Page 127 of The Best Men
When I look away, I spot my sister waving at me. She smiles and beckons me over.
I hold up a finger in the universal sign forjust a second. And then I do a one-eighty and locate the open bar. Because this moment requires a beer. Stat.
Later, I won’t remember anything I said to the bartender, or anything he said to me. I’m too full of prickly awareness and tension.
I’m in the same room as Asher St. James. He didn’t even bother to tell me he was coming. Unbelievable.
Then a hand lands on my shoulder.
42
SKYDIVING
ASHER
The moment he enters the room, I realize some things never change.
Like Mark’s fashion.
Like the fact that I don’t give a fuck what he’s wearing.
Or like the way my pulse spikes the second I lay eyes on my glasses-wearing, dark-haired hot nerd.
“There are many ways to have a midlife crisis,” Flip says from his spot next to me as he surveys the scene. “But admit it—this party is so much better than skydiving.”
I can barely focus on what my best friend is saying as we shoot the breeze about birthday celebrations. Still, I force out a laugh. “Maybe for your fortieth, I’ll finally convince you to bungee jump,” I say, but he’ll probably have three or four kids by then, and take fewer risks.
But speaking of risks . . .
My Friday night has just narrowed to the guy heading to the open bar.
It’s been nearly three months. I thought this summer would erase him. I was wrong.
“How about hang gliding?” Flip offers. “Maybe we can do that over the summer. Or better yet, I’ll strap on a BabyBjörn and cheer you on.”
“Sounds great. Excuse me,” I say, distantly, not even meeting his gaze. I’m caught in the lure of my Florida fling.
The man who’s kept me distracted from a continent away.
I am tired of this empty feeling and not having what I desperately want.
I knock back the last of my martini, set the glass down on the tray of a passing waiter, and then weave through the throng of people, my vision narrowed to that dark hair, those confident shoulders, that strong back.
My entire body tingles.
I dart around some old friends, avoiding hellos, and pass another waiter. When I’m a foot away, I lift a hand, powered by instinct only, and set it on Mark’s shoulder.
Contact.
Everything I crave.
But he tenses. Turns into a statue.
“Banks,” I say, my tongue thick.
He unfreezes, turns his gaze to me in slow motion, his eyes drifting up to mine. “St. James.”
We sound like we’re about to duel, and we’re both speechless for too many long beats, then Mark rearranges his features, and tips his chin at me. “Hello.”
