“I am here, so now we can begin,” Asher says, his too sexy, too rumbly voice floating through the apartment, coasting down my back and making my skin prickle.
Whoever invented the idea of lust is pissing me off.
But it’s poker face time.
As Asher joins the crew, I focus on the other guests in the kitchen, making small talk with Oscar and Felicity, a pair of Brits who are here from Paris, and Archie and Danya from a few blocks away. They ask if I know some dude at some hedge fund, and some other dude at a private equity firm. I act interested in flipping through my Wall Street rolodex since it helps me avoid the guy several feet away who turns me on and frustrates me at the same damn time.
Once it’s time for dinner, Hannah shows me to my chair at the dining room table.
Right next to Asher.
That’s not gonna fly. I scan my brain for a good excuse to sit someplace else when my phone rings. Hannah gives me a look that translates to turn your phone off at dinner.
But I grab it from my pocket and waggle it at her. “Rosie’s calling to say goodnight,” I explain, then slip into the living room, relieved to get away from the object of my inconvenient desire.
Rosie and I chat about her day at school, then I say goodnight. “Love you, cupcake,” I tell her.
“Love you too, Daddy,” she says as a fork clinks on a glass from the dining room.
I hang up the phone and prepare to enter the lust zone once more.
STANDING WOULD BE A BAD IDEA
MARK
As I head toward the dining room, the conversation grows louder.
“Asher, if you’re going to make one of your epic toasts, may it not take an hour this time,” Danya says with a laugh. “We’ve got to get home to our sitter by ten. Ticktock.”
“And how is my adorable little Elizabeth Ann the Second doing?” Asher asks.
“Such a darling. We love her so much,” Danya says. “Thank you again.”
Why is she thanking him for her kid?
“Here’s to shivering puppies in newspaper kiosks finding their forever homes,” Asher says. “Apparently, I’m a dog matchmaker now too.”
Are you kidding me? Elizabeth Ann is a dog, and Asher both saved her and found her a home? Can’t he just be hot? Nope. He’s hot, and cocky, and he’s a dog superhero.
Fuck you, lust.
As I enter the dining room, Asher clinks his glass to Danya’s.
“Mark, isn’t this amazing? Asher found a home for Elizabeth the shivering Border Collie,” Hannah calls out.
“Amazing. Should have named her Dictionary,” I say, turning to Hannah and plastering on a smile—as I walk straight into Asher’s outstretched arm.
The one that’s holding his glass.
And the drink goes upside down.
All over me.
Great. Just great.
Now I’m wearing his champagne on my chest. I stare down at my navy polo, soaked through with expensive bubbly.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m so sorry,” Asher says.
“It’s fine,” I mutter.
“Mark, I can get you a fresh shirt,” Flip calls out.
Yeah, that’d be a no. But I don’t have time to politely decline, since Asher says, “Here. Let me help.”
How does he plan to help?
I look up.
Wait. Nope. Not that. That is not helpful.
This can’t be happening. No way is he taking off his shirt in front of all of us. In front of me.
“There’s no need for you to wear a soaked shirt all night when that was my fault, Mark,” Asher says.
“I’m fine,” I blurt out, because his shirtlessness must stop. I can’t handle it.
It’s possible Danya is laughing.
Hannah might be catcalling.
Flip is shouting something about Magic Mike.
And I do nothing, because the guy standing next to me undoes the last button on his tight, designer shirt, exposing all of that smooth skin, flecked with chest hair that I want to run my hands through.
My mouth waters, and I officially hate lust right now.
Clenching my fists, I fight the overwhelming urge to rip that shirt off him the rest of the way, explore that unreal six-pack. Wait. Is that an eight-pack? My eyes dart briefly, taking in the details of those muscles as I sit down.
Standing any longer would be a very bad idea.
Asher strips off the shirt completely, then hands it to me. “Here you go.”
Not sure I can speak right now. But at this point, the only thing I have left is my dignity, so I wave off the clothes. “I’m fine.”
When Asher sits next to me, still shirtless, he spreads a napkin across his lap and shoots me a cocky grin. “Yeah. You said that already, Banks,” he says, then returns his focus to the dinner party, telling a story about a photo shoot in Paris.
I settle in for a long, painful meal in my champagne-soaked shirt.
In spite of my warnings, Hannah moves in with Flip a few weeks later.