Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Okay, yup. Last night happened. And it’s all a little hard to take in.
I blew Asher St. James. And he liked it.
Then? He made me see stars.
But do I panic? No way. I’m not a guy who panics. I’m the man who doubles down when the ten-year note breaks out of its trading range. I’m the dad who calmly bandages the cut on his daughter’s finger while her mother freaks out in the other room.
This is no cause to freak out. I'm living my best life right now. Yup, that's a cliché. But now, I know why the saying exists. For moments like this.
I roll over, fully awake. And so is my cock, now that I'm ogling Asher. I slip a hand down my bare stomach, the same one Asher traced with his tongue. And I wrap my hand around . . .
My phone vibrates again.
Ugh. That call could be important. We have a million errands scheduled this morning.
I slide my loose body off the bed, grab my glasses and put them on, then hunt down my phone in the pocket of my discarded khakis.
Hannah’s calling, so I swipe to answer. “Morning.” My voice is rough with disuse.
“Mark! How's Miami?” she trills.
If she only knew. “It's great,” I manage as Asher rolls over with a groan.
And, wow, that view. His famous hair is messy from me running my hands through it. And that toned, biteable body is spread out on the sheets.
I step into the living room, so I can’t get too distracted. And so that Hannah won't hear whatever it is that Asher says when he wakes from a night of impulsive sex.
“Miami is great,” I repeat. “It's like Disney World for grown-ups.” Horny grownups.
“That’s great, Mark. You deserve a vacation.”
“I do,” I agree. I deserve this moment of reckless fun and mayhem. I have two more kid- and job-free days in the sultry sun. And I’m going to live it up.
I glance out of the guest house window. A young man stands maybe twenty feet away, a pool skimmer in his hand. His T-shirt says Bobby’s Pool and Spa.
And he’s staring at my naked body with a funny little smile on his face.
Oops.
I walk quickly into my bedroom and shut the door. “What’s up, Hannah Banana? Everything okay with you? Any cold feet?”
“No way.” She laughs. “But feel free to send me some more drunk texts about my life choices. That was very entertaining.”
I scrub my face with my hand, but I’m smiling at the same time. “I’m trying to cut back. Does Flip still think I hate him?”
Her hesitation is revealing. “Hate is a strong word. Wary is more like it.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry. He comes from a different world, you know? But that’s not his fault. And it’s not necessarily a bad thing. I let it bother me when I shouldn’t have.”
“It’ll be all right,” she insists. “We’ll laugh about it one day. How are things with Flip’s superhot wingman?”
“Fine,” I say briskly, offering no further details. But my neck is probably turning red.
“Good.”
And it’s good, too, that my baby sister can’t see me right now. Eventually—some night in the distant future—I might confess last night’s fling to Hannah. But we’re definitely not talking about it now. First of all, because she’d ask a lot of questions that I can’t answer. Like—will it happen again?
I hope so. After all, we’re sharing this tiny house for a couple more nights. That seems like the obvious timeframe.
But also, it’s a distraction. Hannah sent me to Miami to make her wedding special. And I don’t need her worrying that I’m too punch drunk to fulfill my duties.
“Hey, Mark? Thanks for checking in with the florist yesterday.”
“No problem. They’re going to do a good job. Today I’ll check on the caterer. I want to look every vendor in the eye before Saturday, so they know I’m paying attention.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate this. Today I’ll be busy staring at my phone, hoping the dressmaker finishes her alterations in time for me to make our flight tomorrow.”
“I’m sure she will,” I say soothingly. I find a fresh pair of underwear and step into them. And I follow those with a pair of shorts. “I’d better run. I’ve got things to do.”
Like Asher St. James. If I’m lucky.
“Go, go!” she says. “Taste those appetizers! And do me a favor? Hide all the casserole dishes in the kitchen of that house.”
“You got it. I won’t let you down.”
She signs off after a little more chatter about the dress.
I tiptoe into the living room, but the pool boy is gone, and Asher is brushing his teeth. So I head into the kitchen to start the coffee, but Asher has already done it.
And that’s where the panic finds me—as I stand in front of the coffee maker, mug in hand, waiting for the pot to fill. I breathe in the hopeful scent of coffee, wondering what the hell Asher will say when he comes into the kitchen.