2. The Sliding Scale of Hotness
THE SLIDING SCALE OF HOTNESS
Asher
And here I thought engagement parties were dull.
This one might have been, in spite of the fact that I’m throwing it. My opinion of marriage rituals is ambivalent at best. But here comes the bride’s brother slinking through the door, looking like a kid who’s just been caught putting a snake in the teacher’s desk. A venomous one.
So this party just got a whole lot more interesting.
Ever since meeting Mark several months ago, I haven’t known what to think about the buttoned-up banker with the midnight blue eyes.
He’s always struck me as mild-mannered and carefully inoffensive.
Like a striped tie, or a white dress shirt.
I’m sure he owns both. In multiples. If he has a car, I bet it’s silver.
He works at a Wall Street bank, for fuck’s sake, doing something with math or spreadsheets. “He’s in derivatives,” Flip once said, and I’d shuddered because the word made me think of failing out of calculus class in college.
Sometimes, though, if you get a few drinks in a guy, the truth comes out.
That’s what happened last night, I suspect.
A little after midnight, when Flip and I were out on the balcony of his apartment, smoking a couple of Cubans I scored off a client, both our phones started pinging with drunk texts from the mild-mannered banker.
I should probably feel guilty for reading them.
It was immediately obvious to both of us that Mark had only meant to text his sister.
The four-way group text had begun only yesterday, as a quick way for me to plan this spontaneous engagement party, and Hannah was the last one to weigh in with an exclamation-laden ( I can't wait for the party! !!) reply.
But did Flip and I stop reading? Not on your life. That text thread was a box of delights.
In the first place, I was fascinated to learn that Mark opposes his sister’s wedding. Most men would be over the moon to welcome Phillipe “Flip” Dubois III to the family. My friend is both loaded and head-over-heels for Hannah. He’s a good man, and she’ll never want for anything.
He owns a full-floor condo on Park Avenue, a Mercedes E-Class, and has a membership at Maidstone. Material wealth aside, I’m here to tell anyone who asks that he cried actual tears of joy when she told him she was pregnant.
But all that’s not good enough for our boy Mark, I guess. He wrote—in shouty caps, no less—that the marriage was DOOMED LIKE THE TITANIC. I’M AFRAID FOR YOU ON THAT FLOATING DOOR .
Now that’s just dark. Besides, it’s not even a good metaphor. Everyone knows there was plenty of room for Leo on that thing. The MythBusters even proved it.
The whole ugly blowup was, however, entertaining. The next five minutes will not disappoint, either, since our buttoned-up Wall Streeter now wears the abashed look of a man who’s about to do the right thing and apologize to his sister and her fiancé.
I should probably walk away and give them some privacy. But I think I won’t.
“Hannah Banana,” Mark says in a rough voice as he approaches. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.”
His sister grabs him into a hug. “Yes, you did, Marky Mark. You meant every last excruciating thing, including the mullet comparison. And I forgive you anyway.”
“Thank you.” He groans, sounding relieved. “I just don’t handle change all that well.”
“Gosh, you think?” she asks. “I know we just sprung this on you. The baby. The wedding.”
He grunts in acknowledgment as he hugs his sister. “How can I ever make it up to you?”
She pulls out of that tight hug and looks up at her brother. “Hold that thought. Because I do have a favor to ask a little later.”
“Anything. Whatever you need. But I do need to apologize to your fiancé,” he says.
“Good. I’d appreciate that,” she says, patting his arm.
Mark obviously left the rep ties at home tonight in favor of a dress shirt in a deep blue color that makes his eyes pop.
I’m such a sucker for eyes. And he’s wearing a very sharp pair of glasses that accentuate instead of hide them.
His glossy dark hair is cut in an attractive style that works with the whole boss man look he’s got going on.
Fine. If I’m being objective, he looks good tonight. Hot, even. I’ve always thought so.
But he’s still a stuck-up banker who doesn’t like my BFF. And now he’s got to grovel for Flip anyway.
This should be fun.
Slowly, Mark turns toward my friend, his expression chastened. “Flip, man, I’m sorry. There was no excuse for the lack of faith I showed last night.”
“Damn right,” Flip says, posting an arm around Hannah and lifting his strong, waspy chin in defiance. “I’ve never given you a single reason to doubt my good intentions toward your sister.”
God, where is the popcorn when you need it? Mark’s jaw is flexing. I can practically hear the arguments forming in his brain—most of which center around my friend’s inability to use a condom correctly.
Flip and Hannah didn’t mean to get pregnant three months after they met. It’s all good, though, because by the time that plus sign showed up on the pregnancy test several weeks ago, they were already planning a future together.
“I’m sorry,” Mark says again, even if his teeth are practically clenched. “It’s just been sudden. I worry.”
Flip rubs Hannah’s shoulder. “I know it seems fast, but we’re very happy. And we chose that wedding date next month partly for your sake.”
Apparently Mark’s high-pressure job makes it hard for him to get away, but he’s free for the second half of June. “Thank you,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be honored to attend.”
His sister grins. “Go get a beer, Mark. Just stay away from the whiskey.”
“Good idea,” he says. “Thank you.”
Mark turns and reverses course toward the bar in the corner. I’m about to follow him when the waitstaff begins carrying in an array of sushi rolls arranged on wooden boats, and also thinly sliced bites of ahi and hamachi served on elegant little dishes.
As a party planner, I’ve outdone myself.
“Mister St. James?” the manager says, touching my elbow. “Please let me know if you need anything at all.”
I survey the generous spread of food and my stomach rumbles. “This looks terrific. I really appreciate the way you arranged this so quickly for me.” Everything came together in a flurry, Hannah announced her pregnancy a few weeks ago, and last weekend, Flip proposed. Now, here we are.
“My pleasure, sir.” The man gives a slight bow, and I return it, as I learned to do on an extended trip to Japan a few years ago. “If you need anything more, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Pleased with both him and myself, I turn back to the party and take a plate off the top of the stack. Then I hand it to Hannah. “The bride-to-be should start, right? If that’s not a tradition, it should be. Step right up, Hannah. All this sushi isn’t going to eat itself.”
Then I move out of the way so that my guests can have first dibs on the spread. My drink is empty, though, so I head for the bar and another Asahi Super Dry.
That’s where I find Mark, elbow on the bar, drinking . . . “Is that orange juice, Banks? How’s your hangover?”
“I’ll live,” he says. “But I suspect drinking tonight is probably not in my best interests.”
“I have to agree with you there,” I say with a chuckle. “Unless you really enjoy apologizing. I know I enjoyed watching you apologize.”
He gives me a dark look, but doesn’t bother to respond. Understandable. That comment was more for my amusement. Which, let’s be honest, a lot of things I do are.
But there was one I’m so sorry I definitely wanted a front seat to. I clear my throat. “I noticed I didn’t get one.”
“An apology?” Mark snorts, furrowing his brow. “Unless you’re going to the chapel after knocking up my sister, I don’t think I insulted you.”
A laugh bursts from my chest. “Something no one will accuse me of. Ever.”
“Then we’re all good,” he says.
I give an easy shrug. “Sure, sure. I guess I don’t require one.
After all, you did say I was hot. Nothing to be sorry for there.
You’re absolutely right.” Then I flash him a grin.
A damn good one, and I know how to give them.
Though, as a rule, I don’t flirt with straight men.
Waste of time, right? But why did Mark say I was hot? Where did that come from?
But the loose-lipped texter is hard to read. He’s shooting me an I-can’t-be-bothered look. Damn. Mark Banks must kill it at poker. He has some impressive bluffing skills. “That was just the whiskey talking,” he says evenly.
I scoff-laugh. “Right. Of course. Whiskey often goes on and on about levels of hotness.”
“Like I said, you can’t trust the words of a single-malt scotch,” he says.
Hmm.
So that’s how he’s spinning this. Well, two can play that game. “You may be right. It is hard to trust the liquor, so I better refresh my memory to make sure I got it all correct.” I stop, grab my phone from my pocket, and whip it out, sliding a thumb across the screen.
Mark cuts in quickly. “There’s no need for that.”
Ha. Now I’ve rattled him. I clear my throat, and read aloud my new favorite text message ever. “ Also, what is the deal with your friend with the hair ?”
I glance up from the phone, tilt my head. “You noticed my hair. So sweet,” I say, giving a shake of the locks.
“It’s impossible not to. It enters the room before you do.”
“Allow me to continue. Why is it so floopy . . . wait . . . floppy . . . nope . . . it’s floofy. His hair is floofy.” I look up. “Is floofy even a word?”
He answers my question head-on. “Yes. It’s a combo of poofy and fluffy.”
Well, he’s a worthier adversary than I expected. All the more reason to keep going. “My hair is not poofy, Banks. It’s shaggy. But we’re not even at the best part of your epic rant.” I inhale deeply, savoring what’s to come. The piece de resistance.
He knocks back his orange juice, and kudos to the man. He’s taking the text message reenactment like, well, like a champ.
I brandish my phone, savoring every single second.
“ Anyway, whose hair looks like a shampoo commercial? Who takes off his shirt at a dinner party? Who has a body that annoyingly perfect? He’s not even real.
He’s like a fucking comic book hero in those graphic novels I used to read.
Here he comes . . . FLIP’S SUPERHOT . . .
WINGMAN! 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 .”
There’s more, but really, I need to bask a little longer in the glow of compliments. I tap my lip. “You’re right, Banks. I do not at all require an apology for this ode to me. In fact, I ought to give you a thanks,” I say, bringing a hand to my heart. “This made my week.”
“You’re welcome,” he snarls.
I should let him off the hook now, and circulate a bit here at the party.
Yet I can’t just drop it. Everything I thought I knew about Mark Banks is suddenly in question. Is he the fun-phobic banker I thought I knew? Who is this guy who invents words to describe my hair, and has deep thoughts about my abs?
I’m pretty sure straight guys don’t refer to other dudes as superhot.
Which makes me wonder if he’s not as straight as I thought.
Maybe I can get him to clarify. I tap my phone one more time. “I do have one last question about this description— superhot wingman. That must mean there are levels of hotness. So, Banks. Tell me. Where does the scale start?”
This is when he’ll back down. Talk in circles. Run away. I’d be willing to bet my sexy new Nikon on it.
Mark takes a breath, meets my gaze head-on. “Yeah, St. James. There are definitely hotness scales for, well, lots of things. Starts at basic hot. And, to be honest, lots of things are basic hot. Like, for instance, when someone can do square roots in his or her head, that’s basic hot .”
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?”