Page 36 of The Best Men
ASHER
It’s a dick move to give Mark a hard time for turning in early. I’ve been hoping to find a reason to head inside and watch my show. I have a reputation as a party boy to uphold. The Miami hotspots are just about to start their engines for the night. But I have a hot date with a nineteenth century bad boy poet and the lord who loves him.
So I watch the house as Mark moves around, pacing the tiny living room while he says good night to his little girl. Eventually, he disappears into his room. The living room goes dark. And then—like a child—I legit count to a hundred before finally getting up and carrying my wine glass inside the house.
But, seriously. I’ve been waiting forAn Arranged Marriagefor months now. I must witness the hotness between Lord Oliver and Sir Trevor when they’re allowed more than one kiss. The trailer was full of meaningful glances and doors swinging shut at just the wrong, torturous moment. I’m so there.
At 8:59, I’m sitting on the bed in my room, clicker in hand, streaming my laptop onto the bedroom TV. The show kicks off with a carriage ride through London, a conniving duchess and the death of the lord’s uncle, all in the first seven minutes. And by the time Ollie and Trevor plan a secret rendezvous on a London rooftop, my tongue is practically hanging out.
Gah! Their plan is foiled at the last minute when the duchess detains Oliver on false pretenses! And poor Trevor is left, candle in hand, gazing at the gently lit rooftops of a CGI’d London, feeling certain that he’s been stood up.
Trevor, my man. I’m sorry. I know how this feels.
On a goddamn rooftop too. It’s like they know me.
Laughing to myself, I hit pause on the show. Can’t wait to find out how the drama unfolds in the final twenty minutes. But the sparkling water and the rosé I drank at dinner means I have to pee. I head into the john to take care of business, walking past the screen door, and the gentle sound of the bay lapping against the island. I love the way Florida smells—like salty air and palm trees. If I didn’t love New York so much I’d consider living here, among the modeling agencies and the excellent nightlife.
In the minus column, there are hurricanes and alligators. But hey, nobody is perfect.
When I turn the sink off after I wash my hands, a swell of music comes through the wall, or maybe the open window. Mark is watching TV too.
But hang on. That’s afamiliarswell of music.
And it’s followed by theclip-clopof horse hooves, like the sound they make on ye olde London’s cobblestone streets.
Hold the phone. Could Mark be watchingAn Arranged Marriage?
My stomach shimmies with amusement. This is rich. I wonder if he knows what this show is about?
Mark is a very smart man. He’s much smarter than I am. So the odds that he doesn’t know what he’s getting into are small.
Which means something big, big,big.
Mark is either a fun-loving, super open-minded Wall Streeter from Ohio with a thing for sexy period drama, no matter the storyline. Or, he, like every queer man I know—the fun ones, anyway—cannotwaitfor Lord Ollie and Sir Trevor to bone down.
Standing in my bathroom like a dingus, my ears strain to hear what’s on Mark’s screen. But now, everything is quiet.
Whoa. Was the whole thing my imagination? It’s entirely possible. Let’s face it—I have a thing for him. An attraction. A curiosity. I’m a little stuck on this man. I don’t know how it happened either. He’s certainly never encouraged me. But the more I get to know him, the more attractive he becomes.
Abanker. Or a trader—whatever he calls it. And with a kid. Fuck me.
But now I have to know.
In stealth mode, I leave my room and step into the living room. But I hear nothing out here. So I slip out the front door and circle the guest house. Mark’s room has a sliding glass door, just like mine. It’s pathetically easy to position myself in a way where I can see his laptop screen.
And there’s Lord Oliver, frantically penning a message to Sir Trevor, who’s about to set off on a journey to the colonies.
There, also, is my hot banker, lying against the pillows with his knee cocked, and an arm propped up over his head. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a thin T-shirt that hugs his frame . . .
The screen freezes, and the sound cuts off.
I stop breathing.
A long moment glugs by with only the beating of my heart as the soundtrack.
“Well?” Mark asks drily. He doesn’t even turn his head. “Are you just going to stand there like a creeper? How worried should I be right now?”
“S-sorry,” I sputter. “It’s not what it looks like.”
