“Jesus.” His blue eyes are on fire. “Sorry. But . . .” The image of Mark stroking himself has lodged right in the center of my brain, making it hard for me to finish sentences. So I manage to say exactly the wrong thing. I raise my hand into the air and pull a total Katniss. “I volunteer as tribute.”
Mark blinks. “What? You’re teasing me right now? This is when you decide to do that again?”
“No. No, no, nope.” I shake my head. “I tease you a lot. I know. But this time, I’m serious. We could, uh, have a little vacation fun. Totally harmless fun.” I’m practically babbling right now.
And I don’t babble. The last time I was this flustered was five years ago when a bull ran onto the field mid-match during a game against Barcelona. For the long moments between the bull’s invasion and the ref’s whistle, I couldn’t decide whether to run down the ball or cover my balls.
This is almost exactly the same situation. I can’t figure out if I should dive to safety through the screen door, or start stripping off my clothing like a go-go dancer who’s late for his shift.
I prefer the second option.
13
THIS COULD BE THE BIG ONE
MARK
I cannot believe the words coming out of this man’s mouth.
“There’s no such thing as totally harmless fun,” I say, sounding just as uptight as the duchess from the show. But I don’t do well with surprises.
And Asher St. James propositioning me definitely falls into the surprise column. He can’t actually be serious. Nothing he does is serious.
So I soldier on. “That’s a terrible idea, anyway. We’re here to throw a wedding for Hannah and Flip. And also?” I have to address the annoying bleat coming from the other room while we’ve been arguing. “Your phone is ringing.”
“What?” He’s gazing dreamily at me with those beautiful hazel eyes. Maybe he’s drunk. That would explain a lot.
It makes no sense for Asher to proposition me. He probably gets more sex than the entire Brooklyn Bruisers team after a playoffs win. He doesn’t want me.
I don’t need that kind of pressure, honestly. While I’m looking forward to someday exploring the dude side of my bisexuality, it hasn’t happened yet. Except for some making out in college . . .
The damn phone squeals again. “Your phone,” I repeat, crossing my arms like the uptight fuck he thinks I am. “It keeps ringing.”
“Oh,” he says, giving his head a shake. “So I should go answer that.”
I don’t bother agreeing with him. I just wait.
“You should play poker,” he blurts out.
What?
I don’t get a chance to ask what that means, because Asher seems to shake himself out of a reverie. “Right. Phone. Later.” He leaves through the screen door, sliding it shut behind him.
And now, it’s silent again. My laptop screen is still frozen with Lord Oliver’s hand clutching the quill. I should press play and pretend like none of this ever happened.
As if I did not make a speech that somehow mentioned Peppa Pig and sixty-nine in the same breath.
As if Asher did not offer me a pity fuck.
And as if I sure as hell didn’t turn him down.
Seriously. That did not just happen.
I throw myself on the bed, push my face into the pillow, and groan so quietly that there’s no chance in hell he can hear me. And I lie there for several minutes, trying to think calm thoughts, with zero success. Example: I’m still losing that chess game to Brett.
Losing is a theme this week.
The only thing I did right today was make Rosie laugh at bedtime.
There’s a knock on the bedroom door—the interior one that non-creepers would use.
“What?” I mutter from the pillow.
The door opens. “Um, sorry. Trust me, I really, really didn’t want to knock on your door right now. But we have a situation.”
I roll over. “What kind of situation?” I’m already imagining the worst. “Is Hannah okay? Is Flip?”
“No. It’s not that kind of situation. But our DJ just bailed.”
“What?” I sit up fast. “Why? I’ll kill him.”
Asher hands me his phone, where there’s a voicemail. And I tap the play button.
“Dude,” says a stranger’s voice. “Look, I was on for playing that wedding on Saturday. That address looks righteous. But my buddy just called. He found some sunken treasure off Bimini, and we gotta fly, man. You only get one shot at treasure. This could be the big one, ya know? I gotta go and meet my fate. You be well, yeah?”
Click.
“Fuck!” I shout. “He had four point nine stars on Yelp!”
“I know,” Asher says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a blow.”
I grab my phone off the bedside table. “Let’s start googling. Which half of the alphabet do you want?”
“Actually, I have a better idea. There are a couple of clubs where I know people in town. I’ll drive us to one of them and we’ll see if we can’t hire the DJ for Saturday—or else hire one of his friends.”