Page 87 of The Best Men
And I don't normally miss hookups.
Although the whole wedding thing is probably just getting to me. Watching two people tie their lives together forever makes you think about all the big questions in life.
Next week, I’ll probably put this all behind me, right? I’ll be back to having deep thoughts about the EuroCup final, and whether or not I can order naan bread with my Indian food without developing a gut.
“Hey, let's go have a whiskey,” Flip says, out of the blue.
“Sure, man. I could run to the liquor store.”
“No—I meant let’s go to South Beach. Just the two of us, for old times’ sake. One more time to that place on Collins. With the models?”
“That's every place on Collins.” I take a surreptitious look at my smartwatch. “It's ten-thirty already. It will take us a half an hour to get there and park, though. You sure you’re up for a late night?”
Flip snorts. “Whoareyou? Ten-thirty is, like, lunchtime for you. Am I right?”
The man has a point. But I’m not willing to admit it. “Just want you to get your beauty sleep. Those wedding photos are forever.”
“Uh-huh.” Flip taps the ash from his cigar into the bay. “Look, I have a couple things to discuss with you.”
“What are they? We can just talk here.”
He shakes his head. Then he grabs my arm and tows me toward the window of the house. It's all lit up inside, and we're looking in at the giant den.
Where Mark Banks is currently passed out on a huge L-shaped sofa. His daughter is asleep beside him, too, her head on his arm, her cute mouth slack.
It’s really freaking cute. Like, ridiculously so. My heart warms in an unfamiliar way as I gaze at them.
“See? Your roommate is busy right now anyway,” Flip says.
And I stop breathing. What is he saying exactly? I’ll admit nothing. But I brace myself for questions.
“Come have a drink with me,” is all he says, though. “I’m pulling the best man card on your ass. This is it. This is my hour of need.”
“Sure,” I say, turning away from the window. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
On the way out the door, I send a text to the sleeping hottie as surreptitiously as I can.
* * *
Forty minutes later, we’re seated in a bar on Collins designed to look like a smug wanker’s private library from the Victorian era. A buxom model in a maid’s uniform pours us each a glass of Macallan and charges me one hundred dollars. Plus tip.
“Now, what did you need to discuss with me?” I ask after the first sip.
“Couple things,” he says, reclining against his wingback chair. “The first one is that I want you to be the baby’s godfather.”
I cough on the next sip and scorch my lungs with peaty scotch. “Really? Me?”
“Why not you? Who else would I ask?”
“Mark Banks,” I say immediately. “He’s the obvious choice.”
“But I’m asking you,” Flip says, setting his glass down on the marble-topped table between our matching chairs. “Besides, it’s a ceremonial job, Ash. A figurehead position. Nothing is going to happen to Hannah and me. You get to be the fun uncle in this situation. It’s your forte.”
The fun uncle. He’s right. That’s kind of my role in life. “I’m honored, Flip. Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” He picks up his scotch. “Now, speaking of Mark Banks . . .”
Uh-oh.
