Page 128 of The Best Men
His tone is cooler than ice.
“I’ve heard warmer greetings from a Beefeater at Buckingham Palace.”
His brow pinches, but Mark has always been fast with his mouth. “And do you spend a lot of time with them?”
“What?” My head spins. “No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because,” I stammer, and fuck, I should have planned this moment. I had a whole flight to decide what to say and how to say it.
But I’m not a planner. Especially right now, when I feel like my organs barely fit into my body. I meet the gaze of the man who’s been living rent-free in my consciousness for all these weeks. Now he’s standing right in front of me. And it’s like I’m sixteen again and staring at my crush. I don’t know what to say.
“So, you’re here,” I say. Then I want to kick my own ass for that stupid observation.Nice, St. James. You’re killing it, here.
He lifts his beer, brings the bottle to his lips, takes a drink. That lucky bottle. When he sets it down, he licks the corner of his mouth, and hell if I can focus now. “So you’re back in New York for the party. That . . . makes sense.”
“Well, you only turn thirty once.”
He practically rolls his eyes. “You wouldn't want to miss a chance to have a good time.” Mark glances around like he’s looking for someone. “Are you here with . . .”
“With? Who would I be here with? I came for . . .” The word gets lodged in my throat. I’m fucking this up. Big time. “I wouldn’t miss this chance for the world. I had a thing that got canceled. I was supposed to be in Barcelona for a FLI event but it was moved.”
“Ah,” he says, like my answer makes perfect sense. “So, you basically had a free slot in your schedule?”
“Well, yes. But . . .” I hate how awkward this is. This isn’t how Mark and I talk. We’re nothow’s your skedguys. We poke and spar. So naturally, I say the exact wrong thing as I tug at the sleeve of his maroon polo. “Nice shirt.”
His jaw ticks. “Seriously? You don’t give me a heads-up you’re coming, you show up, say you had a cancelation, and you mock my clothes?”
It’s easier.
It’s fucking easier than telling you why I’m here.
The words crawl up my throat, but sayingI want youhardly conveys why I got on that plane ten hours ago.
And saying I’m here for Fliphardly does either.
Lord knows, I’m still trying to sort out this tangled knot of emotions in my chest.
“That’s not what I need to say,” I try again.
He smiles with his lips closed. “It’s all good. We’re good. You don’t need to think of things to say to me. I’m just . . . some guy you used to know and it’s fine. Let’s not make a big deal of this. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, then threads his way through the crowd at the speed of light, like he did in the club that night, heading toward the hallway. And like that night, I’m not going to let him go.
I follow him, and when he turns the corner, I call his name. “Mark.”
He doesn’t turn around.
“Wait!” So many words clog my throat.
I was dying to see you.
I was hoping you’d be here.
I had no idea what to say.
But I’d always intended to go skydiving on Flip’s thirtieth, so I guess it’s time to leap out of this plane. “I was hoping you’d be here,” I say to the back of his head.
His entire body goes still. But he says nothing as he turns, stares at me. Our eyes lock, like two fighters.
