11. Proven Boner Killers
PROVEN BONER KILLERS
Mark
Pools are proven boner killers.
Studies show that not only is shrinkage real, but that cold water is the number one source of it.
So in the scheme of things, a dip in the pool is a good idea this evening. Especially since Asher’s not around right now.
I dive in and cut through the cool water, swimming to the shallow end, then turning around.
Exercise always settles me, and after a full day vibrating at maximum do-not-ogle-your-travel-companion levels, I need a release.
We’ve hit all the necessary errands: the florist, a visit to the valet company, and a chat with the manager of the string quartet.
Plus, Asher called the DJ to set up a meeting for tomorrow.
I swim laps for thirty minutes as the sun slopes toward the other side of the sea.
Once I feel like I can survive another day with the man who makes me hot, bothered, and thoroughly annoyed, I climb up the steps at the shallow end, head toward the iron table where I left my glasses, and put them back on.
When I turn around, I’m grateful for the scientists who proved the power of pool water since Asher has appeared, looking all sleep-tousled and sexy with his messy hair.
But it’s not the hair that has me grabbing my towel and wrapping it around my waist, stat. It’s his bare chest on display since he wears only shorts.
Do you even own a shirt , I want to ask. But that’s just gonna unlock a conversation that’ll crank me back up to sixty-nine on a scale of one-to-ten.
With a yawn that tells me he just got up from a nap, he flaps a hand in my direction. “You don’t wear prescription goggles when you swim?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Can you still see?”
Weird question. “I can see well enough. Why? Were you doing a shadow puppet show that you thought I missed?” I sit at the table.
“No. But I’ll add that to the evening entertainment schedule. I was just curious what your vision is,” he says, flopping onto a lounge chair a few feet away, pinning me with his gaze once again. “I’m curious about a lot of things.”
Dude. Join the club.
But I don’t think we have the same curiosities, nor are we operating at the same levels. Asher St. James is at an all-star level in the bedroom, I suspect, and I’m trying to get a job as a bat boy.
“It’s twenty eighty. And eighty is a number that’s only good when it’s your ROI.”
“Or the number of goals a great striker racks up over two years,” he quips.
“You had sixty-two goals in six years,” I say, before I think the better of it. Shit . He’s obviously going to know I’m into him now.
His eyebrows rise to the sky. “Impressive, Banks. Very impressive. I was a good striker. But not great.” He sits up straighter. “You looked me up?”
Pretty sure all the crimson in Miami is visiting my face right now, but I’ve got to play this cool somehow. I shrug, adopt my best casual tone. “Yes, because that’s the kind of guy I am. I do my homework, St. James. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
There. He won’t think my interest is about him now. It’s just how I am.
He chuckles, a playful glint in his eyes. “And so do I, Banks. So do I.”
He goes quiet. That’s rare for him, but he’s busy studying me, like I’m the curiosity now, and his gaze unnerves me. So much for the unsexual swim.
Time to take this conversation to safer ground.
Something completely innocuous.
“And how was your nap, Sleeping Beauty?” I ask.
“Invigorating. You should try them sometimes.” Of course he naps. Of course he enjoys them.
I shrug. “I don’t nap.”
“Not even on planes?” He lifts a brow in question.
Crap. “That’s not really a true nap,” I say evenly, since I’m not going to let him catch me on a technicality.
“Why does that not surprise me? Both that you don’t nap, and that you have a definition of what constitutes a nap,” he says.
But I’m done with this topic.
Adult sleeping habits.
Adult sleeping arrangements.
And adult desires.
Dancing around it is tricky, though. A part of me wants to tell him I’m bi.
Just get it off my chest. But what’s the point?
Hell, even Brett from the office doesn’t know yet.
It just never came up. For the last seven years, I’ve lived, for all intents and purposes, as a straight-passing man.
I haven’t even touched a guy since college.
Though I do remember those days of experimentation fondly.
Quite fondly.
“In the mood for some dinner?” Asher asks, shifting gears too.
I picture dinner out on the town, and I’m not sure I want to grab grub with him again.
That’s not because it would look like a date. I don’t care what strangers think of me. But because it might feel like one, him and me out at night, sitting under an umbrella in this tropical destination with other couples around us, wearing skimpy clothes, sipping cocktails, touching each other.
All that desire on display.
Then we’d leave together, walking through the doorway here after dark. There’d be that awkward moment when we’re in the living room of the guest house together, about to go our separate ways.
The moment when we could smash into each other and finally, fucking finally, touch.
My skin flashes hot at the thoughts flickering before my eyes. I adjust the towel, making sure it’s strategically placed. And I muster my best casual voice. “Let’s order in. What have you got in mind?”
“How about Mexican?” he asks. “There’s this place I know with great tamales.”
“Sounds great,” I agree, and when I scan the scenery, it’s about as damn sexy as going out. The water glistens in the fading sunlight. Soon, the sky will darken. Temptation is hemming me in from every direction.
When Asher orders, I pick up my phone for a distraction. A note from Valencia pops up on my screen.
Valencia: Excuse my manners from earlier! I also meant to ask how’s the hot best man?
I sneak a glance surreptitiously while the superhot best man chats with the restaurant. This topic isn’t entirely distracting, but maybe I can just will away the desire by declaration.
Mark: Still smug, still hot, but I’ve got it under control.
Valencia: Then don’t forget tonight! You know what premiers on Webflix. I demand a recap after you watch.
Mark: Oh, right! I’m so there!!!
That’s what I need. Some TV distraction.
Although I’m not sure this show will have the right effect on me.
Valencia and I are a little obsessed with checking out the spin-off of Archibald Lane , a period piece that was all the rage on Webflix last year.
The show was good, but there was one particular storyline I glommed onto, and it included a smoking-hot kiss that made it to the top of my spreadsheet. 1A.
The kiss continues, supposedly, in the spin-off.
I promise her a full review, then put my phone down.
When Asher hangs up, he meets my gaze. “Food will be here in thirty,” he says, and is it just me, or do his eyes drift down my chest, lingering there, right there, on my pecs?
I want to do the same to him—to give him a long, lingering eye fuck.
But doing that also terrifies me. I take risks with gobs of money every day.
I have iron balls when the market is volatile.
When it comes to men? My risk tolerance is at the level of a CD.
Better yet, a savings account earning .01 percent.
“What did you order?” I ask, since that’s the savings account question, and that’s how I’m playing things tonight.
“Mexican. It’s spicy. I didn’t ask if you like spice. My bad,” he says, cocking his head to the side like he’s studying me once again. “Do you like spice?”
His words say one thing, but his tone says do you like sex and would you like it with me?
Or am I just hoping he’s going fishing again? Maybe it’s more than hope, especially since his hazel eyes glimmer with something that feels a lot like rabid curiosity.
“Yeah, I do,” I tell him, and just like that, I’m vibrating with lust once again.
A feeling I already tried to get under control.
But it keeps slipping away from me.
Twenty-nine minutes later his phone buzzes. “Bet it’s the restaurant,” he remarks, but when he slides open the screen, a line digs into his forehead. “Shit,” he murmurs.
I straighten my spine. “What’s wrong?” Better not be something with the wedding.
“It’s the DJ. Tomorrow’s all booked up,” he says. “He’ll try to see us on Thursday.”
I grimace. “That’s too far away.”
“I know, but we’ll figure it out,” he says, right as his phone beeps again, and he heads off to greet the delivery guy. Where he’ll probably strike up a conversation, memorize the guy’s children’s names and tip fifty percent.
Pink streaks paint the sky when Asher returns a few minutes later with dinner, and a bottle of wine. I don’t touch the wine, but the food is good.
And when we’re done, the sky is dark. The moon is casting silver light across his face. I look at the time. Eight-forty. Perfect. I don’t even have to tell him I’m cutting out early to watch a sexy-as-fuck TV show. I’ve got the kid excuse.
“I should go,” I say, gesturing to the cottage.
“Do you have an inflation index to adjust?”
“Yes, St. James. I’m magic with inflation. I can make it disappear.” Just like inconvenient boners. “I need to call Rosie. I promised I’d call her every night at eight forty-five,” I tell him.
“See you in the morning.”
I leave the pool and open the door to the guest house, a little relieved. I made it through the first day in Miami with the sexiest man I’ve ever known.
And he has no idea I’m thinking of him naked.
I’d call that a win.