She hums, like she’s deep in thought. “Is he hot?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately. “But also smug.”
She laughs. “Then when you return from Miami, maybe you’ll need to do something fun. A little self-care in the form of dating again. You should finally let me set you up with my friend Gwen from my Zumba class. And if you’re not into her, then the creative director at my agency is smoking hot, too. Josh has got the whole cute nerd vibe working,” she says, waving a hand in front of my face, gesturing to my glasses. “It’s a smorgasbord out there for you, Mark.”
“Possibly,” I mutter. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
But will I ever be? This past year, I’ve been concentrating on Rosie. She took the divorce hard. I’ve just wanted to be there for her, not running around dating strangers. I don’t have the time. Bridget and I had agreed to parent fifty-fifty. But she has a job with her new wine merchant beau that requires travel.
So guess who does at least two thirds of the parenting? This guy.
That makes dating tough. But even if it didn’t, the prospect of dinner and drinks with someone new sounds equal parts exciting and horrifying. The last time I dated, I lived in a dorm.
Although I’m definitely eager to get back in the sex saddle.
It’s been a while.
A long, long while of just me and my hand.
If dirty thoughts were an origin story for a superhero, I’d be Captain Filthy Mind. But there’s a big difference between entertaining my long list of sex wishes alone at night and going out and getting them.
What would Asher do if he knew I had a spreadsheet buried on my laptop, with nearly a hundred lines dedicated to various fantasies?
He’d laugh his ass off, that’s what.
Good thing that sucker is password protected.
“When you’re ready, I’ll be your matchmaker,” Valencia says as Rosie rushes over, Alba by her side, the bats, balls and gloves all neatly sorted.
“We cleaned up, and now I’m ready for a burrito with my bestie,” Rosie announces.
“And fro-yo. Can we go to that new shop?” Alba asks.
“Yes! We have to try the pineapple-mango-coconut cake flavor.”
“With Gummi Bears and Sno-Caps on top,” Alba adds, intensely serious, and I have a feeling they’ve been planning their dessert all day. Goals.
Then, before I can remind her, Rosie remembers her manners and turns to Alba’s mom. “Thank you for taking me with you to dinner.”
“And thank you for taking care of Blackbeard while I’m gone, too,” I tell Valencia.
Rosie lifts a finger, all six-year-old bossy, as she sometimes is. “He gets two-thirds of a cup of cat food a day. That’s sixty-six percent of a cup. Well, almost sixty-seven.”
With an eyebrow arch, Valencia stares daggers at me. “This is your fault, Mark. All this mathing.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I happily take the blame.”
I say goodbye to my friend, then my kid and hers, and hoof it several blocks south to the designer’s showroom.
Fashion is not my thing. Shopping for my own suits is a bit like changing cat litter. A necessary chore.
Just like this outing with Asher.
That’s what this outing isā¤just another task. This mental trick works just fine until I reach Thirteenth Street, where my gaze lands on a tall, toned, ridiculously good-looking guy jogging down the block.
Effortlessly.
Looking really fucking good, and yeah, it’s a good thing Rosie isn’t here since I'm thinking about item 2B on my spreadsheet.
Focus, Mark.
Asher stops in front of me, looks at his wrist. “Damn, I impress myself. Forty minutes. Made it exactly on time,” he says, sounding insanely pleased.
I lift a brow. “You’re congratulating yourself for making it on time? Do you pat yourself on the back when you remember to brush your teeth, too?”
He shoots me a mega-watt smile, all gleaming teeth, and perfect lips. “Maybe I do, Banks. Maybe I do.”
“To each his own,” I say, as Asher eyes me up and down.
“I had no idea you owned anything other than your Wall Street uniforms,” he remarks, his gaze traveling over my navy-blue polo shirt and jeans.
“Well, it’s laundry day. Dieter, my valet, is brushing and steaming my wardrobe this afternoon. Straightening the pinstripes. You know.”
A wrinkle appears in the center of Asher’s forehead. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody is really named Dieter.”
“The second you think that, you run into someone named Dieter.” I take a beat. “That’s a mathematical probability.”
Asher looks doubtful. “Sounds more like coincidence. Admit it. They’re one and the same,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. I try not to follow the path of his fingers, but dammit, my gaze strays for a fraction of a second.
Probability of me making it through the next hour without thinking about 2C on my fantasy spreadsheet? Captain Filthy Mind says five percent.
So I return to his first question, answering it finally. “And yes, I own seven polos, five T-shirts, and three pairs of jeans. I don’t wear suits to my daughter’s softball games.”
That brings a smile back to his face. “I didn’t know your kid liked sports.”
“Of course you didn’t. You don’t know me.” And that came out snappish.
Asher rolls his eyes, like can you believe this guy. “I’m well aware of that.”
Why am I such a dick around him? Just because I can’t handle this inconvenient attraction? Man up, Banks.
I redirect my attitude. “Rosie loves softball. And she wants to try hockey too,” I say, aiming to inject more goodwill in my tone, and also to talk about anything besides clothes, so I don’t mention how good he looks in that tight not-a-T-shirt, not-a-polo, I-have-no-idea-what-it’s-called, but it’s short sleeve and just the right amount of snug to show off his pecs, and his biceps . . .
And that’s not helping.
We head inside, and I hope this fitting ends mercifully fast.
6
A COUPLE OF HIGH-NET-WORTH FLAMINGOES
ASHER
Angel Sanjay’s showroom is on the first floor of an old meatpacking house. The place is newly done up in riotous colors from the old wooden floors to the industrial rafters. A vintage neon sign advertises double-breasted suits, alongside a mannequin wearing a navy blazer over a tie-dyed tuxedo shirt. There’s even a Triumph motorcycle parked beside a captain’s chair.
Beside me, Mark whistles softly. “Now, I don’t think we’re in Target anymore, Toto.”
Chuckling, I take in the staid leather furniture and the brightly colored men’s shirts. “Not even in the same country. This place is basically the love child of Ralph Lauren and a Parisian bordello. Isn’t it great?”
Mark’s face says that he does not, in fact, think this mash-up is great. But he doesn’t get a chance to say so, because the designer himself strides toward us, his smile wide, his dark curly hair shining in the retail lighting.
“Asher! It’s great to see you again.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “So sorry that we couldn’t get you in here last week. I was in Milan. Then seeing family in New Delhi. Returned last night.”