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 already know it isn’t me.
The Downton Club is a four-story limestone row house between Madison and Fifth. It has an intricately carved oak door with only a tiny brass sign beside it. You’d never know it was here if you didn’t know it was here.
Rich people. They’re seriously weird.
I trudge up the limestone staircase and open the door, feeling like a peasant. Inside the marble foyer, a host greets me. “May I help you, sir?”
Holy crap. He’s wearing a full livery suit and sports a handlebar mustache. I’ve stumbled onto a doppelgänger from the set of An Arranged Marriage. And he could easily be cast as an extra.
“I’m here for the Flip Dubois birthday party. The name is Mark Banks.”
“Of course.” He consults a list on a clipboard. Then he makes a check mark next to my name. “The party is straight through, sir. Enjoy your time with us.”
“I sure will,” I lie.
As I pass through a carved doorway and head towards the party noises in the rear of this place, I realize that Flip’s party is a big affair. As the mansion opens out to reveal a large parlor with French doors leading to a garden, the tacos I ate do the samba in my stomach.
I’m in no shape for a party. I’d rather turn around and go home.
But then I spot him. He’s by the back wall, one hand casually slung on Flip’s shoulder. He’s holding a martini glass in his other hand, and laughing at something Flip just said. His golden face is split into a smile.
And I ache.
When I look away, I spot my sister waving at me. She smiles and beckons me over.
I hold up a finger in the universal sign for just a second. And then I do a one-eighty and locate the open bar. Because this moment requires a beer. Stat.
Later, I won’t remember anything I said to the bartender, or anything he said to me. I’m too full of prickly awareness and tension.
I’m in the same room as Asher St. James. He didn’t even bother to tell me he was coming. Unbelievable.
Then a hand lands on my shoulder.
42
SKYDIVING
ASHER
The moment he enters the room, I realize some things never change.
Like Mark’s fashion.
Like the fact that I don’t give a fuck what he’s wearing.
Or like the way my pulse spikes the second I lay eyes on my glasses-wearing, dark-haired hot nerd.
“There are many ways to have a midlife crisis,” Flip says from his spot next to me as he surveys the scene. “But admit it—this party is so much better than skydiving.”
I can barely focus on what my best friend is saying as we shoot the breeze about birthday celebrations. Still, I force out a laugh. “Maybe for your fortieth, I’ll finally convince you to bungee jump,” I say, but he’ll probably have three or four kids by then, and take fewer risks.
But speaking of risks . . .
My Friday night has just narrowed to the guy heading to the open bar.
It’s been nearly three months. I thought this summer would erase him. I was wrong.
“How about hang gliding?” Flip offers. “Maybe we can do that over the summer. Or better yet, I’ll strap on a BabyBjörn and cheer you on.”
“Sounds great. Excuse me,” I say, distantly, not even meeting his gaze. I’m caught in the lure of my Florida fling.
The man who’s kept me distracted from a continent away.
I am tired of this empty feeling and not having what I desperately want.
I knock back the last of my martini, set the glass down on the tray of a passing waiter, and then weave through the throng of people, my vision narrowed to that dark hair, those confident shoulders, that strong back.
My entire body tingles.
I dart around some old friends, avoiding hellos, and pass another waiter. When I’m a foot away, I lift a hand, powered by instinct only, and set it on Mark’s shoulder.
Contact.
Everything I crave.
But he tenses. Turns into a statue.
“Banks,” I say, my tongue thick.
He unfreezes, turns his gaze to me in slow motion, his eyes drifting up to mine. “St. James.”
We sound like we’re about to duel, and we’re both speechless for too many long beats, then Mark rearranges his features, and tips his chin at me. “Hello.”
His tone is cooler than ice.
“I’ve heard warmer greetings from a Beefeater at Buckingham Palace.”
His brow pinches, but Mark has always been fast with his mouth. “And do you spend a lot of time with them?”
“What?” My head spins. “No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because,” I stammer, and fuck, I should have planned this moment. I had a whole flight to decide what to say and how to say it.
But I’m not a planner. Especially right now, when I feel like my organs barely fit into my body. I meet the gaze of the man who’s been living rent-free in my consciousness for all these weeks. Now he’s standing right in front of me. And it’s like I’m sixteen again and staring at my crush. I don’t know what to say.