8. You Posh Fucker
YOU POSH FUCKER
Asher
Maybe I can put Mark out of his misery for a few minutes.
The guy seems to swing between discomfort and deadpan humor around me. I get it. I’m a lot.
And he’s a little awkward by nature.
So to ease the tension once we’re airborne, I smack his arm gently. “Look, Banks. I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
His dark blue eyes flicker as his defenses go up. “Let me guess. You hate my shirt. My shoes. My haircut.”
Actually the whole neat, trim haircut he has going on is sexy in a let’s-mess-it-up-already way. “No. It’s this.” I take a deep breath, like I’m prepping to say something hard. “This isn’t easy to admit. But I’m going to do it anyway. I had a mullet once, too.”
A laugh bursts from him. But then it fades, and his eyes turn suspicious. “I think you’re fucking with me.”
Oh, you have no idea how much I wish you were into that . . .
The way his skin flushed in the dressing room yesterday makes me wonder, too.
Makes me want to go fishing again about his red briefs, and his one-syllable speech whenever he’s near me.
But now isn’t the time. Not when we’re stuck in the air with literally no escape.
So I return to that drunk text, when he’d said he’d had a mullet once upon a time, and I share my story.
“In my fifth season in the Premier League, we were playing great. So, naturally, none of my teammates got a haircut or shaved. Superstition and all,” I say, then drag a hand across my clean-shaven jaw, like I’m remembering those days.
His irises follow my hand, almost like he’s wondering what I’d look like with a trim beard.
Hot, Banks. I looked hot.
“Anyway, we won the championship, and a few days later, I cut my hair in a mullet just to fuck with my teammates.”
Mark smiles and it’s easy, relaxed. Maybe the first one I’ve seen from him like that. His body language seems to shift, too. “Pics or it didn’t happen,” he counters.
Interesting. Mark’s a challenging one. “I’ll find something on YouTube for you. I promise,” I say, then make a beckoning gesture for him to serve up the goods. “Your story now, since I can’t picture you as anything but the guy with the banker’s cut.”
“My mullet was part of a Halloween costume when I was thirteen. There was a contest at school, and I wanted to win.”
“What was the prize? A calculator?”
“No. A chess set.”
“Kind of the same thing, isn’t it?” I tease.
“Not at all.”
“And so you dressed up as . . . a guy with a mullet?”
“I went as Rob Lowe. In his ’80s, brat pack mullet days,” he says, and I stare at Banks, counting the similarities he shares with the actor.
Dark hair. Captivating blue eyes you can’t look away from.
Carved jaw. A boy-next-door sex appeal. Put a pair of black glasses on the movie star, and you’ve got my traveling companion.
“I can see that. Circa 1984,” I say, but Rob Lowe was and is hot in any era.
“Thanks,” he says, and a tiny smile seems to tug on his lips as he shrugs. “But I didn’t win.”
“Whatever did you do about the chess set?” I tease.
“I got a used one at Goodwill. It was missing a knight. I made one out of a pink ceramic pig salt-shaker that my mom had,” he says, a determination in his voice, and there’s more to that story. Something about who he is, and I want to know more.
But right when I’m about to ask another question, a statuesque flight attendant with serious Gisele Bündchen vibes stops at our row.
“Hello, Mister St. James, it’s so wonderful to see our frequent fliers again. Would you care for a mimosa? Coffee? Tea? Or anything else for you and your . . .”
She trails off as her eyes drift from Mark to me and back.
Oh, this is rich.
I laugh, but Mark gapes, and there’s that familiar shade of fire engine red again, creeping up his neck.
“You can just call us the best men,” I say to her. “And a mimosa sounds great. Mimosa for you, Banks?”
He shakes his head whip fast. “I’m good. Thanks,” he says, like there’s sand in his throat.
A few minutes later, my drink arrives, and I savor it, relaxing against the leather seat. My eyes are just beginning to feel heavy when Mark says, “Wouldn’t now be a good time for our battle plan?”
“Sorry?” I take another sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice and sparkling wine. “Is that a movie?”
In answer, he turns his laptop to face me. “Our battle plan—for getting the wedding sorted out. I’ve listed everything we need to do, with deadlines. And I’ve color-coded it for priority.”
“That’s a spreadsheet,” I say sleepily. “I’m not good with spreadsheets.”
“It’s a list,” he insists. “Everyone is good with those.”
I’m pretty sure both Lucy and my ex would disagree. But I keep that to myself. “Are we going to divide and conquer? That leaves more time for the swimming pool.”
He blinks. “We have about the rest of the week to plan a wedding. It has to be perfect. I doubt I’m getting any sun unless it’s during the ceremony on Saturday.”
Well, shit. I’m as eager as anyone for my bestie to have a great wedding weekend. But I never thought that meant I’d spend the whole time busting my ass. “But there are people for that. Your sister already hired some vendors, right? A tent? A caterer? It’s all handled.”
His eyes narrow. “What? You can’t just depend on people like that. We have to check-up on all of them ahead of time. We can’t drink beer on the beach and hope the catering truck rolls up the driveway on Saturday like they said they would.”
Not beer , I argue privately. When I’m in Miami, I prefer a nice rosé. But Mark’s searching stare lets me know that the cork isn’t coming out of that wine until he gets some satisfaction.
And not the fun kind.
I let out a groan. Just a small one. And I mentally put my wine glass back in the cabinet. “So show me this list.”
Mark gestures to a terrifying-looking chart on the screen that makes my head spin. “Okay, Column A is the contact name. Column B is the phone number . . .” His tone turns more animated, like this column stuff turns him on. Hmm. What does turn him on? And why the hell do I want to know?
I focus on the horror on the screen.
He’s collected the email address, the business hours, and physical address for every single contact. So at least they’ll be easy to find.
“. . . First, after we drop our stuff at the house, we can measure that patio for the tent, to make sure my sister and I ordered the right one. And then I thought we’d swing by the florist.”
“Give me a task,” I argue. “This will go faster if we split them up.”
With an intense stare from behind those black glasses, Mark scrolls through his list. “Well, a lot of this stuff I need to see with my own eyes. But I guess you could call the officiant.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s it? Are you sure you’re willing to trust me with this one alone? Wow, Banks. I know I have a reputation for being kind of a mess. But I can probably be trusted to make a couple phone calls without fucking it up. I could record them for you to review later.”
While I’m sunbathing.
“Hey.” His blue eyes fly to mine, and his tone gentles.
“That is not what this is about. You run a damn business, right? I’m sure you’re single-handedly dazzling clients from sunup to sundown.
” His scowl is back before I can even say thanks for the compliment.
“But this is my only sister’s wedding. Her only wedding, I hope and pray.
And I have less than four days and a lengthy list of sins to atone for. ”
“Oh.” I blink. “So this is about those drunk texts? You want to make sure everything’s perfect, because then it doesn’t seem like you hate the idea of this wedding?”
He slumps in his chair. “Yes and no. I want to do this for Hannah. She already knows that, though. We spent every night these last two weeks at my kitchen table, working hard on this stuff.”
I hadn’t known that. When I’d asked Flip if he needed any help with the wedding, he’d just said Hannah’s got it. You already did your thing by getting us this house, man. But I wouldn’t say no to some good cigars .
And it turns out Mark’s been stepping up all the way as the best man to the bride. Got to admire his devotion.
“She knows I’m all in,” he continues. “But I need this wedding to be perfect for her. She needs a better start than . . .”
“Than what?” I prod.
“Than I got.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Never mind.”
“Never mind?” Like I could let that go? “Banks, tell me. Did you have a wedding disaster? Is that it? The tent collapsed, or the caterer poisoned everyone?” Maybe his own wedding was like one of those BuzzFeed lists of everything that can go wrong.
It would explain the hell out of this spreadsheet.
“Not exactly,” he says in a low voice. “I got married at the City Clerk’s office. Bridget’s parents were our witnesses. Then we all went out for pizza because Bridget craved carbs the entire time she was pregnant.”
“Pizza,” I repeat stupidly. “That sounds grim.”
“It was actually really good pizza. Serafina on the Upper East Side? Have you been?”
“Oh, that place. Yeah. Everyone who works there is model-hot too.” I chuckle. “But don’t distract me, Banks. I want to hear the rest of this story.”
He sighs. “It was grim. Not the pizza—the occasion. I got my college girlfriend pregnant during my senior year—her junior year. We had no money and plenty of student loans, of course. We got married. I finished school, but she didn’t.
Rosie was born during finals week. I started my finance training program two weeks later. ”
“Damn.” That’s some drama. “And now you’re divorced.”
“Yup. I spent the last six years trying to make it work. Trying to do the right thing. And then last year she said— I’m in love with my boss, and I want a divorce .”
“Whoa.” We sit quietly for a moment while I absorb this truth bomb. No wonder Mark has been prickly. His life is blowing up.
And now I get it. “You think Hannah and Flip are just going to repeat your disaster, right? That Flip is going to bail on her?”
“I have PTSD, I guess. It’s nothing against Flip. Not really.” His voice drops. “Those two were different from the start. More in love. More ready to make big decisions. But would it have killed them to take it a little slower?”
I grin up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’ve got some whiplash too.
It feels like only last week that Flip was saying, I met a girl .
” I’d be a liar if I said their whirlwind romance hasn’t ever given me pause.
A year ago, we were planning our next clubbing trip to Ibiza.
Now Flip is looking at paint chips for the nursery.
The flight attendant reappears. “Gentlemen, can I bring you a slice of quiche, and some breakfast pastries?”
“Yes please,” we both say simultaneously. “And I’ll take one of those mimosas too,” Mark adds, sounding sheepish. “If that’s still on offer.”
“Of course, sir. One moment.”
I pull Mark’s laptop off his tray table and onto my lap. “Okay. I think I get it. This wedding has got to be perfect for Hannah and Flip. They need some good juju.”
“You probably think it sounds dumb,” Mark grumbles. “But everyone looked at my marriage as a huge risk. Like they were waiting for us to fail. My mom cried when I invited her to come to my civil ceremony. And they weren’t happy tears.”
“Did she say you were ruining your life or some shit?” I got this speech myself when I chose art school in Spain over a degree from Cambridge.
“Well, no. She was mostly upset that she didn’t get to make her ham and noodle casserole with potato chip topping for the reception.
But she wanted a traditional wedding, not at City Hall.
Oh, and my father cited this statistic about young marriages failing more frequently.
” He’s quiet for a beat. “Guess he called that one.”
Mark sounds resigned, but I need to address something more pertinent first.
“I’m still stuck on the casserole,” I admit. “Did you say potato chips ?” I try to keep the horror out of my voice.
But I fail.
“It’s less disgusting than it sounds,” he insists. “My parents are super traditional. They don’t understand why Hannah and I like New York. Not a day goes by when my mother doesn’t warn me with some big-city crime stats. They honestly think everyone should be happy in the suburbs of Ohio.”
Yikes. “They’ll love me then. The queer guy who’s going to ask the caterer if we can add ceviche to the menu.” I’m craving all of Miami’s delights. Sue me.
Mark snorts. “The queer thing would be no problem for them, but the ceviche would be a deal-breaker. Hannah made sure to add pigs in blankets to the cocktail menu, because my mom thinks you can’t have a party without those.”
Interesting . I file Mark’s comment about his parents away for safekeeping as I scroll down the spreadsheet a little farther. “This is very thorough. We can hit most of these places tomorrow. We could even visit the florist first. It’s not far from the house. I know where this address is.”
“Thank you,” Mark says softly.
“No big.” I hand the computer back, because our breakfast is arriving. “Quite the spreadsheet. What do your parents do for a living?”
“Dad is an auditor. Mom is a librarian.”
And the background to the Mark Banks picture fills in a little more. “That kind of explains a lot.”
He rolls his eyes as a beautiful plate lands on his tray table—china, of course, followed by silver utensils.
And a mimosa in a crystal flute. “Wow. Thank you,” he says to the attendant, and his reaction to first class is adorable.
But best for me not to think of him that way.
It’s adorable in an I-can-understand-the-other-best-man-a-little-better way. That’s all.
“My pleasure.” She puts the same in front of me.
“How are we feeling about first class now, Banks?” I ask after she’s gone.
He spreads a real linen napkin across his lap. “It will do, you posh fucker.”
Now I’m laughing too hard to take a sip of my drink. Just wait until he sees the car I rented, and the mansion my friend lent us for the wedding. His nerdy little head might blow off.
I can’t wait.