Page 32 of The Best Men
“Sure. Just because it’s Wall Street doesn’t mean you can’t have friends. Especially if they play chess.”
“But you don’t have a chess board here in the Porsche, Banks.”
He points at his temple. “It’s right here. I’ve been stewing over this move, because he’s kind of got me cornered.”
I’d like to get you cornered.
“Huh. Is playing chess without a board anywhere on your scale of hotness? Because it totally should be.” Oops. That just slipped out.
For the briefest of seconds, his lips curve up in a grin. “Maybe,” he grumbles before changing the topic. “Where’s this taco place?”
“Coming up.”
Maybe I’ll make my own scale and just call that movechili pepper hot.
* * *
Lunch is fine. I barely taste the food. And Mark wears those shades the whole time, so I can’t see his eyes. I don’t know what he’s thinking.
Not that it matters, I guess.
Then we’re off to the florist, where we learn that they don’t have the salmon blush roses Hannah requested, but they havepeachblush roses instead.
Apparently this is a problem, because Mark's lips thin. “Could I see one, please?”
“Right away, sir.” The young man behind the counter disappears into the back and returns a minute later with a . . . flower.Christ. I care about aesthetics, probably even more than most people. I like art, and I love photography. But flowers areallpretty, and a rose is a rose is a motherfucking rose.
Shakespeare was right.
Mark picks up that flower and inspects it like the future of humanity, and maybe even his precious inflation index, too, hangs in the balance. Then he sets it onto the scratched wooden counter and aims his phone at it.
“Whoa!” I say, holding up my hands to stop him. “Are you sending that to Hannah?”
“Of course,” he clips.
“Well don’t just plop it down there and expect her to approve. Allow me.” I pick up the stem, where the thorns have already been carefully removed. And I hold it close to my face. “Take the picture now. She’ll be able to see the scale and the hue this way.”
“Good idea,” he says, aiming the camera at me.
At the last second, I pull an underwear model face, acome hitherlook, tongue caught between my teeth. Like Jamie Dornan for Calvin Klein.
Click.
I expect him to roll his eyes. And maybe he attempts it.
But mostly he scowls. Hard. Then he swallows roughly.
It’s fascinating.
Suddenly, it’s me who doesn’t know where to look. I can’t look at Mark, because I don’t want him to know how much this blows my mind.
Maybe the guest houseistoo small. At least we have separate bedrooms.
Mark’s phone chimes with a text. “The peach will do,” he says.
“Thankgoodness,” the florist says, clapping his hands together. “We’re going to make everything beautiful, Mister Banks. You don’t have to worry at all. We’ll see you Saturday morning, right on time.”
“Excellent,” my companion snaps. “We’re counting on it.”
