7. First Class Virgin
FIRST CLASS VIRGIN
TUESDAY
Mark
After spending all that time in close quarters with Asher, I have a new theory—that he moonlights as a stripper.
Who the hell is that comfortable showing so much skin?
And another thing.
I’m going to need a whole new approach to dealing with him.
For instance, I know plenty of words that contain more than one syllable. But around Asher and his so-damn-charming ways, I’m reduced to speaking like a caveman.
When we finally escape the close confines of the fitting room, spilling out onto the street at rush hour, I shove the thoughts of his abs, and arms, and V-cut far from my head.
I pluck at my navy-blue shirt. “Just a heads-up. Tomorrow I’ll be wearing another polo.
Call it . . .” I wave a hand airily, like he’d do, “. . . polo number two. So, if you find yourself shirtless again, just let me know, and I’ll pack some extras for you.
” I hook my thumb eastward, and confirm the pickup plan for tomorrow.
“On that note, see you in the morning. Bright and early.”
He studies me for several long seconds. “Bright and early,” he repeats, and the smooth, suave guy sounds a little bit flummoxed, too.
Score one for the nerd.
That night, I do some light bedtime reading on the science of why stuff works, like elastic waistbands in underwear and the bendy metal in a paperclip. Yup, that’s my armor to gird myself against all those errant sex thoughts.
It does the trick, too. It’s like my brain is conducting a clean install, free of Asher St. James.
I’ve got this.
The next morning, I’m no longer a hot, bothered, turned-on mess.
I wake up a new man. While the sky is still dark, I shower—cold, of course—and get dressed for the flight in a gray polo and khaki shorts.
I dry off my hair, hang up the towel, and then head to my bedroom to zip up my suitcase.
The task is complicated by the orange fluff ball in it, staring at me with one eye.
I could have named him Orange Beard, but that’s not a thing.
So Blackbeard it is for my orange cat. “You can’t come with me, dude.
Plus, the belly of a plane is no fun for a mammal,” I say, lugging him out of my carry-on.
He protests with a beleaguered meow, clearly annoyed that I disrupted his travel plans.
“The kitty wants to go to Florida,” Rosie declares from the hall then bounds into the bedroom to scoop up the creature from the floor and pepper him with kisses. “Valencia will take good care of you,” she says, then sets him down.
We head to the tiny kitchen that’s about the size of a broom closet. “Only three more days before I get to go to Florida too,” Rosie says, then yanks open the fridge and grabs a yogurt.
“Lucky you,” I say, as I grab one too, still wishing I didn’t have to head to Miami so early.
But hey, I can do this. My new Zen outlook means I won’t be bedeviled by 6B, or 7C, or 9D, and definitely not sixty-nine.
As Rosie dips a spoon into her yogurt, she says, “Do you know what I like most about yogurt?”
“That it’s not eggs?” I ask drily, lifting one brow.
“Yes! Yolks are so gross, Daddy,” she says, and I offer her a hand to high five.
“That is proof you’re my kid. Forget the numbers stuff. Detesting eggs is evidence of the power of genetics.”
Once we finish, my phone bleats with Bridget’s ringtone. So it begins.
You’ll get through this, Banks. You made it through English lit class, too.
When I answer, Bridget’s weirdly cheerful voice sing-songs, “Hey Mark! I’m here for the little cutie.” As if trading our kid back and forth like a tennis ball is just a super-fun time.
Her upbeat attitude grates on me. Her life is a super-fun time, I guess. She has a new man, Morgan, and a new apartment that’s nicer than the one we shared in this building, before I moved to another unit.
Whenever she shows up, I gird my loins and smile, so I don’t poison our child with my bitter attitude.
“We’ll be downstairs in three minutes, Bridge,” I say, as I check the time. God, I hate saying goodbye to my baby girl. Every single time, it sucks.
I end the call, scratch Blackbeard behind the ears, then grab our bags, and hold Rosie’s hand as we head down two flights of stairs.
Outside it’s a warm June morning on our tree-lined block.
Even though my rent bill here in the Flatiron District makes my eyes bleed despite my decent Wall Street salary, I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the city.
I can walk Rosie to school a few blocks away, and that’s one of my favorite things to do.
With a squeeze of her little hand in mine, I remind her that I’ll call her every night.
“You better! Eight forty-five on the dot. That’ll be thirteen hours and fifty-five minutes from now,” she says.
“Show-off,” I say with a laugh, ruffling her hair as we reach my ex-wife.
Bridget tucks her chestnut strands behind her ears. “Hi Mark. Looks like you’re ready to get a suntan and relax on the beach.”
That’s not what I’ll be doing, but I don’t bother to correct her.
I’m civil to Bridget. I don’t look forward to seeing her, though. Not because I’m heartbroken. I’m not. Our marriage grew lackluster over the last few years. But I did what was expected of me. I got the highest paying job I could find, and I stuck it out.
She didn’t, though. And I’m angry. I’ll always be angry.
Even if we didn’t marry for love, I did love her. We married because it was the right thing to do once she was pregnant. I stayed with her because loyalty matters. You should do what you say you’re going to do.
Like show up on time.
As Bridget takes Rosie’s hand, a sleek black town car pulls over to the curb.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
Before anyone opens the door, I know, I just know, that it’s Asher.
He said he’d grab a Lyft and swing by, but of course he can’t just arrive in a white Nissan from a ride-share app.
He has to do everything with style. My jaw ticks while my pulse spikes.
Because even though it kind of irritates me, I also kind of like the town car.
Story of my life with him.
The back door swings open, and Asher unfolds himself from the car, and . . . fuck me .
He looks so damn good in vacation mode. A tight, cool blue, short-sleeve button-down hugs his arms, and he’s got it tucked into trim shorts. He whips off aviator shades.
Of course.
“Good morning, Mark and you must be Bridget,” he says, introducing himself to my ex, then turning his gaze to my kiddo. “And it’s good to see you again, Rosie the Slugger.”
My daughter beams. “You heard about my double too?”
She sounds utterly enchanted.
Know the feeling, kid .
“I hear you’re a superstar on the softball field, which is all kinds of awesome.” He bends down to her level, his eyes locked on hers. “But have you taken up football yet? Or soccer, as Americans call it? You need to think about soccer, too.”
“I have been thinking about it. I want to try it.”
I motion to Bridget, lower my voice. “He used to play in Europe. Premier League.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding intrigued. “That’s like the major league in Europe.”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” I say, and for a second, I sound a little impressed even to my own ears.
Bridget shoots me a curious look, like how do you know all this? But I don’t share with her.
I know because I do my homework. After I met Asher, I looked him up online. Read his Wiki, checked out his stats from six years as a striker. Fine, I even watched a highlights reel.
Including a short interview with a French TV station after his team won the championship, and his face was shining with sweat, his hair slicked back, his jaw covered in a short beard. He looked elated as he talked to the reporter in French.
No clue what he said, but it sounded hot coming out of his mouth.
“. . . And when you score a goal, it’s the best feeling ever. Bet you like it more than a home run,” Asher tells Rosie, and he’s a magician too, casting a spell on my little girl.
“I bet I do too,” she says, then spins around. “Daddy, can I try soccer?”
Yup. Abracadabra.
“Sure, cupcake,” I tell her, then lift her in my arms, and give her a big hug.
Then, I say goodbye to Bridget, toss my carry-on in the trunk, and slide into the car, onto the cool leather seats.
Asher joins me, the door clicking closed behind us, the partition rolled up. He deals me a sly smile, gesturing to my polo. “Did you bring me one just like that? Please say yes.”
And it’s on. My strategy locked down. “Of course. We can practice our matching looks before Hannah walks down the aisle. Every day, we’ll look like twins.”
There. Twinning is so not sexy.
“Good. Practice is so important,” he says, lingering a little on that word as the car peels away, and it’s just us now.
Maybe if I’m lucky, there will be a chatty, little old lady next to us on the flight. Preferably one who knits and wants to tell me how to make an afghan the whole plane ride down to Florida.
I’d listen to every detail as it’ll take my mind off my traveling companion who speaks French, and looks good when he sweats, and says words like practice in a smoky voice.
When I was a kid, I used to count down the days on the calendar before the trips we took to Cedar Point, the amusement park a couple hours from where Hannah and I grew up in Columbus, Ohio.
I still love checking items off a list, and marking the X, since it’s rewarding. Once we’re past security, we’ve chopped an hour and a half off this trip already so that’s some progress.
Along the way through the terminal, Asher fiddles with his phone more than I’d expect a grown-up to do.
That’s fine. It keeps us from talking.
When we reach the boarding area, there’s no line at our gate. “Perfect. I’m going to see about an upgrade for us,” he says.
I jerk my gaze to him. Is he speaking French again? “What for?”
“Well, you don’t want to fly coach, do you?” He says that like it’s preposterous.
I’ve never flown anything except coach. But it’s not like I want to say, hey I’m a first-class virgin .
“You don’t have to spring for first class.
I’m fine,” I say, assuring him, since I’m not flashy.
I don’t need extras. I also have literally no clue what I’m supposed to say to a guy who wants to upgrade me, too.
Asher claps me on the shoulder, curling a hand over my muscle. “Banks, I might be an asshole sometimes. But I’m not a total ass.”
Tension blankets my body from the feel of his hand on me, and it’s joined by heat sizzling under my skin. Great. Just that touch and I’m lit up. “I’ll bite. How are you not a total ass?” I ask, trying to focus on what he’s saying, not how I’m feeling.
With a playful glint in his eyes, he says, “I’m not going to upgrade just myself. And I’m not going to fly coach if I don’t have to,” he says, then grins mischievously. “And I don’t have to. Ergo, we don’t have to either.”
Wait! This is brilliant. This is an out.
Three hours to escape from this rampant lust if I can wiggle away from his offer.
“You should definitely do it, Asher. Live large. Enjoy yourself. But listen, I’m completely fine in coach.
I sleep on planes anyway, so it’s not a problem for me to just crash the whole time. ”
That’s a lie. I hate sleeping on planes. Your head falls to the side, your mouth lolls open, and you look stupid. But he won’t want to upgrade someone who’s just going to snooze the whole time.
“That sounds miserable. You’ll sleep better in first class.”
I try harder, upping my negotiation game. “Save the miles for yourself, and you can upgrade again the next time you go to Fiji or S?o Paulo or wherever.”
Asher shrugs. “This is why I have credit card miles in the first place.”
I want to find a reason to say no. Because him spending points on me—or money in the form of points—makes me uncomfortable.
It’s a little too close to everything I’m trying to avoid with him.
Nonetheless he’s already striding toward the gate agent, flashing the kind of smile that can probably charm the underwear off anyone, man or woman, in seconds.
His eyes stray to her name tag. “Hi, Karina I see your upgrade list has just enough room for two more.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly pull a muscle.
“Why, yes it does! Let me get you all situated.”
“That would be fantastic.”
A few minutes later, he wheels around, waggling his airline app like it’s the spoils of war. “And we’re in 3A and 3B.”
I wince, but do my best to show my gratitude. “Thanks. If I can repay the favor sometime, just ask.”
“Huh. Like you’ll help me with all those spreadsheets I’ve been dying to make?” he counters, zinging me once again.
This time I take the bait, and return to my deal-with-the-hottie approach. “Aww, you’re so sweet. Talking our love language.”
That makes him laugh. “And I believe the retort to that is . . . fuck you .”
Just like that, my mind is right back where it started.
Thirty minutes later, I slide my messenger bag under the seat in front of me, and park in a first-class seat for the first time.
It’s cushy, and spacious, and wow—this is a whole lot swankier than coach. Plus, the flight attendants treat us like kings, offering hot towels and asking if we need anything. This is a different country up here, and I love it more than I’d thought I would.
I’m a little bit like a kid at Christmas as I run my hands along the armrests and stretch out my legs.
Asher’s lips curve into a grin. “So you’re a first-class virgin, Banks?”
It’s that obvious? I swallow past the dry patch in my throat. “Yes. Thank you. That was really nice of you,” I say.
But nice hardly covers it. Asher’s flair is as ridiculously sexy as his body is annoyingly perfect.
And I have more than one hundred hours to spend with him. Time to strap in and buckle up.