37. Poker Face
POKER FACE
Asher
Alone in the bathroom, I read Lucy’s texts. And I can’t believe what she’s telling me.
There’s no fuck-up. Quite the opposite?FLI wants to give me that job that I was sure I’d already lost. But now it’s mine. If I want it. Although the details have changed.
I crank on the shower and try to process this development.
The job is still photographing football players. It’s still the sport I love. But it’s not a month’s worth of branding work. They want a year .
It’s a huge opportunity and one I should be thrilled about. Hell, I figured I’d be dancing a jig.
But I’m not. Maybe it’s because the details changed. Or maybe it’s something else.
Something bigger.
I shower in a state of numbness, briefly surprised at how quick it is to rinse out my short hair. And as I towel off afterwards, I still can’t believe I got this plum job—and that it starts in five days. And Lucy says they want to hear from me ASAP.
That’s just so typical of FLI. In the world of football, they’re all powerful. Every day, they change players' lives with a single phone call. And photographers’, I suppose.
Today it’s my turn.
But first, a wedding. I try to shrug off my surprise ?I did, after all, pitch FLI on the whole idea? as I head to my bedroom.
My crisp new shirt waits for me on a hanger.
As I get dressed, my mind ricochets like a pinball from one life-changing event to another.
Flip is marrying the woman of his dreams in just over an hour.
The wedding guests include a number of our prep school friends that I haven’t seen in years.
They’re descending on Star Island imminently.
I need to focus on today’s events. I put on socks, and step into the new trousers. Work can wait.
Except it can’t.
Because of Mark.
He enters the room carrying my bow tie. And a serious look in his eyes. “Hey,” he says, and there’s a lot of weight in that one word.
“Hey.” My throat is tight all of a sudden. He looks so good in the gray slacks, and the white shirt, and that steely blue jacket. The colors that I put together that afternoon only . . .
That was less than a week ago.
But everything has changed in just a few days. Now, when I look into his cool blue eyes, I see so many things that I didn’t see before. Passion. Comfort. Humor.
Me.
Fuck.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks.
“Of course.” My voice is gravel.
“But first, let’s get this over with,” he says, coming forward to loop the bow tie around my neck.
His hands on me, even through clothes, make my skin sing.
It feels wrong to enjoy his touch this much, but still, I savor it as he flips up my collar and adjusts the position of the silk.
“God,” he rumbles from inches away, and this moment is about as perfect as one could be.
“Posh fuckers look good after a few days in the sun. The view from where I’m standing is top notch. ”
Mark smiles, but his eyes dart up to check mine for a reaction. He seems nervous. Mark is hardly ever nervous. He never was in the bedroom. He hardly was out of it either, except when he was trying to sort me out. And all of a sudden, I have a pretty good idea of what he wants to talk about.
“Mark?” My bones are heavy as I say his name.
“Yeah?” His knuckles graze my jaw as he works. I lean toward him, craving his nearness. And the scent of his crisp aftershave.
And more hours like this, alone with him.
Except that’s not fair.
“I think we have?”
“I’m moving to Paris,” I cut in, my voice a scrape.
His fingers freeze on the bowtie. “What?”
“The texts from Lucy. It was about this job I’ve been after. It’s . . . overseas. It’s in France. I’m moving there,” I say, the words spilling out in a messy pile-up.
And Mark’s eyes widen.
He gulps in air.
His gaze is pained.
Then, in the span of a heartbeat, his expression goes blank.
Stony.
Everything is erased.
“That’s . . . great,” he says, and the transformation is so fast, I swear I imagined that hurt look from seconds ago.
“I leave in five days,” I add.
He’s pure cool now as he nods like he’s agreeing to a business deal. “Congrats, man,” he says.
Man .
Not St. James .
Not you posh fucker.
And not even my first name.
The distance between us is miles now, or maybe it’s just that way for me. No clue anymore what Mark?the expert poker player?is thinking.
I can’t read him at all.
“It all happened quickly,” I say. “I didn’t even know it was for a year. I thought it was going to be for several weeks. But FLI wants a photog who knows the sport and can craft a new image for the organization. And is free to travel around Europe. That’s me.”
And I’m not even sure why I’m justifying my choice.
It’s my life. This is a huge opportunity?one I pursued. J’adore Paris. I have a ton of friends from boarding school there. Felicity, Oscar, and others.
I’m not going to toss it away just because I want more days and nights with Mark Banks.
“That’s perfect for you,” he says. He tips his chin to my bow tie. “We’re ready for the pics.”
This is not the Mark from a few minutes ago, and I can’t even sweep my gaze over his throat for a clue. It’s covered.
“What were you going to say? I think we have . . .” A dangerous spark ignites in my chest but what’s the point?
I’m leaving.
Yet I’m dying to know if he was going to say? I think we have to give this a chance.
He shrugs casually, shoots me a tight smile. “I was going to say . . . I think we have to get out there for the photog. Can’t take pics without the two best men.”
Then, he turns on his heel and leaves.
Taking a little piece of me with him.
Not that I want to be soaked, but a little courtesy, weather? Some rain clouds would be fitting. Maybe a thunderstorm. A crash of lightning.
Fine, fine. I don’t wish that on my bestie and his bride, but it would fit my mood.
Instead, as I stand beside the groom at the edge of the lawn, the bay behind us, the emerald grass in front of us, the sun shines, a breeze blows, and it’s barely over seventy-five in June.
It’s a picture-perfect day for a Miami wedding—more lovely than June in Florida has any right to be.
Good luck, perhaps, and a sign of things to come for a couple who are meant to be.
Hannah practically floats along a white runner, her father’s arm hooked through hers, a radiant smile on her face as the bridal march begins.
One glance at Flip is all anyone needs to know that he’s besotted with his bride and their baby.
He only has eyes for her.
As for me? I’m fighting like hell to keep my gaze off Mark.
The man merely feet away from me, dressed like me, but who hasn’t so much as looked my way since the guest house, when I dropped my oh, I’m jetting across an ocean bombshell.
As the cellist plays Pachelbel’s Canon in D for seventy-five guests, the bride gazes happily at my friend. Everything ought to feel right in the world.
Flip is getting hitched.
I got laid the last few days, many times over.
I have a great gig waiting for me in a city I love.
Friendship, sex, and a fun as fuck career?that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Yet I can’t shake this unsettled feeling. This what-if-ness clawing at me.
That’s entirely the wrong feeling for today. Wistful might be an okay emotion, but mostly I should be disgustingly happy for the end of the era, since it’s the start of a new one for Flip. My bud and I will be friends no matter what. We’ll talk and text while I’m on the other side of the world.
We always have.
But that’s not the issue, is it? As Hannah arrives under the wedding arch, hands her bouquet to her mother in the front row, then turns to her groom, I steal another glance at the other best man.
A terrible longing gnaws at me. The wish that he’d look my way, toss me a knowing wink.
But that’s ridiculous.
This is how we end.
Here in front of Hannah and Flip’s closest friends and family, at the edge of Miami.
The officiant clears his throat, takes a step closer to the woman in white and the man in the tux. “We are gathered here today to celebrate one of life’s greatest moments . . .”
Yup, this is when Mark and I were always supposed to end.
Today.
But after the wedding. Not before.
“The joining of two hearts, and two lives,” the officiant continues.
Mark and I could have had a drink at the party, shared a laugh, toasted to strange and fantastic things happening in Florida.
The officiant turns to Hannah. “Do you, Hannah Banks . . .”
Even that last name pierces me.
Mark fucking Banks.
Of all the men in the world.
And I can’t help but wish there were a way.
But that’s foolish. I’ll be an ocean away. It’s not like we’re going to get together for a Friday night fiesta of fucking and bingeing An Arranged Marriage, then get coffee in the morning. Briefly, I close my eyes, lingering on those images.
Hannah’s voice cuts into my thoughts as she solemnly says, “I do.”
And I return to my own questions.
But what about when the gig is up? Maybe in a year? What if I could see Mark at the same time next year? Have a go at things then?
The officiant looks to Flip. “And do you, Phillipe Dubois, take this woman . . .”
My gaze swings to Mark’s blue irises. His attention is lasered in on his sister, with that intensity that he gives to everything?to negotiation, to Scrabble, to sparring with me.
To touching, and kissing, and talking, and everything.
And fuck my life . This is not okay. I don’t linger on men. I don’t loll in the past.
But Mark isn’t just some guy.
It’s so surreal. I finally found someone I want to see for longer than a weekend, and now I’m leaving.
My timing sucks.
There’s no future for us. In a year, Mark will be happily attached.
Some real estate tycoon will catch his eye, or a chef, or a lawyer.
Someone stable, reliable, a guy or a gal with a kid.
They’ll blend their families and go play chess together on Saturdays while their kids run around on the playground in Central Park.
My stomach twists at the terrible thoughts right as Flip utters the most important words of his life.
“I do.”
All around me are tears and joy as the officiant beams and then declares, “You may kiss the bride.”
A collective sigh of happiness falls over Star Island as Flip kisses Hannah, and Mark’s eyes land on mine for a split second before he looks away once more.
Yeah, he’ll be taken in a year, and I’ll still be . . . well, just me.