I wait until she slips into my bedroom before I open the door, accept the takeout, provide a generous tip, and lock up. If I’m being honest, I’m a little nervous about leaving Francesca. Especially since ferrets are illegal in New York, which is part of the reason I ended up with her in the first place. Someone brought her to one of my father’s hotels without fully understanding the implications. Or maybe they had, since they’d smuggled her in. She was improperly caged, so she got loose, chewed through wiring, caused all kinds of damage, and disappeared into a vent. Her owners just left her. She’s lucky she’s alive.
My father’s plan was to give her to Animal Control, which probably would have terminated her. I told him I’d take care of it. And I did. Just not the way he expected me to.
Within twenty-four hours I’d had a cage delivered to the condo and I’d set up a habitat for her. The few people who have access to my condo are aware of the delicate situation and are compensated for their silence. It sounds far more mafia than it is.
When I took her in as a refugee I hadn’t expected to be traveling. I’ve been fighting my dad on this trip for weeks now, but there’s no getting out of it. I know how he works. If I have a hope in hell of getting what I want in the future, I have to give him what he wants now, which is weeks of travel and research so I can learn the company ropes and be another cog in his machine.
I unpack all the containers. It’s the best Italian takeout in this city as far as I’m concerned. Their pizza is also amazing, but I thought it was safe to order something I knew Ruby would like, hence the pasta primavera.
I pull a bottle of white from my wine fridge and a bottle of red as well, in case she prefers one over the other. She mentioned liking martinis, but I’m not adept at making those, so wine will have to do. I’m also not sure how fully she’s recovered from her illness. I know it took me more than a week to recover.
I debate whether I want to set the table, or the island. The table is a bit too formal, I think. Casual is better. I pour sparkling water and set places for both of us. Then I wait for her to return. For some reason I’m nervous. As if this were a date, not two people reviewing pet care instructions.
A giggle filters down the hall. A very pretty, feminine giggle. I follow the sound, which gets louder the closer I get to my bedroom. What the hell is she doing in there? A million and one highly inappropriate scenarios blow through my mind.
I push the door open and what I find isn’t really all that far from what I was imagining. Just with more clothing. Not much more, though, considering Ruby’s outfit.
My suits have been moved from my bed to the dresser and my suitcase lies open on the floor. She’s in the middle of my bed—my unmade bed—on her knees. Her shorts have ridden up, one side higher than the other, exposing some cheek. A lump moves around under the sheet and she follows it around, giggling every time Francesca bolts in a new direction. It’s a game I play with her sometimes. It’s a game I’d like to play with Ruby. Naked.
“Dinner’s ready.” My voice comes out a little gravelly.
Ruby’s head snaps around mid-giggle. “She loves playing under—”
I wonder what my expression must be for the words to die on her tongue like that.
“The sheets.” I finish for her, my voice still too low. “I know.”
She looks around and then down, maybe realizing where she is. Her eyes go comically wide and she pulls the sheet back, scooping up Francesca and scrambling off the bed. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t—” She gestures to my bed. “I didn’t mean to. I put her down so I could manage the cage latch and then we started playing.”
I let her ramble for a couple more seconds before I crack a smile. “It’s fine. You’re good. It’s one of her favorite places to hide.”
“Well it’s such a big bed, and there’s so much room to play.”
I’m not sure if she means it the way my brain interprets it. Ruby carries Francesca over to the cage, her shorts still riding high on one side. Half of her left ass cheek is on display. It’s a very nice ass cheek. I’d like to get my hands on it or sink my teeth into it. I really need to get a handle on myself. And I plan to. Later. When I’m alone in this room and she’s locked away in hers.
I follow Ruby to the cage and watch as she latches it to make sure it’s done properly. There have been a couple of occasions in which I’ve mistakenly thought I’d locked it, but hadn’t. Francesca likes warm, cozy places. Something else she and my dick have in common. The difference being, if she escapes from her cage, she’s likely to find a hiding place I can’t easily retrieve her from.
“There we go,” Ruby says softly as she lowers Francesca into the cage. “Do you ever let her sleep with you?”
“Not typically. Sometimes she’s hard to find in the morning, and I can’t have her roaming while I’m at work.” She’s ended up under the covers with me in the middle of the night because I’ve fallen asleep while watching TV. She has a few choice places she likes to sleep, and since I’m not a big fan of boxers, it was a bit of a shock the first time it happened. Since then, I’ve taken to wearing boxers if I let her sleep with me since she seems to have a bit of a fascination with things that dangle.
“I imagine that wouldn’t be very good.”
“It’s okay because of the ferret-proofing I’ve done, but I still don’t want to invite mischief if it’s unnecessary.”
“No one likes mischief.” Ruby gives me a wide smile that says exactly the opposite. “I’m starving. Let’s see if I can keep food down!”
And off she goes, practically dancing her way down the hall. She doesn’t wait for me to make it back to the kitchen—I check the latch one more time, just to be safe. When I get there, all the containers are open and she already has a fork in one. She twirls it, gathering noodles. It’s a massive amount. She tips her head back, opens wide, and shoves the entire thing in her mouth, making sounds that I would definitely not isolate to food enjoyment.
She groans and turns to me, puts her hand up in front of her mouth, and says, “Dis ib so gub.”
“So you like it then?” I grab a fork and load up a plate, handing her one so she doesn’t feel compelled to eat out of the box.
She takes it, her cheeks coloring pink as she continues to chew the huge mouthful. She loads her plate. I’m surprised by the amount of food she piles on, considering her size, but I don’t say anything. I like a woman with a healthy appetite.
Once we’re loaded up with food she slides into the chair beside me.
“Wine?” I gesture to the open bottles on the counter.
“Oh. Uh, white, maybe?” She looks uncertain.
“Don’t feel obligated.”
“I don’t.” When I raise a brow, she brings her fingers up, Girl Scout style. “Promise. No obligations. I just haven’t had any alcohol since I became the Vomitron last week.”
“Vomitron?”
“It’s my superhero name. Not very badass, but rather fitting, all things considered.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, so I could probably plow through two or three entrees no problem, but I try to scale it back so I don’t come across as uncivilized.