I lift my gaze from the screen. Mark simply stares at me with those dark blue inscrutable eyes. “Yes, Asher?”
If there’s something wrong with my mouth⏤and no one has ever complained about it before⏤I have to know. “How are my lips stupid?”
3
DOUBLE SCREWED
MARK
Because they make me think about things I don’t have room for in my life. Like this inconvenient attraction to my sister’s fiancé’s best friend, who relishes goading me.
But I can goad back. I didn’t get my promotion to VP by having zero game.
I know how to negotiate, and I’ve got a plan to shut this conversation down once and for all, then stuff this lust in a suitcase and tuck it away in an attic.
And never unzip it again.
“Let’s make a deal, St. James,” I offer.
“Okay,” he says, tentatively.
“How about we forget I ever said that, and in exchange, I’ll help you make sure you didn’t ruin Hannah’s night?”
He jerks his gaze away from me, gesturing to the guests milling about behind us. “I’m celebrating their engagement with a great party. On twenty-four hours’ notice, no less. How would I have ruined her night? She loves sushi. Also, I might add, when I learned she was pregnant, I threw a party. You threw a fit.”
Time to put him in his place and help Hannah.
I cast my gaze toward the server passing by, carrying a tray full of yellowtail rolls on the gleaming silver plate. “But sushi,” I whisper. “Especially species of fish high in mercury . . . is on the verboten list for pregnant women.”
“Wait.” Asher’s jaw comes unhinged, and for the first time ever, the cocky cavalier playboy is off his game. “Did I . . . really just throw an engagement party where the bride can’t eat any of the food?”
“Seems you did,” I say. “And I figured you knew and would have ordered some cooked fish or edamame. Or I would have said something sooner.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Asher says, then jumps off the stool, waves over the manager, and quickly gives a request. “Big favor, Hiroki, but we’ve got to pivot and serve something cooked right away. Some of my guests are staying away from raw fish.”
“Of course. We’ll get some avocado rolls, shrimp tempura, and edamame out right away,” the man replies, then heads off to the kitchen, and just like that, Asher St. James saves the day.
No wonder he irritates me.
Too smooth.
Too handsome.
Too . . . just everything.
“How did you know that?” he asks when he returns, sounding begrudgingly impressed. “Do you moonlight as a midwife?”
I laugh, in spite of myself. “No. I have a kid, as you may recall. We discussed her at game night, when I said she prefers Chutes and Ladders to Scrabble. And I made sure her mom didn’t eat raw fish or drink too much coffee when she was pregnant.”
“How is Rosie? She was a total delight the time I met her with Hannah at the coffee shop,” he says, remembering her name as easily as he remembered the manager’s.
“Hi Marky Mark!”
I turn to find a college friend of Hannah’s sidling up to me. “Hey Yasmin!” Finally, someone I actually know at this party. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life. Now we can stop talking about Asher’s mouth, for fuck’s sake. “How’s the art market?”
“Bangin.’ I’d ask you about your job, but I wouldn’t understand the answer. So, tell me about your daughter instead. How’s your little cutie-pie? What’s she up to?”
My chest squeezes with happiness, as it usually does when I talk about my favorite person in the universe. “Learning to read, doing both karate and T-ball. Her other skills include keeping me on my toes, and trying to wiggle out of brushing her teeth. She’s just finishing kindergarten.”
“T-Ball! That is totally adorable,” Yasmin says in her cheery voice. “And how’s Bridget? I haven’t seen her in ages.”
My shoulders tense. This is the seriously un-fun part. When I tell people I’m not with Rosie’s mom anymore. “We’re recently divorced,” I say plainly, keeping emotion out of my voice.
Which is somewhat easy to do. I’m not heartbroken about my split. For many reasons.
What I am is bitter. But nobody wants to hear that from a twenty-seven-year-old divorced man.
A hand flies to Yasmin’s mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s fine,” I insist. “Don’t worry about it.” I give her a huge smile to show I don’t care at all. And I won’t. Eventually. That’s what people tell me, anyway.
Even if signing my divorce papers made me feel like a giant fucking failure.
And even if my baby girl cried like she’d never stop the first night my ex stayed at her new man’s apartment.
“Now your daughter is getting a cousin!” Yasmin gushes, shifting gears maybe for both our sakes’. “That is so exciting.”
“Totally exciting,” I repeat, and I can practically feel Asher’s smirk even though I’m not looking at him.
“Well,” Yasmin says brightly, “I think I’ll go and congratulate her again.” She gives me a peck on the cheek and then beelines for Hannah.
I look into my empty juice glass and wish scotch were in there.
“Here,” Asher says, thrusting a bottle of beer in my direction. “I’m sensing you need this.”
“So I can entertain you some more?”
“No,” he says quietly. “Dude, I had no idea your divorce was official. How long ago did that happen?”
“Last month,” I mutter. “Although we’ve been separated for a year.”
He frowns. “So . . . you got divorced the same month that Hannah announced her pregnancy and right before she got engaged?”
“Yup.”
He toys with the label on his beer. “You know, your freak-out is starting to make a little more sense to me. No wonder you let whiskey drive the bus last night.”
I bark out a laugh without meaning to. He’s right, though. My sister is having a shotgun wedding, just like I did six and a half years ago after getting my college girlfriend pregnant. And look how that turned out.
Asher St. James isn’t getting that story, though. No thanks. Or any stories. Earlier, I could hear him fishing for clues about my sexuality. I’m bisexual. I’m not conflicted about it. My family knows.
But my drunken text rant was over-the-top embarrassing. There’s no way I want Asher to think that I was hitting on him. Like his ego needs any more stroking.
More guests come through the door, and he hurries off to greet them. I watch him go. Well, fine, I admire his ass in those trendy, close-fitting pants. Still, Asher is everything I’m not. He’s the life of the party. He was a professional soccer player; now he’s a top photographer of athletes and models. He’s sporty and artsy and smooth.
So damn smooth. Like his clean-shaven face that I bet would feel so good . . .
“Mark!”
I drag my eyes off Asher’s hiney and find my sister and Flip marching toward me. “Yes, Hannah. How’s your party? I heard they’re bringing out some vegetarian rolls, by the way.” I give her a wink.