Page 129 of The Best Men
“Say something.” I demand.
He breathes out hard. “Why? So we can catch up on Ollie and Trevor? They broke up, man. It happens. It fucking happens.”
Keep falling. Maybe there’s a parachute along the way.“I hated that,” I say to him.
He crosses his arms. “It’s just fiction.”
It feels real, though, and it hurt like hell. Like my dumb heart hurts when I look at Mark, those blue eyes, those cheekbones, that hair. That five o’clock shadow.
God . . .
I think I’m . . .
I breathe out hard, scrub a hand along the back of my neck, and try one more time. “I should have told you I was coming,” I admit, helpless with all these wild emotions swinging through me.
And Banks, my hardly-ever-lets-down-his-guard, nerdy, hot, gorgeous single dad with the eyes that haunt me, looks at me with resignation. “You don’t owe me anything, Asher,” he says, like he’s forgiving me fornotwanting more.
But he’s wrong.
He’s so fucking wrong.
“I know. But I should have texted,” I say.
“Because you think I can’t handle seeing you? I’m fine, man.”
But his Adam’s apple throbs. His poker face falters, and longing flashes in his eyes. I recognize it because I feel it in every damn cell in my body too.
I try again. “I know you can handle anything?”
Heels click. A woman sashays toward us. Black, sleek hair. She waggles her fingers at me. “Hey Ash,” she calls out.
“Hi Danya,” I say, but that’s all. I don’t meet her gaze. I can’t deal with anyone else.
My eyes dart around, scanning the hall. There’s an open door a few feet ahead. I step closer to Mark, grab his arm, and pull him into the room.
It’s a library, with rich wood shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling, laden with spines of hardcovers, and the scent of pages filling the room.
It’s so fucking fitting.
I kick the door closed.
43
THIS IS WHAT LIBRARIES ARE FOR
MARK
Not gonna lie. That was a hot move, kicking the door closed. My pulse races. But I’mnotgoing to let on how much it affects me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say as I cross my arms, lean against the shelf of tomes.
His hazel eyes are fierce as he stalks over to me, stopping inches away. “I wanted to. Just like I wanted to text you to tell you I was coming.”
I swallow roughly. “Yeah. You should have. It’s just . . . polite,” I say, but I’m not entirely sure what words are coming out of my mouth. Focus is hard with the way he stares at me. Like he wants to lick every inch of my skin.
“Polite is the last thing I feel toward you, Banks,” he says, and where he was unsure minutes ago, he’s strong now. Determined. “That’s why I thought about just showing up and surprising you. But I don’t think you like surprises, so I RSVPed.”
“I hate surprises,” I say,but I like what you’re saying, so keep going. Don’t stop talking, please.
