“Hmm.” Asher sips his wine. “But will the bad boy poet be content in the country? He’s a man of action and sin. What if he loses his muse? What if all his poems start to rhyme? There was an old git from Nantucket . . .”
I snort. “I’ll admit that Sir Trevor has been slutting it up during season two. But it’s all an act. He’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need true love.”
“He does, though,” Asher says, turning to kiss my neck. “He really does.”
An hour later, the show ends more or less how I called it?in a swell of orchestra music and a hot, steamy kiss. Troliver have kept a pied-à-terre in London?to keep Trevor up on the latest gossip. But they spend much of their time frolicking around Ollie’s estate and modernizing the agricultural technology.
Or something. I’m a little unclear on the details, because Asher has been sucking gently on my neck for the last twenty minutes.
The cat slinks by, heading into the bedroom. He has the right idea. “Should we move this to the bed?” I ask, palming the bulge in Asher’s pajama pants. “You shouldn’t stay up too late, though. Aren’t you playing tennis with Brett tomorrow?”
“Pfft,” Asher says, running his hand beneath my T-shirt. “You think I can’t beat Brett at tennis after a late night with you? What do I get if I win?”
I mull that over, but his hands turn wicked, which makes thinking hard. “You have to win all the sets, or I get first dibs on our rental car in Italy.”
“Ooh, good one, Banks.” He chuckles. “It’s on.”
Then his hand creeps into my briefs, and it so is.
ASHER
I’m wearing a white polo shirt.
Stranger things have happened.
Like falling in love with a hot, nerdy, single dad banker who is not boring; Mark Banks is an adventure every single day.
And like me living happily with that guy and his seven-year-old daughter. Who I took to a softball game last week, since my guy had to work late. Something about the inflation index or the CPI blah, blah, blah. It didn’t make much sense, so I shut him up with my mouth when he told me all about it.
Then he said much more interesting things like yes, more, deeper.
So yeah, life is strange and good. Imagine that. Single, globetrotting, former-athlete-now-photographer settles down with a Wall Streeter and his kid. And he loves every single second of it.
But I’m really going to relish destroying Mark’s work husband at tennis.
“Hope you lose today,” Mark tells me when I leave our home the next morning.
“No, you don’t. You love it when I drive,” I say with a wink.
“You love it when I drive,” he counters as he pours his coffee.
But I plan to win. There’s an Alfa Romeo in Tuscany calling my name.
Well, I still love fast cars. Some things never change. That means I have to beat Brett in a shutout today.
Which I do a few hours later, when Brett misses the final ball by miles and I clean up.
“Rematch. Can we play again?” he asks.
“’Fraid not, Brett,” I say, then I look at my watch. “I have to collect on a bet. Another time.”
“Another time,” he says with a nod as we shake at the net.
I leave and return to Sixteenth Street. As soon as the door unlocks, I call out, “Honey, I’m home, and I’ll be driving first.”
“Dammit,” Mark curses from the bedroom.
I sweep into our room where he’s tossing T-shirts into a suitcase. I grab him, yank him up, and kiss him hard. “I’m sweaty,” I rasp out.
He growls. “And I like it.”
“I know you do,” I say, then I glance at the clock. We have to meet Hannah, Flip, and Caroline for fro-yo to celebrate Rosie’s last day of first grade, then in the evening, we’ll take off.
“There’s just enough time for . . .”
Ten minutes later, we’re gasping and panting.
Life is very, very good.
Later that night, we settle into the second row on our transatlantic flight.
“May you never fly coach again,” I say, as I squeeze his hand.
“We’re posh fuckers all the way,” he says, and when we’re airborne, a statuesque flight attendant does a double take.
“You two look familiar.”
So does she?the Gisele Bündchen ringer. “We flew to Miami together a year ago and you were on our flight,” I say.
“Right,” she says, wagging a finger. “You called yourselves . . . what was it? The best men.”
Mark looks at me as he answers. “That’s us, and he’s all mine.”
That’s all the label I’ll ever need.
His.
T H E
E N D