10. Maybe It’s the Polo Shirts
MAYBE IT’S THE POLO SHIRTS
Asher
Mark spins around, and something like wild fear flashes in his blue eyes. “But . . . this is a goddamn mansion . Why would we stay out there ?” The question comes out with no space between the words as he gestures wildly toward the guest house.
But I’m having a mental breakdown of my own. For the last three minutes I’ve been trying to get used to a shocking new idea.
Mark Banks is hot for me.
I don’t know how I missed it before. Maybe it’s because I don’t know him that well. I hadn’t learned to read his particular brand of stammers and scowls. And long, lingering stares.
Or maybe it’s the assumption I made about his marriage to a woman.
Actually, maybe it’s the polo shirts.
Or prescription sunglasses.
But there’s no mistaking what just happened outside in the car. When I invaded his personal space, he shivered like a teen girl watching the Twilight movies. His eyes dilated. His breath hitched.
I am shook.
And now he’s waiting for me to answer him. Those unhappy blue eyes are pinched behind his sexy, hot-nerd-style glasses.
Wait. What was the question? Oh, right. “That whole wing in the mansion is reserved for your parents, Flip’s parents, and the bride and groom. Some of your sister’s college friends too,” I say, my voice clipped.
Maybe I sound like a dick right now, but my head is too busy exploding. I need a moment to gather my thoughts. So, bag in tow, I walk off, circling the edge of the pool.
I head to the guest house, unlock the door, and immediately claim the larger bedroom.
He’d expect me to, right? Mark thinks I’m an arrogant fuck.
Or, wait. I honestly don’t know what Mark thinks of me. His attitude suddenly hits me in a completely different light.
He wants me. And he’s struggling with it.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and try to think. I don’t have any sexual hang-ups. I’m thirty years old, and I’ve been gleefully, and successfully, chasing men for half my life.
But not everyone is me. And I don’t just mean that they don’t have my looks or my athleticism. Not everyone is comfortable with all the things they want.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Mark is not comfortable with his attraction to me.
It could be that he’s curious and inexperienced.
It could be that he isn’t out. Or maybe it’s neither of those things, and he just finds it inconvenient to lust after the best friend of the guy his sister is marrying.
This doesn’t change anything, right? Who cares if he gets stirred up every time I get close to him?
I rise from the bed, flip my suitcase open, and head into the bathroom to brush my teeth. This doesn’t matter. It isn’t important to the next four days.
When I look in the mirror over the sink, though, I see my own flushed face staring back at me. Evidence that I kind of dig the hot nerd vibe Mark has going on.
But we’re in Miami, where everything is sultry.
We’re together in this tiny house that suddenly feels even tinier.
We’re alone on this gorgeous property.
I’ve got to keep my mind off Mark’s attraction. I can’t dwell on the way his pulse throbbed at his throat when I got a little too close to him.
And I sure as hell can’t spend time wondering what it would be like to peel that polo shirt off him and put my tongue all over that lean chest.
When I leave my bedroom a couple minutes later, Mark’s waiting in the tiny living room, cracking his knuckles, all fidgety.
Hell. He’s struggling. But I don’t know if it’s a big deal?something he can barely even acknowledge?or just an ordinary case of inconvenient attraction to someone you don’t actually like.
I’m not going to say anything. If he wants to avoid the subject, then so will I.
“What’s the matter?” I tease. “Is the bed not soft enough for you, Goldilocks? You want mine?”
Mark mumbles something that sounds a lot like fuck off . But then he exhales heavily, gestures around the bright little room, and says, “This is fine. It’s no problem. I just didn’t realize we’d be staying here instead of in the house.”
“Good, good,” I say crisply, since I don’t want to dwell on our close quarters either. “So what do you say we grab some fish tacos and then head to the florist?”
“Right. Yes,” he says, rising to his feet. “Let’s do that.”
“Excellent. I’d like to pick up a bottle of wine for later too.” But not because I’m going to ply you with rosé and hit on you . Nope. No sir. “. . . And then we’ll hit the florist and check off item 2A on your spreadsheet.”
That red hue returns to his cheeks.
Weird. Do errands get him hot?
No. It’s still me somehow. I recognize that look from Angel’s showroom too. When he was undressing me with his eyes. It’s the same look he had in the car when I stretched across him. And the one he wore, too, when he covered my hand with his thirty minutes ago and told me he wanted to drive.
I take a deep breath and ignore it. “Come on, Banks. I’m not getting any younger.” I head for the door, where I step out and then turn around to make sure he’s following me. “P.S.—this time it’s my turn at the wheel.”
His pupils widen, and here we go again.
Fuck.
Ignoring this attraction won’t be easy.
It gets a little easier when we hit the road, with the wind in our hair. I turn on the radio, and EDM blasts from the speakers.
Mark immediately changes the channel, surfing until he finds NPR.
I snicker. But I let him get away with it. The MarketWatch guys are giving a financial rundown. “The S and P is up twelve points in blah, blah light trading. The US Ten-Year Note is blah, blah, blah, blah. A big company bought another big company, and for some reason that matters.”
I’m paraphrasing.
Mark pulls out his phone and makes a call. “Hey, Brett. How’d the yield curve react to the CPI? Eh, okay. I hope you hedged out those futures. Right. Sorry. Yeah, I’m sure you’re tied up. But before I go?rook to A4. Later.”
He hangs up, and I attempt some casual conversation.
“What’s a CPI?”
“Consumer price index. It’s a measure of inflation. The bond market hates inflation.”
“Don’t we all. And what’s A4?”
“Oh, a chess move. It was my turn.”
It takes me a beat to understand what he meant. And then I snort. “Who were you talking to? I thought it was a co-worker.”
“It was. Brett is my work husband. And we play chess too.”
There are so many things I need to unpack in that sentence. “Your work husband?”
“Sure. Just because it’s Wall Street doesn’t mean you can’t have friends. Especially if they play chess.”
“But you don’t have a chess board here in the Porsche, Banks.”
He points at his temple. “It’s right here. I’ve been stewing over this move, because he’s kind of got me cornered.”
I’d like to get you cornered.
“Huh. Is playing chess without a board anywhere on your scale of hotness? Because it totally should be.” Oops. That just slipped out.
For the briefest of seconds, his lips curve up in a grin. “Maybe,” he grumbles before changing the topic. “Where’s this taco place?”
“Coming up.”
Maybe I’ll make my own scale and just call that move chili pepper hot .
Lunch is fine. I barely taste the food. And Mark wears those shades the whole time, so I can’t see his eyes. I don’t know what he’s thinking.
Not that it matters, I guess.
Then we’re off to the florist, where we learn that they don’t have the salmon blush roses Hannah requested, but they have peach blush roses instead.
Apparently this is a problem, because Mark's lips thin. “Could I see one, please?”
“Right away, sir.” The young man behind the counter disappears into the back and returns a minute later with a .
. . flower. Christ . I care about aesthetics, probably even more than most people.
I like art, and I love photography. But flowers are all pretty, and a rose is a rose is a motherfucking rose.
Shakespeare was right.
Mark picks up that flower and inspects it like the future of humanity, and maybe even his precious inflation index, too, hangs in the balance. Then he sets it onto the scratched wooden counter and aims his phone at it.
“Whoa!” I say, holding up my hands to stop him. “Are you sending that to Hannah?”
“Of course,” he clips.
“Well don’t just plop it down there and expect her to approve. Allow me.” I pick up the stem, where the thorns have already been carefully removed. And I hold it close to my face. “Take the picture now. She’ll be able to see the scale and the hue this way.”
“Good idea,” he says, aiming the camera at me.
At the last second, I pull an underwear model face, a come hither look, tongue caught between my teeth. Like Jamie Dornan for Calvin Klein.
Click .
I expect him to roll his eyes. And maybe he attempts it.
But mostly he scowls. Hard. Then he swallows roughly.
It’s fascinating.
Suddenly, it’s me who doesn’t know where to look. I can’t look at Mark, because I don’t want him to know how much this blows my mind.
Maybe the guest house is too small. At least we have separate bedrooms.
Mark’s phone chimes with a text. “The peach will do,” he says.
“Thank goodness ,” the florist says, clapping his hands together. “We’re going to make everything beautiful, Mister Banks. You don’t have to worry at all. We’ll see you Saturday morning, right on time.”
“Excellent,” my companion snaps. “We’re counting on it.”
The florist looks a little terrified. So, after Mark turns to walk away, I linger there beside the counter for a moment. “Thanks for making Hannah and Flip’s arrangements. I’m sure they’re going to be amazing.”
He beams. “You’re welcome. It’s our pleasure.”
Now that he’s smiling again, I follow the other best man out to the car.
He’s waiting in the driver’s seat, that sneaky fucker.
This time, I just hand over the keys.