20. I’m a Fan of Eggplants
I’M A FAN OF EGGPLANTS
Asher
I’ve always understood that a match can hinge on one single play. One well-placed feint or one perfect kick can change everything.
So I shouldn’t be too surprised by how much has changed between Mark and me in the past twenty-four hours.
Still, it’s hard to reconcile yesterday’s tensions with the mood in the convertible as I cross the causeway toward the city. Mark whistles to himself as he takes in the scenery. He looks like a new man.
I take a subtle glance at him, and I swear he looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. I’ll take the responsibility for that, thank you very much.
“Stop,” he says without turning his head.
“Stop what?”
“Stop sneaking glances at me. Keep your eyes on the road, St. James. You can admire me later.”
Maybe subtlety is overrated. Instead, I plant a hand on his muscular knee and stroke it. The crisp hair feels good under my hand. “It’s going to be a long day,” I murmur, keeping my eyes on the road as instructed.
“It will be if you keep doing that.”
I let my fingers inch up his thigh.
“Asher,” he groans.
With a quick, cocky smile, I release him. My phone is trilling, and it’s Lucy’s ringtone. “Mind if I answer that?”
“Let me help,” Mark says, and then he hits a button on the console to bring the call in through Bluetooth.
“Thanks. Hi Lucy. You’re on speaker.”
“Asher, I’m calling to tell you that you have an appointment with the caterer in twelve minutes.”
“ Right ,” I say heavily. “Thanks for that timely update.”
“There is no need for snark,” she says crisply. “You rarely make appointments this early in the day, so I didn’t check.”
Mark gives a little snort from his side of the car, but I ignore him.
“Anything else?”
“There’s something on the Twitter I thought you should see.”
“Okay, something good? Are you monitoring the Commando hashtag? I think the new campaign went live at midnight.” I’d meant to look at this myself this morning.
But a sexy banker distracted me.
“Well . . . you know I don’t look at the Twitter all that often. So I can’t really say. But it’s on that trendy board.”
“Trending?” I guess.
“Right. Just like I said. The brand is trending together with hashtag eggplant. I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Eggplant . . .” I say slowly. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. “Okay, Lucy. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”
She rings off. But of course I’m sitting in Miami traffic. “Mark, would you mind . . .”
“On it,” he says, tapping his phone. A moment later, he chuckles. “It is trending with the eggplant emoji. I’m afraid to ask why.”
“Not as afraid as I am,” I mutter. “Is there a link?”
“Um, yup. Hang on.”
The car inches forward, and the silence from the passenger seat is worrying. Then Mark makes a strangled noise. “Well, hello to you, sir. That’s an impressive bulge.”
“Isn’t that the point of a Commando?”
“Well, this isn’t how I wear mine.” He waits until I stop at yet another red light, and then he turns the phone to face me. My lungs seize up in horror. It’s a well-lit, well-composed shot of one of the hockey players who’d modeled the tight-fitting bathing suits.
But he’s sporting a comically oversized erection.
“I mean, I wouldn’t consider myself a size queen,” Mark says. “But you can’t help but stare.”
“That was . . . it’s . . . shit! That was a joke ,” I sputter. “The guy put his water bottle down there while we were warming up on the set. I took a pic to amuse him.”
I poke the console where my connection to Lucy is still onscreen. And I seethe while it rings.
This could cost me business. People have no sense of humor when their brand becomes a punchline on Twitter.
“Lucy!” I shout when the connection is made. “You uploaded the wrong folder! There’s a pornographic shot in there somehow. Find the real shot of the suit in peacock blue and get it over to them right away. We have to fix this.”
“You know, I did think that one was a little over the top,” she muses. “But pea cock blue...”
“Please,” I beg. “Fix this. And then we’ll work on my apology.”
“Of course, Asher. I’ll call them to say that the best file is coming.”
“And was there any word from FLI?”
“None.”
Of course there wasn’t. Who’d hire a hot mess like me? “Thank you. Text me when this is fixed.”
I hang up and let out a huge sigh. “Honestly. I love taking photos. I’m good at it. But the business part of running a photography business is killing me. I know I didn’t put that photo into the deliverable file.”
Mark makes a sympathetic noise. “Is Lucy a temp? Maybe she needs to move on.”
“I’m not firing her,” I grumble. “I should have done the upload myself. Aren’t I supposed to be turning left somewhere?” It would be just my luck to get us lost right now, too.
“ The turn is two hundred meters ahead ,” Mark says, reading from my phone’s GPS. He arches a brow. “Meters, St. James? Too posh for American measurements?”
“I bought the phone in Switzerland,” I say. The restaurant sign comes into view as I take the turn. “Are we on time?”
“Simmer down.” Mark places a palm on my thigh. If I weren’t so tense, I’d enjoy that. “We’re actually five minutes early.”
“Thank fuck. I’ll use the time to grovel to the world’s most successful bathing suit manufacturer.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m still not over it. All the canapes and tiny quiche and ceviche we’ve tasted ought to have soothed the beast within.
But they didn’t. I blew it with Commando. The artistic director I got on the phone was apoplectic, and I don’t blame him. All I had to do was deliver some excellent photography, and I couldn’t even hand in my homework without a catastrophe.
Mark pokes me in the hip, and I realize the French chef has asked me a question. And I missed it.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “You were saying?”
“ Et zees are les entrées . The duck confit and le steak . Les aimez-vous?”
I force myself to focus on the two little plates a nervous waiter has placed in front of us. I lift the piece of steak to my mouth, and it’s butter-soft. And the bite of duck in a cherry reduction is perfect. “ Délicieuse . Formidable . But what will you have for our vegetarian guests?”
The chef waves his hands like nothing could be less important. “L’assortiment de légumes,” he says. “It will be perfect.” He kisses his fingertips like a TV character.
But, hell, if I came to a wedding and was stuck with a couple of tiny quiches, a mini spring roll, and a few vegetables, I’d be sad. “Could we do a little more for our guests who don’t eat meat?” I ask. “Perhaps a pasta or a risotto?”
His bulbous nose wrinkles. “Pasta. So bourgeois . The vegetables will be beautiful. The most beautiful vegetables in Miami.”
I hesitate since I suspect the vegetarians want more than pretty beans, and I want to argue, but he’s the chef. “Okay.”
“Hold on,” Mark says. “A vegetarian option is in our contract. And we have approval power over all the dishes. Page four, item six,” he says, flipping through what must be contract pages on his phone. “Asher wants something more for the veggie crew. How can you help us?”
“Euh . . .” The older man rocks back on his heels. “We could do a couscous. Very Moroccan. Chickpeas, bell peppers. Very edgy. With aubergine. You Americans call it eggplant.”
“Ah, I’m a fan of eggplants .” Mark pokes me in the ass cheek when he says this, just in case I don’t get the joke. “But no butter, right? This dish should be vegan.”
“Pas de beurre ?” The chef looks scandalized. “ Non ?”
“No,” Mark says firmly. “Page four, line . . .”
“ Pas de beurre,” the chef repeats heavily. “ Quel dommage.”
Triumphant, Mark turns to me. “Will that do, Asher?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Thank you. We really appreciate this.”
“It will be a beautiful wedding,” the chef says. “You two will make a handsome couple. I will see you on Saturday at eleven.”
“Thank you,” I say brightly, smiling at him. I don’t risk a glance at Mark. “We will see you there.”
“And now I must go and prepare my restaurant kitchen,” he says. “ Au revoir .”
“Au revoir, et merci pour tout ce que vous avez fait.”
This burst of French gets the attention of the two men. The chef smiles at me, which means I’ve won him over. So I can check that off my list.
But Mark’s eyes also widen. I put a hand on his back and guide him toward the door.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Mark says as soon as we’re outside.
I stop short and turn to him. “You mean . . .” I swallow hard. “Speaking French? Or touching you in public? I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”
Mark squints at me. “Nah, I liked the French, and you can touch me all you want. But Chef Garnier has to fulfill his contractual obligations. That’s his issue to correct, and you don’t have to apologize.
I get that it’s your style?you like making people happy.
But all we owe that guy is a timely check and basic civility.
Flip is paying him a small fortune for taking this job on short notice, right? ”
“A large fortune,” I admit.
“Right,” Mark says. “So you can hold him to his obligation without apologizing. It’s quicker if you don’t bother turning everyone into a new friend. Just saying.” He shrugs, and walks toward the car. “Oh, and I’m driving now.”
But winning people over is important. When I played football, I didn’t gain the acceptance of teammates and fans by being an asshole.
I pulled that off by giving a good word to everyone, and as one of the few out guys in the sport, I needed that tool at my disposal.
But I tuck Mark’s comments away in a drawer, since his bossy style back there is winning over other tools?mine.
I follow him in slow steps, climbing into the passenger seat as docile as a well-trained Labrador Retriever. “That’s so hot,” I say, closing the car door with a sigh.
“What is?” He adjusts the mirrors.
“The way you handled that guy. With the contract right there on your phone.”
“Oh, it wasn’t.” He starts the engine. “I didn’t think he’d have it memorized. So I just winged it.”
He just winged it. Oh, baby . I chuckle. “It’s even hotter now, handsome. Do you have, like, a trainee I could steal to run my life? I need a keeper.”
“You’re fine, St. James. We all have different talents. Mine is negotiation. Yours is charm. Now tell me how to get to the cake place.”
Fine? I’m fine? “You mean big charm, right?”
“You and your need for compliments,” he says.
“You and your need to leave quickly. Turn right from here. Coco's Cakes is two miles down this road.” The wind rustles through my hair, and it calms me. “Seriously, though, did it freak you out when he thought we were a couple?”
“No. Why?”
“Well . . .” This is a tricky topic. He was so adamant that we not tell Flip and Hannah that we’re fooling around. And, sure, that’s probably the right move. But it made me wonder how Mark would handle it if they knew. “Let me ask you this?are you out to anyone?”
“Sure,” he says easily. “My parents, my sister. Some college friends? I don’t even remember at this point.”
“Your ex-wife?” I’m prying now.
“Oh, sure,” he says with another shrug. “But we never talked about it. She didn’t want me to.”
“Wait, what?” I hear this like the screech of tires on a road. “She had a problem with it? And you married this woman?”
“Easy,” Mark says. “That’s not how it was.
She knew I was bisexual, and she didn’t care.
Maybe she even thought it was sexy. But then she got pregnant.
We got married. Our lives took a turn for the .
. .” He’s quiet for a second. “We both sacrificed a lot. Neither one of us sowed any more wild oats, right? So we had, like, a stiff upper lip about it. We didn’t discuss the things that we’d given up. ”
“Like hot single dudes.”
Mark gives me a smoldering look before he answers, “Yeah, like hot single anything . She hated it when I pointed out anyone else’s attractiveness. Hated it . So I just didn’t talk like that. I kept my feelings about Luke Evans to myself. Along with my thing for Anna Kendrick.”
“Huh. I don’t have a thing for Anna Kendrick, but I take your meaning.” And I definitely have a thing for Mark Banks. It grows stronger by the hour.
But I’d better rein it in. The week will be over in a blink.
Tonight, though, is going to be amazing. I’m going to clear out a dozen items on this man’s sex spreadsheet.
And that will just be the appetizer.