“Thank you, sir,” the fitter says, carrying the clothing to the rolling garment bar as carefully as if they were priceless artifacts.
I deliver my clothes to him as well. “Thank you for your help today. I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Dieter,” he says. “And serving you was my pleasure today.”
A thunk sounds from behind the curtain, and Dieter rolls out of the room with the trolley, leaving me with my jaw unhinged.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. Then I dart over to the curtained corner and peek inside. “Did you hear . . .?”
Mark did indeed. Shirtless, he’s leaning against the wall, hands pressed to his face, laughing silently.
I lose it too. Laughter shakes me. But I’m not too incapacitated to notice that a half-dressed Mark is a lickable Mark. He’s got a slimmer frame than I do. A runner’s build, all lean muscle and smooth skin. My eyes take in the details, the grooves and divots of his abs, the cut of his arms, the tease of a happy trail.
I stop laughing when I notice his fly is open, revealing a tight pair of red boxer briefs with a generous bulge behind them.
Red. Our banker has red underwear. It’s like waving a flag at a bull. I’m going to be picturing him in nothing but those for the rest of the week.
Just shoot me.
7
FIRST CLASS VIRGIN
TUESDAY
MARK
After spending all that time in close quarters with Asher, I have a new theory—that he moonlights as a stripper.
Who the hell is that comfortable showing so much skin?
And another thing.
I’m going to need a whole new approach to dealing with him.
For instance, I know plenty of words that contain more than one syllable. But around Asher and his so-damn-charming ways, I’m reduced to speaking like a caveman.
When we finally escape the close confines of the fitting room, spilling out onto the street at rush hour, I shove the thoughts of his abs, and arms, and V-cut far from my head.
I pluck at my navy-blue shirt. “Just a heads-up. Tomorrow I’ll be wearing another polo. Call it . . .” I wave a hand airily, like he’d do, “. . . polo number two. So, if you find yourself shirtless again, just let me know, and I’ll pack some extras for you.” I hook my thumb eastward, and confirm the pickup plan for tomorrow. “On that note, see you in the morning. Bright and early.”
He studies me for several long seconds. “Bright and early,” he repeats, and the smooth, suave guy sounds a little bit flummoxed, too.
Score one for the nerd.
That night, I do some light bedtime reading on the science of why stuff works, like elastic waistbands in underwear and the bendy metal in a paperclip. Yup, that’s my armor to gird myself against all those errant sex thoughts.
It does the trick, too. It’s like my brain is conducting a clean install, free of Asher St. James.
I’ve got this.
The next morning, I’m no longer a hot, bothered, turned-on mess.
I wake up a new man. While the sky is still dark, I shower—cold, of course—and get dressed for the flight in a gray polo and khaki shorts.
I dry off my hair, hang up the towel, and then head to my bedroom to zip up my suitcase. The task is complicated by the orange fluff ball in it, staring at me with one eye. I could have named him Orange Beard, but that’s not a thing. So Blackbeard it is for my orange cat. “You can’t come with me, dude. Plus, the belly of a plane is no fun for a mammal,” I say, lugging him out of my carry-on.
He protests with a beleaguered meow, clearly annoyed that I disrupted his travel plans.
“The kitty wants to go to Florida,” Rosie declares from the hall then bounds into the bedroom to scoop up the creature from the floor and pepper him with kisses. “Valencia will take good care of you,” she says, then sets him down.
We head to the tiny kitchen that’s about the size of a broom closet. “Only three more days before I get to go to Florida too,” Rosie says, then yanks open the fridge and grabs a yogurt.
“Lucky you,” I say, as I grab one too, still wishing I didn’t have to head to Miami so early.
But hey, I can do this. My new Zen outlook means I won’t be bedeviled by 6B, or 7C, or 9D, and definitely not sixty-nine.
As Rosie dips a spoon into her yogurt, she says, “Do you know what I like most about yogurt?”
“That it’s not eggs?” I ask drily, lifting one brow.
“Yes! Yolks are so gross, Daddy,” she says, and I offer her a hand to high five.
“That is proof you’re my kid. Forget the numbers stuff. Detesting eggs is evidence of the power of genetics.”
Once we finish, my phone bleats with Bridget’s ringtone. So it begins.