Page 155 of The Best Men
“Well . . .” Asher hedges.
I clear my throat. Loudly.
“. . . Not this time,” he says, his voice colored by regret.
Honestly, Asher and Rosie are a great team. When he came to stay with us last winter, I’d had no idea how easily my boyfriend would slip into the role of becoming another parent to Rosie.
They have a whole set of jokes and hobbies together. He’s teaching her to play soccer. And lately, they’ve been reading a British series of children’s books I’d never heard of before.
It’s magic.Usually. But tonight, I’m impatient.
I hear the low sound of Asher’s goodnight to my daughter. And the click of the lamp. Now it’s quiet, and I can picture him passing a hand over her hair, and giving her a last kiss on the crown of her head.
Asher never moved out of my apartment. He flew home for Christmas after our Paris weekend and never left. Next month, he’s selling his Brooklyn place to the subletter. We’re going to look around this neighborhood for a bigger place to buy together. But we’ll take our time until the right apartment comes along.
The door closes with a soft click, and Asher emerges from Rosie’s room.
“Finally!” I hiss. “I’m dying here.”
“Simmer down, nerd boy. Ooh, wine?” He seats himself on the couch beside me and I pass him a glass.
I pressplay.
The theme music kicks in, and Asher wraps an arm around me. “C’mon, Webflix. Give us a happy ending. And if that’s too much to ask for, at least give us a good make-out scene.”
“It’s not too much to ask for,” I argue. “They can tell the duchess where to shove it, and settle down to manage Ollie’s place in the country. His people need him.”
“Hmm.” Asher sips his wine. “But will the bad boy poet be content in the country? He’s a man of action and sin. What if he loses his muse? What if all his poems start to rhyme? There was an old git from Nantucket . . .”
I snort. “I’ll admit that Sir Trevor has been slutting it up during season two. But it’s all an act. He’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need true love.”
“He does, though,” Asher says, turning to kiss my neck. “He really does.”
* * *
An hour later, the show ends more or less how I called it?in a swell of orchestra music and a hot, steamy kiss. Troliver have kept a pied-à-terre in London?to keep Trevor up on the latest gossip. But they spend much of their time frolicking around Ollie’s estate and modernizing the agricultural technology.
Or something. I’m a little unclear on the details, because Asher has been sucking gently on my neck for the last twenty minutes.
The cat slinks by, heading into the bedroom. He has the right idea. “Should we move this to the bed?” I ask, palming the bulge in Asher’s pajama pants. “You shouldn’t stay up too late, though. Aren’t you playing tennis with Brett tomorrow?”
“Pfft,” Asher says, running his hand beneath my T-shirt. “You think I can’t beat Brett at tennis after a late night with you? What do I get if I win?”
I mull that over, but his hands turn wicked, which makes thinking hard. “You have to win all the sets, or I get first dibs on our rental car in Italy.”
“Ooh, good one, Banks.” He chuckles. “It’s on.”
Then his hand creeps into my briefs, and it so is.
* * *
ASHER
I’m wearing a white polo shirt.
Stranger things have happened.
Like falling in love with a hot, nerdy, single dad banker who is not boring; Mark Banks is an adventure every single day.
