3. Nothing But A Pair of Blue Briefs
NOTHING BUT A PAIR OF BLUE brIEFS
Mark
My one-eyed cat is perched on the kitchen counter, watching me hide grated cauliflower in the homemade mac and cheese when the buzzer rings. That’ll be Hannah and my daughter.
Most days, the babysitter picks up Rosie from kindergarten and spends a couple hours with her before I return from work. But a few times a month, my sister leaves work early and handles afternoon kid detail. Which means, Hannah spoils her niece rotten before depositing her home again.
After buzzing them in, I quickly cover my masterpiece with enough shredded cheese to disguise the vegetables. Then I wrap it with foil. “Don’t tell her there’s veggies in here, Blackbeard,” I say to the cat.
He looks away.
I shove the dish in the oven to bake when Hannah’s key clicks in the lock.
“Daddy!” my little girl yells a moment later. “What's for dinner?”
“Hey,” I chide as she tears into the kitchen, jacket and backpack still on. “How about a nice hello before you start making demands?” I bend down and scoop her up into my arms. When I kiss her chilly red cheek, she smells suspiciously like chocolate.
“Hello, Daddy. I love you.” And she melts my heart with three little words. She blinks at me with her mother's eyes. “What’s for dinner?”
“Mac and cheese.”
“The good kind? From a box?”
Hannah cracks up in the doorway, still bundled up from the cold January day.
“The good kind from scratch . Are you hungry already?”
“Not really. I had snacks. Yummy snacks!”
My gaze flies to Hannah, who looks like she’s been caught red-handed. “Is that so?”
My sister shrugs, and her smile looks apologetic. “I’d love to stay and chat about the delicious treats we just had at Doctor Insomnia’s, but I have to get ready for a night out on the town.”
“On Wednesday?” I ask, as if it’s illegal to enjoy yourself midweek. Although the concept is foreign to me. I don’t get out much, even for coffee. Becoming a single parent has been a huge adjustment, especially since Rosie’s with me most of the time while Bridget is busy .
Hannah, on the other hand, parties like a rock star these days. Flip—whose real name, it turns out, is Phillipe, pronounced the French way—is constantly whisking her off to Broadway shows. New restaurants. Even the ballet.
I’m starting to think the man really loves her. I mean . . . he sat through a three-hour production of Swan Lake.
If that doesn’t say smitten, what does?
Still, I’m skeptical by nature, especially since all I hear is Flip this and Flip that .
I’ve only seen the man once since the dreaded game night.
A few weeks ago, I suffered politely through a brunch, where I drank a Bellini and tried not to judge Flip for mentioning his family homes in both France and Aspen.
Even if he does love her, he and Hannah are so obviously mismatched. I’ve been bracing myself for the day when she becomes another ex on his social feed. When he decides to move on from my sweet sister to a cold-blooded New York socialite.
Like the day her last boyfriend showed her his true colors.
She’d moved in with Colin after a year of dating, but then learned the jackass had cheated on her.
He’d begged her to stay with him, said it would never happen again, and when she said no way, he tried to hold all her stuff hostage.
So, I went to her place, grabbed her things, and she moved in with Bridget and me for a few weeks till she found her own place.
I don’t want to see her go through that kind of hurt again.
But any day now she'll tell me that she and Flip have broken up, and that she’s heartbroken.
Today, however, is not that day. “Where are you going tonight?” I ask.
“To a benefit at the public library. It's a scavenger hunt! Flip and I love a good scavenger hunt.”
“That sounds magnificent,” I say, wishing I had a social life too. I haven’t had a lot of that recently, thanks to Bridget. But I love all the extra time with my favorite person.
She grins. “Later, Marky Mark. Bye Rosie.”
“Bye Aunt Hannah!” My daughter closes the door on her aunt and then scurries back to the kitchen, dropping her backpack and shedding her jacket right on the floor.
“Rosie! Where do those go?” I remind her. But seriously. “And you’re supposed to put your lunchbox on the kitchen counter, so it doesn't get stinky.”
“Okay, Daddy. I will. But, look!” She pulls something small out of the front pocket of her bag. When she opens her fingers, she shows me a perfect shiny little sphere marked like a black and white soccer ball.
“Is that a marble?” I pick it up and test its smoothness between my fingers. “It's beautiful, Rosie. Is it from that toy store you like?”
“We didn’t go to a store, Daddy. We went to the coffee shop. And Hannah’s friend was there, too. His name is Asher.”
“Asher,” I repeat stupidly as heat flares inconveniently along my skin “Blond guy?” With gorgeous hazel eyes and a face that could stop traffic?
“He bought cookies,” Rosie says with obvious glee.
“Me ’n’ Hannah both had some. And he gave me this marble.
He got it at a meeting for work. We talked about soccer, but he calls it football.
” She takes the marble from my hand and holds it up to the light.
“I told him my daddy has meetings too. But there aren’t any toys at your work.
Except that one time you let me play with the stapler. ”
I hold back a sigh. Even my kid is enamored with Asher St. James. What is that guy’s deal?
“Aunt Hannah says Asher is a photographer." My daughter pronounces the word with great care. “But he used to play sports on TV.”
Well, that just fits him too well.
Rosie tucks the marble into her pocket, and I make a mental note to keep those pants out of the washing machine.
“Can I play with my toys until dinner?” she asks.
“After you put your lunchbox by the sink and hang up your coat,” I insist.
“Okay, Daddy.” My darling child finally does as asked, then she hugs me once more and disappears into her room.
I sit down at the kitchen table and pick up my phone. And then I do something I’ve been trying not to do since game night. I Google Asher St. James.
And I instantly regret it.
The first photo is of him in soccer gear, his thigh muscles popping out over those tall socks the players wear. He’s hoisting some kind of trophy into the air with muscular arms.
But the second photo almost kills me. It’s a photo shoot for Calvin Klein. A younger Asher reclines on a white divan in nothing but a pair of blue briefs and a fashion-week pout.
Goddamn. I want to lick my phone. How can anyone be so good-looking and talented at the same time?
I keep scrolling. There’s an interview with Sports Illustrated , and another one with Out Sports . His Wiki tells me he was a striker on an English Premier League team. He has a degree from a European art school. There are more photos. More accolades. More golden skin. More six-pack abs.
I’m lost down the rabbit hole of his soccer stats when the oven timer suddenly dings, startling me.
I kill the browser window and slap my phone facedown on the table. What the hell am I even doing? Asher is nothing to me. He’s an irritating man I met once. That’s all.
I look up, jerking my head back when I find the cat on the table, staring at me, judging me quietly. “Don’t tell a soul what I was doing,” I hiss.
He swishes his tail. He makes no promises.
But so far, he’s kept all my dirty secrets.
Heaving myself out of my chair, I set down my glasses so they don’t get steamed up, then open the oven and check on our dinner.
This is what I should be doing—parenting—not staring slack-jawed at pictures of one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen.