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)
I blink. What the hell? He’s talking math now?
Mark continues, counting off on his fingers. “Superhot comes next. That’s, like, knowing all the openings in chess, and their variations.” He lets out a low hum that kind of rumbles past his lips, like he thinks that’s the height of seduction.
I scratch my jaw, trying to figure out where he’s going with this.
“Then you have extra hot,” he continues, all smooth talker like he’s the slick trader in a movie featuring a bunch of sharks on Wall Street. Or wait, is it wolves? “And that’s understanding probabilities. Example⏤in any group of twenty-three people, there’s a fifty percent chance that two of them have the same birthday.” He taps his temple.
My brow knits. I part my lips, but words are hard to find. Because I think he just danced a whole math-word circle around me. I tap my chest. “Did you just compare me to a mathematician?”
He pushes his glasses higher up on his nose. “Stay with me, St. James. I said superhot was the person who could play chess. Extra hot is higher math. That’s the highest level of hotness.”
“I’m not even at the top of your hot scale?”
“It’s a sliding scale,” he says, lifting his juice and finishing it. “Anyway, like I said, lots of things are hot. A double play to get out of a bases-loaded jam, buying Apple stock in 1991, a chocolate molten lava cake with vanilla ice cream. Doing math for fun. I could go on. My remarks mean nothing, because many, many things are hot, and you just shouldn't trust whiskey.”
Holy fuck.
Mark Banks, mild-mannered banker, just twisted my tongue with his hotness sliding scale of mental math. Even if he backpedaled his way out of that jam. Even if he did it with a whole lot of smoke and mirrors.
He did it.
And that’s just hot, hot, hot.
The highest level on the Asher St. James scale.
But he’s still the guy who doesn’t like my bud.
And he still dresses like my dad.
So I’m not about to bend, even if he won’t admit he wants to run his fingers through my so-not-floofy hair.
At least, I thought he did.
But now, I’m not so positive after all.
Dammit.
So that fishing expedition gave me nothing.
And yet, I toss out the bait one more time, swiping up on the thread. “But there is one thing that I keep tripping on.” I clear my throat, adopt his sexy, rumbly voice. “Asher, with his stupid hair and stupid lips and ridiculous body. Who even looks that good in real life, Hannah? No one. Just no one.”
I lift my gaze from the screen. Mark simply stares at me with those dark blue inscrutable eyes. “Yes, Asher?”
If there’s something wrong with my mouth⏤and no one has ever complained about it before⏤I have to know. “How are my lips stupid?”
3
DOUBLE SCREWED
MARK
Because they make me think about things I don’t have room for in my life. Like this inconvenient attraction to my sister’s fiancé’s best friend, who relishes goading me.
But I can goad back. I didn’t get my promotion to VP by having zero game.
I know how to negotiate, and I’ve got a plan to shut this conversation down once and for all, then stuff this lust in a suitcase and tuck it away in an attic.
And never unzip it again.
“Let’s make a deal, St. James,” I offer.
“Okay,” he says, tentatively.
“How about we forget I ever said that, and in exchange, I’ll help you make sure you didn’t ruin Hannah’s night?”
He jerks his gaze away from me, gesturing to the guests milling about behind us. “I’m celebrating their engagement with a great party. On twenty-four hours’ notice, no less. How would I have ruined her night? She loves sushi. Also, I might add, when I learned she was pregnant, I threw a party. You threw a fit.”
Time to put him in his place and help Hannah.
I cast my gaze toward the server passing by, carrying a tray full of yellowtail rolls on the gleaming silver plate. “But sushi,” I whisper. “Especially species of fish high in mercury . . . is on the verboten list for pregnant women.”
“Wait.” Asher’s jaw comes unhinged, and for the first time ever, the cocky cavalier playboy is off his game. “Did I . . . really just throw an engagement party where the bride can’t eat any of the food?”
“Seems you did,” I say. “And I figured you knew and would have ordered some cooked fish or edamame. Or I would have said something sooner.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Asher says, then jumps off the stool, waves over the manager, and quickly gives a request. “Big favor, Hiroki, but we’ve got to pivot and serve something cooked right away. Some of my guests are staying away from raw fish.”
“Of course. We’ll get some avocado rolls, shrimp tempura, and edamame out right away,” the man replies, then heads off to the kitchen, and just like that, Asher St. James saves the day.