Page 20 of The Best Men
He looks so damn good in vacation mode. A tight, cool blue, short-sleeve button-down hugs his arms, and he’s got it tucked into trim shorts. He whips off aviator shades.
Of course.
“Good morning, Mark and you must be Bridget,” he says, introducing himself to my ex, then turning his gaze to my kiddo. “And it’s good to see you again, Rosie the Slugger.”
My daughter beams. “You heard about my double too?”
She sounds utterly enchanted.
Know the feeling, kid.
“I hear you’re a superstar on the softball field, which is all kinds of awesome.” He bends down to her level, his eyes locked on hers. “But have you taken up football yet? Or soccer, as Americans call it? You need to think about soccer, too.”
“I have been thinking about it. I want to try it.”
I motion to Bridget, lower my voice. “He used to play in Europe. Premier League.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding intrigued. “That’s like the major league in Europe.”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” I say, and for a second, I sound a little impressed even to my own ears.
Bridget shoots me a curious look, likehow do you know all this?But I don’t share with her.
I know because I do my homework. After I met Asher, I looked him up online. Read his Wiki, checked out his stats from six years as a striker. Fine, I even watched a highlights reel.
Including a short interview with a French TV station after his team won the championship, and his face was shining with sweat, his hair slicked back, his jaw covered in a short beard. He looked elated as he talked to the reporter in French.
No clue what he said, but it sounded hot coming out of his mouth.
“. . . And when you score a goal, it’s the best feeling ever. Bet you like it more than a home run,” Asher tells Rosie, and he’s a magician too, casting a spell on my little girl.
“I bet I do too,” she says, then spins around. “Daddy, can I try soccer?”
Yup. Abracadabra.
“Sure, cupcake,” I tell her, then lift her in my arms, and give her a big hug.
Then, I say goodbye to Bridget, toss my carry-on in the trunk, and slide into the car, onto the cool leather seats.
Asher joins me, the door clicking closed behind us, the partition rolled up. He deals me a sly smile, gesturing to my polo. “Did you bring me one just like that? Please say yes.”
And it’s on. My strategy locked down. “Of course. We can practice our matching looks before Hannah walks down the aisle. Every day, we’ll look like twins.”
There. Twinning is so not sexy.
“Good.Practiceis so important,” he says, lingering a little on that word as the car peels away, and it’s just us now.
Maybe if I’m lucky, there will be a chatty, little old lady next to us on the flight. Preferably one who knits and wants to tell me how to make an afghan the whole plane ride down to Florida.
I’d listen to every detail as it’ll take my mind off my traveling companion who speaks French, and looks good when he sweats, and says words likepracticein a smoky voice.
* * *
When I was a kid, I used to count down the days on the calendar before the trips we took to Cedar Point, the amusement park a couple hours from where Hannah and I grew up in Columbus, Ohio.
I still love checking items off a list, and marking the X, since it’s rewarding. Once we’re past security, we’ve chopped an hour and a half off this trip already so that’s some progress.
Along the way through the terminal, Asher fiddles with his phone more than I’d expect a grown-up to do.
