Less than a minute later Bancroft is carrying me through a parking lot. It’s dodgy, as is the rest of this neighborhood, but the lot has an attendant. He stares at us as we pass by. Bancroft lifts his hand in a wave and I just roll my eyes.

I’m a little disturbed by the fact that not one person we’ve passed has asked if I’m okay. Just because Bancroft is hot and well-dressed doesn’t mean he’s not kidnapping me. I suppose if I was putting up more of a fight it might help.

He sets me down beside his truck. It beeps and the lights flash, he reaches around me to open the door. I’m facing him so it hits me in the butt.

I cross my arms over my chest. “That was completely unnecessary.”

“I disagree. Would you like to get in the truck now, Ruby?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Bancroft gives me a tight smile.

“Will you please get in before a group of thugs swarm us and tries to steal you?”

“No one is going to steal me.”

He steps in rather close. “If I was a thug, I would steal you.”

Well now, that’s a little disconcerting. “Why would anyone want to steal me?”

“Will you please just get in the truck?”

I hate it when people answer questions with more questions. Evasiveness is annoying. As if I have a right to complain about evasiveness. “Well, if you’d give me some space maybe I could.”

He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me up tight against him. I huff and then maybe I gasp just a little. I swear I can feel hardness against my stomach, and it’s not his belt.

He sets me down quickly though, takes my bag and holds the door open, waiting until I’m in before he closes it—harder than necessary.

His jaw is working and his brow is furrowed as he rounds the hood. He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine without saying a word. I’m so irritated right now. He pulls onto the street. Still silent. I’m the first to break. “You have no right to judge me.”

“I’m not judging you.”

I scoff.

He comes to a stop at a red light. The tension is so thick it’s like wading through Jell-O. He turns his head slowly so he’s looking at me. I glare back. “Why would I judge you?”

“Oh come on, Bancroft. Look at me.” I shrug out of my cardigan and gesture to my outfit. My skimpy, gauzy outfit. I’ve never actually felt sexier than I do when I’m dancing in this, but that’s beside the point.

“Oh, I’m looking.” The light turns green and he shifts into gear. I never learned how to drive stick—not the car kind anyway.

I huff and fume some more.

“You want to know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me regardless of what I say.”

“You’re the one who’s judging you.”

I bite the inside of my lip, trying to come up with some kind of sassy, snappy retort. But I don’t have one. Because he’s right. I am judging myself. I’m so worried about what the other people in my life are going to think about this temporary career move—which would be viewed as a complete and utter downgrade from what I’ve been attempting to accomplish in the theater industry—that I’ve labeled myself a failure, and I’m expecting everyone else to do the same. Even though it’s actually quite far from the truth.

“Of course I’m judging myself. This isn’t the direction I thought my career would go. But that doesn’t explain why you’re so angry with me.”

“You want to know why?” Bancroft sounds incredulous.

I throw my hands up in the air. It’s dramatic. “Yes. Why?”

“You lied to me.”

“I stretched the truth.”

Bancroft expels a long, slow breath. He’s gripping the steering wheel tightly. “That is a far cry from dinner theater, Ruby.”

“What did you want me to say? I got a job dancing half naked on a stage in a burlesque-style show?”

“Yes, Ruby. That’s exactly what I want. The truth.”

“I don’t see why it matters so much to you. I’m just your pet sitter.”

Bancroft’s jaw tics. I’m pretty sure I can hear his teeth grinding. He mutters something under his breath.

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Is that what you really think? That’s you’re just my pet sitter?”

“Aren’t I?” My stomach is churning. This is a dangerous conversation to have. I know I’m not just his pet sitter. That this thing between has turned into something else, but I’m so hung up on my fear of being financially dependent on him that I’ve ignored the real issue. I’m already emotionally dependent on him, which may be even worse.

He skirts the question with more of his own. “You live in my house. I gave you access to all of my things, codes, personal information. I put trust in you and you broke it. And why? Because you think I won’t approve of your choice of employment?”

“Well do you? Approve?”

“If you’re my pet sitter why would my approval matter?” He fires back.

“Stop answering questions with more questions,” I shout.

He licks his lips, eyes fixed firmly on the road. “I don’t like the neighborhood you’re working in. I don’t like that you have to take the subway home at the end of the night.”

I keep my eyes on the dash. “Sometimes I Uber when it’s really late.”

“Does someone walk out with you every night? Do they make sure you’re safe? Or are you on your own?” His tone is hard, angry.

I’m evasive with my answer. “It’s not that bad of a neighborhood . . .”

“It’s not a great one either.” His jaw tics with his frustration.

“My last apartment wasn’t exactly in an upscale neighborhood either, and no one ever tried to abduct me.”

He motions to my outfit. “Were you dressed like this?”

“Usually I change before I leave. Tonight’s an exception.”

Bancroft makes a right and pulls into the underground lot. I’ve never been down here before since the only other time I’ve been in his vehicle was when we moved me into his apartment. I hope this isn’t some kind of omen.

He stops at the valet, but tells the attendant he’ll park himself and backs skillfully into a spot. He lets me get out of the car on my own. “Not going to throw me over your shoulder this time?”