Page 111 of The Best Men
“Are you okay?” my mother asks.
“Yes,” I say quickly. But I’m all turmoil inside. I’m going to have to talk to Asher and admit that I want more. That all these ideas forming in my head involve him?another morning, another night, and then the next ones too.
Hell, he probably won’t agree. He likes the single life. And lord knows I wouldn’t be an obvious choice for him—a guy with long hours and a child. Kids aren’t in his future, he’d said.
Shit.
“Mark?” My mother touches my arm. “You look distracted. Did you hear what I was saying?”
“Um, sorry. What was that?”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Can you believe a house this size has not a single casserole dish?”
“That’s . . . wow.” My poker face comes in handy. “Who knew?”
“I had to prep my casserole in askillet,” she says with a sigh. “But it will still taste good. It’s not a party without ham casserole and potato chip topping.” She turns on her heel and marches out of the room.
“Fuck!”This outburst brought to you by ham casserole, potato chip topping, and also by some other frustrations.
How am I going to convince Asher that I’m worth the trouble? It won’t be easy. But I’m up for the challenge. I won’t back down.
At least Hannah is not at the top of my worry list. She puts a hand over her mouth and giggles. “You tried, Mark. And I do appreciate it.”
“I did try. And I failed.”
“It’s okay,” she chirps, her mood bulletproof. “Everything is going to work out.”
If only I was sure she was right.
* * *
I return to the guest house, which is still empty. I shower and shave. It’s nine-thirty, so I’ve got a half hour until pictures.
Where the hell is Asher?
Leaving the bathroom with a towel around my waist, I go looking for both Asher and my best man suit. But in the doorway to his room, I pull up short.
He’s back, standing by the bed, tapping on his phone.
And something is very, very different about him.
“Whoa!” I gasp. “You cut your hair.”
He lifts his chin, seeming distracted at first, but that look disappears when he meets my gaze. He holds up his phone. “My PA is trying to reach me on a Saturday morning. I hope it’s not another Commando bulge fiasco.”
I barely hear him, because I’m still gobsmacked by his new style. “What did you do?”
He lifts a hand and runs it through the short, sandy-colored strands. “I asked the hair and makeup lady to give me a quick cut. Not so floofy now, huh?”
“No . . .” I’m kind of in awe of his shorter style, and how monumentally sexy he is no matter what. “It’ll be harder to hold onto now. Harder totugon.” Although I’m willing to try right fucking now.
“I suppose it would.” He licks his lips. And I’m a hundred percent certain that we’re both having exactly the same thought. If he dropped to his knees and loosened my towel, we could test the tuggability of his new short hair.
But I still want to know why he trimmed it this morning. “Why did you cut it?”
“Yeah, about that,” he says, taking his time, looking just shy of sheepish as his eyes pin mine. “I did it for you.”
My heart flutters.Fucking flutters. I no longer care about tuggability. “You did it for me?” I repeat because I can’t quite believe it.
