Page 141 of The Best Men
But now I want that so much I can taste the possibility. The last day we were in Miami, this was what I imagined having with him, but it’s going to vanish in mere hours, when he walks down those steps and gets on that plane. And, holy fuck, my headisa French film.
I hate foreign films. I’m not broody.
Except when it comes to Asher St. James.
“Next time, will you take me to a show and on a carriage ride?” Asher asks, deadpan.
“Count on it . . .” But the sentence dies as I stick onnext time.How the hell do we get to a next time?
A door creaks open at the end of the hall. “Yes, I know, Zoe. Sprinkles. Get sprinkles. It’s one of the four basic food groups.”
“Wine, sprinkles, cake, and sushi,” Zoe calls out to her wife.
Shutting the green door, Valencia comes into view, all olive skin, waves of chestnut hair, and big eyes that fire questions at me when she acquires the target?me with a man.
“Hello there,friend,” she says, pointedly, then gestures from Asher to me, then back.
“You meanbad friend,I believe, Valencia. And to answer your unsaid question, this is Asher.”
“Who can only be the smugandhot one?” she asks with a too-big smile.
And for the fiftieth time, my face flames red.
Asher loops an arm around me, cracking up. “Aww, fuck you, Mark.”
I laugh too. “Yes, the smug best man.”My . . .
Why does a label even matter?
Valencia strides forward, grabs Asher’s hand, and says, “I had a feeling about you two.” Then she gives me Robert De NiroI’m watching youeyes. “And I expect a full report later.”
She heads out the door as we hit the stairs, Asher behind me.
“She knows you wanted to fuck me?” Asher asks.
This guy.Laughing, I answer. “Yes. She’s a good friend. She wants to set me up with her dentist. And before then, it was her creative director,” I mention casually, catching him up on my friendship with Valencia.
“And you said . . .?” Asher’s voice is stripped of all fun. It’s intense. Commanding even.
I turn to him on the steps. There’s no humor in his eyes. Only possession. “I said no. And I’ll still say no.”
He doesn’t even smile. He just nods crisply. “Good answer, Banks.”
I keep walking up, a smile teasing at my lips as I look ahead. With that understanding?this is exclusive?the stranglehold on my emotions loosens slightly. But only slightly.
That means I need to say more.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Asher is packed and ready to go, his car arriving within the hour.
I flash back to Florida, to the morning in the guest house when I was rehearsing how to ask him for more. I swallowed my words then. I won’t do that now.
I gesture to his suitcase. “Funny, how much I was dreading the first flight with you back in June.”
Way to go, Banks. Start it off by telling him you hated him.
But isn’t that how our story began?
