“I’ll live,” he says. “But I suspect drinking tonight is probably not in my best interests.”
“I have to agree with you there,” I say with a chuckle. “Unless you really enjoy apologizing. I know I enjoyed watching you apologize.”
He gives me a dark look, but doesn’t bother to respond. Understandable. That comment was more for my amusement. Which, let’s be honest, a lot of things I do are.
But there was one I’m so sorry I definitely wanted a front seat to. I clear my throat. “I noticed I didn’t get one.”
“An apology?” Mark snorts, furrowing his brow. “Unless you’re going to the chapel after knocking up my sister, I don’t think I insulted you.”
A laugh bursts from my chest. “Something no one will accuse me of. Ever.”
“Then we’re all good,” he says.
I give an easy shrug. “Sure, sure. I guess I don’t require one. After all, you did say I was hot. Nothing to be sorry for there. You’re absolutely right.” Then I flash him a grin. A damn good one, and I know how to give them. Though, as a rule, I don’t flirt with straight men. Waste of time, right? But why did Mark say I was hot? Where did that come from?
But the loose-lipped texter is hard to read. He’s shooting me an I-can’t-be-bothered look. Damn. Mark Banks must kill it at poker. He has some impressive bluffing skills. “That was just the whiskey talking,” he says evenly.
I scoff-laugh. “Right. Of course. Whiskey often goes on and on about levels of hotness.”
“Like I said, you can’t trust the words of a single-malt scotch,” he says.
Hmm.
So that’s how he’s spinning this. Well, two can play that game. “You may be right. It is hard to trust the liquor, so I better refresh my memory to make sure I got it all correct.” I stop, grab my phone from my pocket, and whip it out, sliding a thumb across the screen.
Mark cuts in quickly. “There’s no need for that.”
Ha. Now I’ve rattled him. I clear my throat, and read aloud my new favorite text message ever. “Also, what is the deal with your friend with the hair?”
I glance up from the phone, tilt my head. “You noticed my hair. So sweet,” I say, giving a shake of the locks.
“It’s impossible not to. It enters the room before you do.”
“Allow me to continue. Why is it so floopy . . . wait . . . floppy . . . nope . . . it’s floofy. His hair is floofy.” I look up. “Is floofy even a word?”
He answers my question head-on. “Yes. It’s a combo of poofy and fluffy.”
Well, he’s a worthier adversary than I expected. All the more reason to keep going. “My hair is not poofy, Banks. It’s shaggy. But we’re not even at the best part of your epic rant.” I inhale deeply, savoring what’s to come. The piece de resistance.
He knocks back his orange juice, and kudos to the man. He’s taking the text message reenactment like, well, like a champ.
I brandish my phone, savoring every single second. “Anyway, whose hair looks like a shampoo commercial? Who takes off his shirt at a dinner party? Who has a body that annoyingly perfect? He’s not even real. He’s like a fucking comic book hero in those graphic novels I used to read. Here he comes . . . FLIP’S SUPERHOT . . . WINGMAN! Asher, with his stupid hair and stupid lips and ridiculous body. Who even looks that good in real life, Hannah? No one. Just no one.”
There’s more, but really, I need to bask a little longer in the glow of compliments. I tap my lip. “You’re right, Banks. I do not at all require an apology for this ode to me. In fact, I ought to give you a thanks,” I say, bringing a hand to my heart. “This made my week.”
“You’re welcome,” he snarls.
I should let him off the hook now, and circulate a bit here at the party.
Yet I can’t just drop it. Everything I thought I knew about Mark Banks is suddenly in question. Is he the fun-phobic banker I thought I knew? Who is this guy who invents words to describe my hair, and has deep thoughts about my abs?
I’m pretty sure straight guys don’t refer to other dudes as superhot.
Which makes me wonder if he’s not as straight as I thought.
Maybe I can get him to clarify. I tap my phone one more time. “I do have one last question about this description—superhot wingman. That must mean there are levels of hotness. So, Banks. Tell me. Where does the scale start?”
This is when he’ll back down. Talk in circles. Run away. I’d be willing to bet my sexy new Nikon on it.
Mark takes a breath, meets my gaze head-on. “Yeah, St. James. There are definitely hotness scales for, well, lots of things. Starts at basic hot. And, to be honest, lots of things are basic hot. Like, for instance, when someone can do square roots in his or her head, that’s basic hot.”
I blink. What the hell? He’s talking math now?
Mark continues, counting off on his fingers. “Superhot comes next. That’s, like, knowing all the openings in chess, and their variations.” He lets out a low hum that kind of rumbles past his lips, like he thinks that’s the height of seduction.
I scratch my jaw, trying to figure out where he’s going with this.
“Then you have extra hot,” he continues, all smooth talker like he’s the slick trader in a movie featuring a bunch of sharks on Wall Street. Or wait, is it wolves? “And that’s understanding probabilities. Exampleā¸¤in any group of twenty-three people, there’s a fifty percent chance that two of them have the same birthday.” He taps his temple.
My brow knits. I part my lips, but words are hard to find. Because I think he just danced a whole math-word circle around me. I tap my chest. “Did you just compare me to a mathematician?”
He pushes his glasses higher up on his nose. “Stay with me, St. James. I said superhot was the person who could play chess. Extra hot is higher math. That’s the highest level of hotness.”
“I’m not even at the top of your hot scale?”
“It’s a sliding scale,” he says, lifting his juice and finishing it. “Anyway, like I said, lots of things are hot. A double play to get out of a bases-loaded jam, buying Apple stock in 1991, a chocolate molten lava cake with vanilla ice cream. Doing math for fun. I could go on. My remarks mean nothing, because many, many things are hot, and you just shouldn't trust whiskey.”
Holy fuck.
Mark Banks, mild-mannered banker, just twisted my tongue with his hotness sliding scale of mental math. Even if he backpedaled his way out of that jam. Even if he did it with a whole lot of smoke and mirrors.
He did it.
And that’s just hot, hot, hot.
The highest level on the Asher St. James scale.
But he’s still the guy who doesn’t like my bud.
And he still dresses like my dad.
So I’m not about to bend, even if he won’t admit he wants to run his fingers through my so-not-floofy hair.
At least, I thought he did.
But now, I’m not so positive after all.
Dammit.
So that fishing expedition gave me nothing.
And yet, I toss out the bait one more time, swiping up on the thread. “But there is one thing that I keep tripping on.” I clear my throat, adopt his sexy, rumbly voice. “Asher, with his stupid hair and stupid lips and ridiculous body. Who even looks that good in real life, Hannah? No one. Just no one.”