the room.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Bancroft Mills. I’m unable to take your call, but if you leave your name, number, and a message at the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

It’s pretty standard as far as messages go, but I’d listen to it on repeat just to hear his voice. I drop the bags on the counter, apart from the marshmallows, which I keep shoving into my mouth, and walk over to the answering machine. I stare down at the little tape, waiting for it to start whirling. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated. I think it’s sweet that Bancroft misses his grandma enough to keep this ancient thing around. It’s so out of place in his condo, much like my horribly ugly lounger—which I haven’t sat in once since Bancroft left.

I’m disappointed when no one leaves a message. Shrugging I give some attention to Francesca, who’s skittering around her cage. Flipping the latch, I pick her up and give her a snuggle. “Did you have a good snooze, pretty girl?” She makes her little happy noises then jumps out of my arms and bounds across the room to the answering machine, pawing at the leg of the table. I should probably do some organizing over there. I’ve been dumping Bancroft’s mail on the table and the pile is heaping and messy.

“Did you hear Bancroft? I bet you miss him like crazy.”

I go back to my groceries and unload my glorious booty. I locate the graham crackers and tear open the box. Arranging four on a plate, I top each with a marshmallow and put it in the microwave. I hit the start button just as the phone rings again. I pause in my quest for a s’more breakfast to listen to Bancroft’s sexy voice again.

I think he’s supposed to call soon, but I can’t remember exactly what time we agreed upon today. He was wearing a suit with the tie hanging loose when we talked yesterday, speaking words and all I heard in my head was Take off all your clothes, Ruby, and I’ll let you take off mine. I’m pretty sure he made no mention of clothing removal this time, but my imagination has been working overtime since the night I was rolling around in his bed, in a camie and shorts.

The message plays again, and in my mind, I change the words to something more along the lines of:

You’ve reached the voice mail of Bancroft Mills. I’m too busy orally pleasuring the gorgeous woman living in my condo, so don’t bother leaving a message because I won’t be able to get back to you for at least another week, maybe two.

My daydreaming is brought to an abrupt end when a high, nasally female voice cuts in:

“Hi, Banny! It’s Brittany. I know you’re away on business, but since you’ll be back soon I wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking about you while you’ve been gone and I’m really hoping we can go out on another date when you’re back in town.”

“Date?” I scoff. “Like Bancroft wants to date you.” I pick up the jar of Nutella with the intention of throwing it at the machine, but then I consider the vintage-ness of it, and its sentimental value, along with the probability that replacing it will either be expensive or impossible.

Brittany rambles on about how it’s so nice to spend time with someone so grounded and in control of their career and how she really hopes next time he’ll be feeling better so they can find out if their chemistry’s compatible.

“Bancroft is not interested in your chemistry!” I fire a marshmallow at the machine, then another and another. It’s not nearly as satisfying as the Nutella jar would’ve been.

A huge pop startles me and I drop the bag of marshmallows on the floor. “Oh shit!”

The ones in the microwave have exploded like the Stay Puft marshmallow man in Ghostbusters. It appears I set the time for two minutes instead of twenty seconds. I hit end but it’s too late. Marshmallow coats the window of the microwave. That’s going to be one hell of a mess to clean up.

“ . . . Okay. Well, I’ll talk to you soon, Banny. Byeee!”

“His name is Bancroft, you stupid cow,” I grumble.

I give the microwave a few seconds to cool down before I open the door to check the damage. Oh, yeah. It’s marshmallow carnage in there. I swipe a finger across the plate and yelp because it’s burning hot.

As if there isn’t enough going on, my cell rings. Except it’s not a phone call. It’s a video chat. And it’s Bancroft. I don’t know why I don’t let it keep ringing. It’s a lot smarter than what I do, which is answer the call.

“Hey! Hi! Hello!” I’ve covered every possible greeting.

“Hey. Did I catch you at a bad time?” He’s wearing a white dress shirt and a black tie. It’s pulled loose and his hair is a little messy, like he’s run his hand through it recently. He’s yummier than s’mores.

“Oh no. Not a bad time. I’m just making breakfast and having some play time with Francesca.”

“How’s my girl? Where is she? Can I see her?” The my girl part makes me all swoony. I think it’s adorable how much he loves his ferret. And that’s not even a euphemism.

“Of course you can. Hold on and let me get her.” I leave the phone on the counter and call for her. I find her over by the answering machine, nibbling on a marshmallow. “Oh, no, Franny! Those aren’t for you!”