9. I Know How to Handle a Stick
I KNOW HOW TO HANDLE A STICK
Mark
I survived three more hours with the superhot posh fucker . Maybe I’ll get that printed on a T-shirt as a souvenir from this trip. All I have to do is make it through the next few days.
Can’t be too hard.
Especially since everything is going our way. No line at the car rental, so Asher’s finishing the paperwork as I answer some texts.
Valencia: Question. When Blackbeard swats me, that means he’s biting the hand that feeds him?
Mark: No, V. It means he likes you. It’s his love language.
But thinking of Asher’s remarks from yesterday makes me stop and reverse course as I tap out another reply.
Mark: Or maybe it means he’s just a cat.
Valencia : Got it. He’s a feline. Ergo, a cocky jerk. But so handsome. I just can’t stop petting him.
I’m not going to touch that one, so I say thanks, then check out the texts from my parents.
Mom: I’ve never been to a mansion before. Do you think the kitchen will have a casserole dish? Or should I bring my own?
Mark: Mom, you won’t need a casserole dish. The wedding is catered. You’re just going to relax and enjoy everything.
Dad: Mark, there have been eight hundred recorded shark attacks in Florida since 1845. Please stay out of the water.
Mark: Thanks! I’ll bear that in mind.
I’ve learned to humor my father. My mother? Not so much. If she attempts to serve a casserole at Hannah’s gourmet wedding, I will have to do some kind of ninja stunt to make it disappear.
So I have that to look forward to.
As Asher peels away from the counter, I close the text app, and we leave the cool lobby and cross the parking lot. Along the way, he scratches his jaw, his eyes twinkling. “One thing I wanted to mention.”
Why do I think he’s setting me up again? Oh right, since it’s his favorite pastime. “You didn’t really rent a car? You ordered a surprise helicopter to fly us to the . . .”
My joke dies when we arrive in front of a sleek ruby-red car that gleams like a just-polished fire truck.
The hood of the swank Porsche 911 convertible catches Asher’s reflection, and my too cool, too charming, too good- looking traveling companion grins at the vehicle like a most satisfied man.
I look up at the rental company’s lit sign above the parking space for confirmation of what I already know. In brightly lit all caps it reads: ASHER ST. JAMES.
This guy.
He does everything big.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I gesture to the wheels. “Do you do anything the ordinary way? Or is your whole life super-size?”
“We’re in Miami , Banks. What else would I rent? Or wait. Are you worried about your hair getting messed up?”
“Nah. I was more concerned about you. I don’t want it to affect your next Pantene commercial.”
With a laugh, he tosses the keys up and down in his palm. “Want me to take it back? Get a Subaru instead? Or how about a hatchback? Something with room for groceries and your chess sets in the back?”
I burn a little inside. This guy doesn’t understand that not everyone gets a shot to be Mr. Big Time. Some of us live in a different reality.
And, fine, I’m annoyed that he can get my goat better than my sister did when we were kids.
Yet nothing about being with Asher feels familial.
Everything feels . . . tingly.
Even this car.
We both move at the same time. And we both move in the same direction?right to the driver’s side of the candy-apple wet dream of a car. In fact, we get there at nearly the same instant. But Asher reaches for the door handle first.
In a flash, I picture exactly what I want. It’s not on my spreadsheet. It’s not sex. It’s just a taste of this life. His life.
I grab his hand, curling mine over it to stop him.
His grin burns off as he turns to meet my gaze, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Maybe from the feel of my hand on his?
A dangerous hope ignites inside me—the wish that I could turn him on.
But I doubt that’s possible. A guy like him wouldn’t want anything to do with a guy like me.
And I should take my hand off his. I really should. But I don’t.
I also don’t ask for what I want.
I tell .
“I’ll drive,” I say. Firm and clear.
Asher’s face registers my command in slow motion. His hazel eyes twinkle, then his lips crook into a curious grin. “Be my guest, Banks.”
At last, I let go of his hand so he can take it off the car handle. When I do, he presses the keys into my open palm, and heat curls through my body from that barest touch.
I swallow roughly, wanting this second to last a little longer, and wanting to escape from it too.
But it ends, as all good things do. We toss our carry-ons into the trunk, then crisscross, Asher heading to the passenger side, me back to the driver’s side.
Once I sink into the beige leather seat and adjust the mirrors, I groan. “Fuck. I can’t drive this car.”
Asher chuckles. “Aw, really? You can’t drive a stick shift? God, the jokes I could make right now.”
Go ahead and make them, pal. I think you’d be surprised.
“I know how to handle a stick , man. I’m talking about the rental agreement. We’d have to add my name to it. Or insurance won’t cover it if anything happens to this hundred-thousand-dollar car.”
His face goes slack with horror. “Oh dear. That sounds awful.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “ Taking a risk. ”
“It’s not about the risk. It’s about the major pain in the ass that would result from an accident.”
“I wouldn’t want you to have any pain . . . there ,” he says, taking the joke to its inevitable, tawdry conclusion.
But I barely hear it. I’ve got a bad case of car envy. So I wave my hand toward the lobby of the car rental. “Can we just go add my name? Or do I have to beg?”
He taps his lip, all serious. “Hmm. Not a bad idea.” Then a smile takes over. “Just fucking drive. Of course I put your name on the rental agreement.”
I pull back, my brow creasing. “You did?”
“Yes, I did. That surprises you?”
“That you’d let someone else drive? Yes.”
Asher just gives an easy shrug. “The last thing I am is a control freak, Banks. Sometimes I like to drive . . . Sometimes I like to be driven,” he says, then leans back against the chair, and shuts his eyes, letting those words linger deliciously in the space between us.
Like he’s taunting me with their double meaning.
Good thing his eyes are closed, since Captain Filthy Mind takes over. My brain goes haywire, images flipping through it at rapid speed.
Control. Giving up control. Wanting it. Letting go of it.
Him pinning me down on the bed. Me pinning him. And then taking. Just taking what I want from him.
I rake my hand through my hair, trying to clear the fog from my brain by zeroing in on the basics of driving.
Keys. Ignition. And one more thing.
I turn around, reach into the back seat for my messenger bag, and grab my prescription shades. I switch them out, then turn on the engine, and the car roars to life with a sexy purr.
As I back up, I return to the last thing he said. “Glad you added my name, since I definitely like to drive,” I say, since I can’t quite resist.
Asher doesn’t answer.
Just smirks.
And off we go.
We cruise past Miami’s collection of man-made islands along the MacArthur Causeway, the robotic voice on the Waze app directing us to Star Island.
It’s a good thing I’m driving, too, because Asher gets sucked into a call with his assistant. From what I can gather, she’s supposed to be uploading some photography for a client.
“The folder is called Banana Hammock Twenty-one,” Asher says.
I glance quickly toward the passenger seat. Is he joking right now?
“What? You have to have fun at work. No, Lucy, not you. Please write this down. The subfolder with the finished edits is called Final . I’d also like you to supply Alt , in case the merchandiser doesn’t agree with my choices.
But that’s it. Those are the only two they need.
Uh-huh. Right. By cocktail hour, okay? Thanks. ”
“Banana hammock?” I ask when he hangs up.
“It’s for Commando,” he says with a shrug. “The swimwear company.”
Waze interrupts him with, “Turn left in one mile.”
The bay hugs the bridge as boats zip through the blue waves. It’s possible I might be driving above the speed limit. It’s also possible I like it.
I half want to be annoyed by Asher’s flash, but this car is—holy fuck—fun.
So much of the last six years have been the opposite. Work, parenting, trying to prop up a marriage.
But very little fun, and even though he drives me crazy, Asher is the definition of fun.
Maybe that’s why I told him my wedding story on the plane. I want him to know why I am the way I am—wound a little tightly.
Okay, maybe a lot.
Asher isn’t, though. And I can’t help but wonder where the hell he came from. “What do your parents do? Are they around?”
“Yes. Sort of. They’re divorced. Have been since I was in boarding school.
They’re both remarried. Dad’s third marriage.
It’s . . . whatever. I’m not close with either of them,” he says, offhand.
“They both do something with money. International finance or what have you.” I catch a quick glimpse of him as I turn off the causeway.
He strokes his chin. “Does that make them bankers like you?”
“I’m not a banker ,” I scoff. “Please. I’m a trader.”
“But you work for a bank ,” he says slowly.
“Well, sure.”
“If it quacks like a duck . . .”
I snort. “Trading and banking aren’t the same, no matter what the sign on the building says.”
“Enlighten me,” he insists.
“A banker borrows at one percent and lends at fifteen percent and plays golf on the weekends. A trader is out there in the choppy water.” I gesture vaguely toward the sparkling ocean beyond the bay. “Trying to buy low and sell high and keep the water out of his nose before the hurricane arrives.”
“In other words?and it shocks me to learn this about you?the job is risky .”
“All the time,” I agree. “One bad day can end your career. So you have to be the kind of guy who never has that kind of a day.”
“And how do you do that?”
I shrug. “You just have to be smarter or more ruthless than everyone else who’s out there trying to eat your lunch.”
“So you can either outmaneuver or out-nerd the other guy,” he says with a chuckle.
“Exactly. On a good day, you can do both.”
Waze speaks up again. “Your destination is two hundred feet on the right,” the app announces, and I turn into a driveway that makes my jaw fall to the other side of the bay.
“Are you kidding me?”
Hannah showed me pictures. But in person, this mansion is insane. A massive, gated entrance sprawls across a driveway that’s probably made of gold bricks.
Details first, though. I gesture to the sheltered keypad at the gate.
“I’ve got the code in my phone,” Asher says, grabbing it from his shorts pocket.
“Someone likes long passwords,” he mutters as he swipes the screen, then finds what he’s looking for.
He starts to read it off. He must think better of it, because he unclicks his seatbelt, reaching across me to tap in the code.
His chest rests against my right arm and his body stretches along mine.
I. Don’t. Move.
I just try not to inhale his scent.
But I can’t stop. He smells like rainwater and a summer breeze and all my fantasies, and I want to touch him so badly. My runaway brain rattles down the tracks as I picture dropping my mouth to his neck, licking his throat, sucking on his earlobe.
My breath catches on that image.
He freezes.
He noticed the hitch in my breath.
He totally fucking noticed.
Please don’t say anything. Don’t tease me over that. I don’t think I can handle it.
But the squeal of the gate saves my ass as Asher settles back into his seat without a mention—just a casual, “There we go.”
I pray I’m not going to sport wood when I get out of the car.
With a loud, final wrench, the gate stops rolling, and I drive past it. A few seconds later, it rattles closed, sealing us in.
When I cut the engine, I have no choice but to gawk.
It’s a palace , sprawling at the top of a short hill. And it does take my mind off matters south of the border. “Wow,” I say, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Hannah will be ecstatic, which is all that matters. I grab my phone, send her a quick text.
Mark: You’re gonna love it. This place is stunning!
She replies right away.
Hannah: Eep. Show me pics!
Mark: Stand by.
Once I switch back to my regular glasses, we leave the car in the driveway, and Asher types his code into another lock box on the mansion’s spacious front porch.
Then we’re heading inside the air-conditioned home worthy of Madonna or a Super Bowl-winning quarterback, and I snap some shots for Hannah.
The marble floors. The vaulted white ceilings.
The entire glass wall in the living room overlooking the glistening bay, with boats bobbing in the distance on the placid water.
And a pool in between that’s bigger than my New York apartment.
I’m itching to jump in the water that practically glitters under the sun.
I head for the sliding glass door and step onto the mosaic tiles that surround the pool.
Beyond that, I catalogue the terrace?where the air-conditioned wedding tent will go?and the emerald-green lawn that stretches into the distance.
Then my eyes stray to something I didn’t notice before. At the edge of the pool sits a little cottage. “Oh. Nice pool house,” I say, turning to Asher.
He’s watching me. No, he’s staring at me. Yet he doesn’t seem to have heard. “St. James? Hello? Did the zombies get you?”
Asher blinks. “Sorry, what?”
I point outside. “Is that a pool house?”
“Not exactly. It’s a guest house. That’s where we’re staying.”
My gaze snaps back to the guest house. Suddenly, my brain is a computer server that just overheated. Warning signs flash on my personal dashboard.
He did not just say that. There is no way he said that. That cottage is maybe ten square feet. Not literally, but it might as well be. There’s no way my desire for him can fit inside it. With him .
Best to double check. “We are?” I croak out.
With his thumbs hooked into his shorts pockets, he rocks back on his heels, and just nods. “We are.”
Newsflash: Getting through the next few days is going to be too hard.
In every sense of the word.