Page 15 of The Best Men
“Well, it’s laundry day. Dieter, my valet, is brushing and steaming my wardrobe this afternoon. Straightening the pinstripes. You know.”
A wrinkle appears in the center of Asher’s forehead. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody is really named Dieter.”
“The second you think that, you run into someone named Dieter.” I take a beat. “That’s a mathematical probability.”
Asher looks doubtful. “Sounds more like coincidence. Admit it. They’re one and the same,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. I try not to follow the path of his fingers, but dammit, my gaze strays for a fraction of a second.
Probability of me making it through the next hour without thinking about 2C on my fantasy spreadsheet? Captain Filthy Mind says five percent.
So I return to his first question, answering it finally. “And yes, I own seven polos, five T-shirts, and three pairs of jeans. I don’t wear suits to my daughter’s softball games.”
That brings a smile back to his face. “I didn’t know your kid liked sports.”
“Of course you didn’t. You don’t know me.” And that came out snappish.
Asher rolls his eyes, likecan you believe this guy. “I’m well aware of that.”
Why am I such a dick around him? Just because I can’t handle this inconvenient attraction?Man up, Banks.
I redirect my attitude. “Rosie loves softball. And she wants to try hockey too,” I say, aiming to inject more goodwill in my tone, and also to talk about anything besides clothes, so I don’t mention how good he looks in that tight not-a-T-shirt, not-a-polo, I-have-no-idea-what-it’s-called, but it’s short sleeve and just the right amount of snug to show off his pecs, and his biceps . . .
And that’s not helping.
We head inside, and I hope this fitting ends mercifully fast.
6
A COUPLE OF HIGH-NET-WORTH FLAMINGOES
ASHER
Angel Sanjay’s showroom is on the first floor of an old meatpacking house. The place is newly done up in riotous colors from the old wooden floors to the industrial rafters. A vintage neon sign advertises double-breasted suits, alongside a mannequin wearing a navy blazer over a tie-dyed tuxedo shirt. There’s even a Triumph motorcycle parked beside a captain’s chair.
Beside me, Mark whistles softly. “Now, I don’t think we’re in Target anymore, Toto.”
Chuckling, I take in the staid leather furniture and the brightly colored men’s shirts. “Not even in the same country. This place is basically the love child of Ralph Lauren and a Parisian bordello. Isn’t it great?”
Mark’s face says that he does not, in fact, think this mash-up is great. But he doesn’t get a chance to say so, because the designer himself strides toward us, his smile wide, his dark curly hair shining in the retail lighting.
“Asher! It’s great to see you again.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “So sorry that we couldn’t get you in here last week. I was in Milan. Then seeing family in New Delhi. Returned last night.”
“And back to work the second you landed,” I say. I shot an ad campaign for him last year. He was fun on the set and easy to work with. “Thanks for fitting us in. This is Mark, the brother of the bride. When I realized that Mark and I needed matching menswear for the wedding, you were my first and only call.”
“Radical!” His dark eyes dance as he shakes Mark’s hand. “My guy upstairs will fit you with whatever you need. But let’s give him some direction. This event is in Miami, right?”
“Right,” Mark says. “It’s a beach wedding, but fairly traditional. The bride is wearing white.”
“So we’ll need some color,” I add.
“But not too much color,” Mark says quickly.
Angel just grins. “Okay, fabric first. Linen, perhaps? What is the groom wearing?”
“Hold on,” Mark says. “I have it in my spreadsheet.” He starts tapping the screen of his phone.
“Spreadsheet?” I laugh. “You’re joking.”
Mark gives me a withering look. “Spreadsheets are no joke, St. James. Here. Look.”
