Page 26 of The Best Men
Why do I think he’s setting me up again? Oh right, since it’s his favorite pastime. “You didn’t really rent a car? You ordered a surprise helicopter to fly us to the . . .”
My joke dies when we arrive in front of a sleek ruby-red car that gleams like a just-polished fire truck.
The hood of the swank Porsche 911 convertible catches Asher’s reflection, and my too cool, too charming, too good-looking traveling companion grins at the vehicle like a most satisfied man.
I look up at the rental company’s lit sign above the parking space for confirmation of what I already know. In brightly lit all caps it reads: ASHER ST. JAMES.
This guy.
He does everything big.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I gesture to the wheels. “Do you do anything the ordinary way? Or is your whole life super-size?”
“We’re inMiami, Banks. What else would I rent? Or wait. Are you worried about your hair getting messed up?”
“Nah. I was more concerned about you. I don’t want it to affect your next Pantene commercial.”
With a laugh, he tosses the keys up and down in his palm. “Want me to take it back? Get a Subaru instead? Or how about a hatchback? Something with room for groceries and your chess sets in the back?”
I burn a little inside. This guy doesn’t understand that not everyone gets a shot to be Mr. Big Time. Some of us live in a different reality.
And, fine, I’m annoyed that he can get my goat better than my sister did when we were kids.
Yet nothing about being with Asher feels familial.
Everything feels . . . tingly.
Even this car.
We both move at the same time. And we both move in the same direction?right to the driver’s side of the candy-apple wet dream of a car. In fact, we get there at nearly the same instant. But Asher reaches for the door handle first.
In a flash, I picture exactly what I want. It’s not on my spreadsheet. It’s not sex. It’s just a taste ofthislife.His life.
I grab his hand, curling mine over it to stop him.
His grin burns off as he turns to meet my gaze, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Maybe from the feel of my hand on his?
A dangerous hope ignites inside me—the wish that I could turn him on.
But I doubt that’s possible. A guy like him wouldn’t want anything to do with a guy like me.
And I should take my hand off his. I really should. But I don’t.
I also don’t ask for what I want.
Itell.
“I’ll drive,” I say. Firm and clear.
Asher’s face registers my command in slow motion. His hazel eyes twinkle, then his lips crook into a curious grin. “Be my guest, Banks.”
At last, I let go of his hand so he can take it off the car handle. When I do, he presses the keys into my open palm, and heat curls through my body from that barest touch.
I swallow roughly, wanting this second to last a little longer, and wanting to escape from it too.
But it ends, as all good things do. We toss our carry-ons into the trunk, then crisscross, Asher heading to the passenger side, me back to the driver’s side.
Once I sink into the beige leather seat and adjust the mirrors, I groan. “Fuck. I can’t drive this car.”
