The Best Men (The Best Men 1)

“But not too much color,” Mark says quickly.

Angel just grins. “Okay, fabric first. Linen, perhaps? What is the groom wearing?”

“Hold on,” Mark says. “I have it in my spreadsheet.” He starts tapping the screen of his phone.

“Spreadsheet?” I laugh. “You’re joking.”

Mark gives me a withering look. “Spreadsheets are no joke, St. James. Here. Look.”

Sure enough, there’s a photo of a straw-colored wedding suit pasted into one cell, a white shirt in the next, and a white bowtie in the third. A wedding dress claims the fourth.

“That’s lovely,” Angel says. “Very tasteful and nearly monochrome. I like it. But we’re going to need some contrast on you two.”

“Right,” I agree, glancing around the busy room. My eye lands on a suit near the window. And maybe I’m an asshole, but I can’t resist. “Something like this,” I say, striding toward the mannequin in a snappy salmon-colored linen suit and matching bowtie. “Here’s some contrast.”

“No,” Mark says, looking like his head is about to explode. “Not on your life. It’s our job to be invisible.”

I gasp. “Not possible, Banks. This face is never invisible.”

He actually rolls his eyes. “Stop it. I know this is just a negotiating strategy. You start with something outrageous so that when you suggest something more reasonable, I’ll just agree to it immediately. Oldest trick in the book.”

Angel claps one of his long, slim hands over his mouth and tries not to laugh.

He fails.

Honestly, I’m a terrible negotiator, and that tactic would never occur to me. But the truth is that I wouldn’t actually upstage Flip and Hannah by dressing us like a pair of high-net-worth flamingoes.

“This may come as a shock to you, Asher,” Angel puts in. “But I don’t stock unlimited inventory of the salmon suit.”

“Oh. Shame,” I say, taking the out that he’s offering me. “Maybe something in a steely blue or dove gray, then?”

“Let’s see what we can find,” Angel says.

Mark is flustered.

I’m a bad man. Because I’m enjoying his discomfort immensely.

We’re upstairs in the private fitting area. It’s one room, flooded with natural light and outfitted with the grandest three-way mirror I’ve ever seen. A curtain hangs in the corner, where you can go to change, if you’re feeling modest.

But I’m not feeling modest. Rarely am. And there’s nobody here but me, Mark, and a young fitter with sharp, bird-like features. He’s busy bringing us various suits, shirts, and ties to try on.

So I don’t bother with the curtain in the corner. I simply strip right here in the center of the room whenever bird man hands me a new shirt or pair of pants.

Poor Mark has claimed the changing area for his own. And he keeps peering around the edge of it, checking to see if I’m decent.

Or—and maybe this is crazy talk—he’s checking out my ass. Or my abs.

That can’t be it. But wouldn’t it be fun if it were true? I don’t waste my time crushing on straight men. But is he totally straight? He did send that fantastic text about me. And the idea of getting Mister Spreadsheets all hot and bothered is pretty irresistible.

“How do we feel about lettuce?” the fitter asks, carrying in a suit in a spring green color.

“It’s great,” I say at the same moment as Mark says, “No, thank you.”

I turn around, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers in dove gray. “What’s wrong with lettuce?” I demand of Mark.

“I like it in a salad,” he grumbles, peeking out from behind the curtain, his gaze stopping on my chest for a second before he looks away. “That’s where it belongs.”

The fitter turns on his heel and departs with the green suit.

“Look,” I say, crossing my arms and flexing my pecs. Mark’s eyes skid predictably around the room. And I’ve got to know if something is going to be a problem for him. I look the man straight in the eyes. “Is it too gay for you? Is that the issue?”

“No, that is not the problem. Not at all,” he thunders, stepping out from behind the curtain, holding up a stop sign hand. “Trust me. You don’t get to make this into a character assassination just because I don’t want to look like a freshly picked artichoke at my sister’s wedding. I don’t want Hannah to regret anything. Ever. I don’t want her looking at the photos five years from now and thinking I made the wrong choice.”

Either this guy really loves his sister, or he really can’t stand bright colors. Or me. “Look, I love Hannah too. And your sister gave me carte blanche to choose. She said right to my face—Asher, I trust you with the color scheme. You have impeccable taste.”

Mark’s head snaps back. “She said that?”

“Of course. I’m sure she’d say the same of you, no? In my opinion, she’s lucky to have two hotties like us in all those wedding photos.” I wiggle my eyebrows a little, because I’m fourteen years old inside. Just ask Lucy.