Page 82 of The Best Men
Ramon tells me his crew will start setting up this afternoon and it’ll take a day. I thank him for his time, stride around the pool, then stop in my tracks at the trio emerging from the mansion.
Like father, like son.
The man in horn-rimmed glasses with a thick head of dark hair must be the one and only elder Banks.
And I know where Mark gets his sense of fashion.
His father wears polos too. I glance down at my burgundy shorts that fit so well they could be tailored.
Note to self: Take Mark shopping someday.
Wait, there is no someday. So there’s nothing to take him shopping for. I strike that idea from my agenda.
Besides, the here and now is too much fun.
His mom wears a straw hat and khakis, too. Maybe they have a family crest in khaki. She even wears a polo shirt. It’s white. Because of course it is.
I stop at the deep end of the pool, shamelessly listening.
His mother peers at the sky. “Are you wearing sunscreen? Melanoma is an epidemic in Florida.”
“Mom, I’m always wearing sunscreen,” Mark says as I near them.
“But you have to make sure it’s a particular kind of sunscreen,” his father puts in. “Especially in Florida. Everything’s much more dangerous here. Did you hear about the lightning strike last week? June is the deadliest month for lightning in Florida, so we have to be vigilant.”
“I will keep an eye out for lightning,” Mark says, and somehow, in some way, I bet Mark will find a way to be a lightning ranger.
“It might even hit that red car in the driveway. Please tell me you got insurance on it. Those things are dangerous. I heard about them blowing up.”
“Mom, it’s a different make of car that blows up. One with a faulty electrical system,” Mark says as they near me, and he meets my gaze, his eyes sayingI told you so about my family.
She waves a hand airily. “My point exactly. You have to be very careful with everything.”
“Mark opted into the insurance. And he’s quite an excellent driver,” I say to Mark’s parents, who snap their gazes to me at the same time.
“You must be the lovely Mrs. Banks,” I say to his mother, extending a hand. “Your daughter is wonderful and my best friend is madly in love with her.”
She beams at me. “That makes me so happy to hear.”
“And it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I say to Mark’s dad, shaking his hand too.
“And you as well,” his father says.
“This is Asher St. James,” Mark cuts in, finishing the intros. “He’s . . .”
My rabid desire to tease the hell out of this man rises up, and I sincerely hope Mark’s struggling with the urge to introduce me asthe guy who banged his brains out last night.
“The best man too,” Mark adds, and those four words come out in a rush.
I ask Mark’s father if he heard about the crocodile fire, and that keeps his parents riveted as I show them the pool, and we dissect the best strategies to avoid dangerous reptiles.
When they’re standing at the edge of the lawn, debating the ideal time to swim, I step closer to Mark, tip my forehead to his parents, and lower my volume. “I understand everything about you now.”
He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Fuck you.”
Funny, but I understand that, too, and what it does to my chest.
Squeezes it.
