Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Whoa!” I say, holding up my hands to stop him. “Are you sending that to Hannah?”
“Of course,” he clips.
“Well don’t just plop it down there and expect her to approve. Allow me.” I pick up the stem, where the thorns have already been carefully removed. And I hold it close to my face. “Take the picture now. She’ll be able to see the scale and the hue this way.”
“Good idea,” he says, aiming the camera at me.
At the last second, I pull an underwear model face, a come hither look, tongue caught between my teeth. Like Jamie Dornan for Calvin Klein.
Click.
I expect him to roll his eyes. And maybe he attempts it.
But mostly he scowls. Hard. Then he swallows roughly.
It’s fascinating.
Suddenly, it’s me who doesn’t know where to look. I can’t look at Mark, because I don’t want him to know how much this blows my mind.
Maybe the guest house is too small. At least we have separate bedrooms.
Mark’s phone chimes with a text. “The peach will do,” he says.
“Thank goodness,” the florist says, clapping his hands together. “We’re going to make everything beautiful, Mister Banks. You don’t have to worry at all. We’ll see you Saturday morning, right on time.”
“Excellent,” my companion snaps. “We’re counting on it.”
The florist looks a little terrified. So, after Mark turns to walk away, I linger there beside the counter for a moment. “Thanks for making Hannah and Flip’s arrangements. I’m sure they’re going to be amazing.”
He beams. “You’re welcome. It’s our pleasure.”
Now that he’s smiling again, I follow the other best man out to the car.
He’s waiting in the driver’s seat, that sneaky fucker.
This time, I just hand over the keys.
11
PROVEN BONER KILLERS
MARK
Pools are proven boner killers.
Studies show that not only is shrinkage real, but that cold water is the number one source of it.
So in the scheme of things, a dip in the pool is a good idea this evening. Especially since Asher’s not around right now.
I dive in and cut through the cool water, swimming to the shallow end, then turning around. Exercise always settles me, and after a full day vibrating at maximum do-not-ogle-your-travel-companion levels, I need a release. We’ve hit all the necessary errands: the florist, a visit to the valet company, and a chat with the manager of the string quartet. Plus, Asher called the DJ to set up a meeting for tomorrow.
I swim laps for thirty minutes as the sun slopes toward the other side of the sea. Once I feel like I can survive another day with the man who makes me hot, bothered, and thoroughly annoyed, I climb up the steps at the shallow end, head toward the iron table where I left my glasses, and put them back on.
When I turn around, I’m grateful for the scientists who proved the power of pool water since Asher has appeared, looking all sleep-tousled and sexy with his messy hair.
But it’s not the hair that has me grabbing my towel and wrapping it around my waist, stat. It’s his bare chest on display since he wears only shorts.
Do you even own a shirt, I want to ask. But that’s just gonna unlock a conversation that’ll crank me back up to sixty-nine on a scale of one-to-ten.
With a yawn that tells me he just got up from a nap, he flaps a hand in my direction. “You don’t wear prescription goggles when you swim?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Can you still see?”
Weird question. “I can see well enough. Why? Were you doing a shadow puppet show that you thought I missed?” I sit at the table.
“No. But I’ll add that to the evening entertainment schedule. I was just curious what your vision is,” he says, flopping onto a lounge chair a few feet away, pinning me with his gaze once again. “I’m curious about a lot of things.”
Dude. Join the club.
But I don’t think we have the same curiosities, nor are we operating at the same levels. Asher St. James is at an all-star level in the bedroom, I suspect, and I’m trying to get a job as a bat boy.
“It’s twenty eighty. And eighty is a number that’s only good when it’s your ROI.”
“Or the number of goals a great striker racks up over two years,” he quips.
“You had sixty-two goals in six years,” I say, before I think the better of it. Shit. He’s obviously going to know I’m into him now.
His eyebrows rise to the sky. “Impressive, Banks. Very impressive. I was a good striker. But not great.” He sits up straighter. “You looked me up?”
Pretty sure all the crimson in Miami is visiting my face right now, but I’ve got to play this cool somehow. I shrug, adopt my best casual tone. “Yes, because that’s the kind of guy I am. I do my homework, St. James. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”