Page 4 of The Best Men
But he’s still a stuck-up banker who doesn’t like my BFF. And now he’s got to grovel for Flip anyway.
This should be fun.
Slowly, Mark turns toward my friend, his expression chastened. “Flip, man, I’m sorry. There was no excuse for the lack of faith I showed last night.”
“Damn right,” Flip says, posting an arm around Hannah and lifting his strong, waspy chin in defiance. “I’ve never given you asinglereason to doubt my good intentions toward your sister.”
God, where is the popcorn when you need it? Mark’s jaw is flexing. I can practically hear the arguments forming in his brain—most of which center around my friend’s inability to use a condom correctly.
Flip and Hannah didn’t mean to get pregnant three months after they met. It’s all good, though, because by the time that plus sign showed up on the pregnancy test several weeks ago, they were already planning a future together.
“I’m sorry,” Mark says again, even if his teeth are practically clenched. “It’s just been sudden. I worry.”
Flip rubs Hannah’s shoulder. “I know it seems fast, but we’re very happy. And we chose that wedding date next month partly for your sake.”
Apparently Mark’s high-pressure job makes it hard for him to get away, but he’s free for the second half of June. “Thank you,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be honored to attend.”
His sister grins. “Go get a beer, Mark. Just stay away from the whiskey.”
“Good idea,” he says. “Thank you.”
Mark turns and reverses course toward the bar in the corner. I’m about to follow him when the waitstaff begins carrying in an array of sushi rolls arranged on wooden boats, and also thinly sliced bites of ahi and hamachi served on elegant little dishes.
As a party planner, I’ve outdone myself.
“Mister St. James?” the manager says, touching my elbow. “Please let me know if you need anything at all.”
I survey the generous spread of food and my stomach rumbles. “This looks terrific. I really appreciate the way you arranged this so quickly for me.” Everything came together in a flurry, Hannah announced her pregnancy a few weeks ago, and last weekend, Flip proposed. Now, here we are.
“My pleasure, sir.” The man gives a slight bow, and I return it, as I learned to do on an extended trip to Japan a few years ago. “If you need anything more, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Pleased with both him and myself, I turn back to the party and take a plate off the top of the stack. Then I hand it to Hannah. “The bride-to-be should start, right? If that’s not a tradition, it should be. Step right up, Hannah. All this sushi isn’t going to eat itself.”
Then I move out of the way so that my guests can have first dibs on the spread. My drink is empty, though, so I head for the bar and another Asahi Super Dry.
That’s where I find Mark, elbow on the bar, drinking . . . “Is that orange juice, Banks? How’s your hangover?”
“I’ll live,” he says. “But I suspect drinking tonight is probably not in my best interests.”
“I have to agree with you there,” I say with a chuckle. “Unless you really enjoy apologizing. I know I enjoyedwatchingyou apologize.”
He gives me a dark look, but doesn’t bother to respond. Understandable. That comment was more for my amusement. Which, let’s be honest, a lot of things I do are.
But there was oneI’m so sorryI definitely wanted a front seat to. I clear my throat. “I noticed I didn’t get one.”
“An apology?” Mark snorts, furrowing his brow. “Unlessyou’regoing to the chapel after knocking up my sister, I don’t think I insulted you.”
A laugh bursts from my chest. “Something no one will accuse me of. Ever.”
“Then we’re all good,” he says.
I give an easy shrug. “Sure, sure. I guess I don’t require one. After all, you did say I was hot. Nothing to be sorry for there. You’re absolutely right.” Then I flash him a grin. A damn good one, and I know how to give them. Though, as a rule, I don’t flirt with straight men. Waste of time, right? But why did Mark say I was hot? Where did that come from?
But the loose-lipped texter is hard to read. He’s shooting me anI-can’t-be-botheredlook. Damn. Mark Banks must kill it at poker. He has some impressive bluffing skills. “That wasjustthe whiskey talking,” he says evenly.
I scoff-laugh. “Right. Of course. Whiskey often goes on and on about levels of hotness.”
“Like I said, you can’t trust the words of a single-malt scotch,” he says.
