The Best Men (The Best Men 1)

Mark sighs. “But what’s wrong with the gray gabardine, or whatever the guy called it? The fit worked on both of us. And it looks . . .” He flaps a hand in my direction. “Just fine.”

“Banks, I like to shoot a little higher than just fine when I buy a suit.”

“It looks good, okay?” His face reddens, then his voice dips, a touch rumbly, when he adds, “Especially on you. That color works a hell of a lot better on you than me. I’m being generous here.”

“He’s right,” our nervous fitter says, entering the room. “The dove works well on a blond, with your golden undertones. We could liven things up with a splash of color in the tie,” he adds. I didn’t catch his name, which is unusual for me. “The gray could look quite sharp. But I have one more idea for you gentlemen.” He hangs a garment bag on the rack and unzips it. “These just arrived from Italy. The fabric is a finely woven linen. The color is steely blue. I can picture this with a floral tie in a deeper blue, and a white shirt.”

The moment he pulls the jacket from the bag, I already love it. The color is interesting without being bright. The summery fabric makes it festive, but not ostentatious. “Mark, please don’t reject this until we try it on. I think the man is onto something.”

“Okay,” my grumpy companion allows. “Fine.”

Five minutes later, we stand side by side in front of the mirrors. Mark is scowling, which means he likes the suit and doesn’t want to say so.

“Wow,” I say. “This totally says Miami wedding, no? I think our helper even got the bowtie right on the first try.” It’s a deep-sea blue with flowers ranging from salmon to wine red. And we’re wearing suspenders in the same deep red shade. They add color in a subtle way. “It’s perfect.”

Mark grunts an acknowledgment.

“Tie the tie, maybe?” I say. “Don’t you want to see the full effect?”

“Don’t need to,” he says. “It’s good.”

He’s been reduced to single-syllable words. I’m not sure what to make of that. I turn to him anyway and reach for the bow tie that’s draped around his neck. I hold one end of it up to his cheek. “This color makes your eyes pop.”

His face is flushed, and his eyes widen. He’s even more flustered than he was earlier. I brace myself for a rejection.

“Okay,” Mark mutters. “Good. Let’s go with this.”

Then he takes a step backward, and I end up holding the bowtie, which slips smoothly from his neck, the way it would if I were undressing him on purpose.

“Yup, done,” he babbles. “We can go now.”

I’m staring at him, the silk tie clutched in my hand as my imagination runs wild. That flushed face is the same one he’d have after a half hour of relentless kisses. Those bright eyes would darken with lust . . .

“Excellent choices, men,” Angel says, stepping into the room. “And look at that—you’ll barely need any tailoring. The shirts are perfect. The jackets work. And my guy can hem those trouser cuffs this afternoon, Mark, and we’ll have everything messengered over to your place by evening.”

“Good, good,” I say, tearing my eyes off my fellow best man. “I’m glad we could do this so easily. Let me grab my credit card.”

Angel waves a hand toward the hallway. “I’m running off for drinks with a fabric designer. The front desk will take care of everything you need. I’ve already explained your tight timeline. Great to see you. Nice meeting you, Mark. And enjoy Florida.”

“Oh, I will,” I agree.

Mark does not, though. He just smiles awkwardly and then thanks Angel for his help as the fitter pins his pants for hemming.

Once he’s gone, Mark disappears behind the screen. And I undress slowly, trying not to think any lustful thoughts about a man who hates me, and yet is somehow my travel companion for the next five days.

I haven’t explained the sleeping arrangements to him yet. That ought to be fun. “What’s next on your spreadsheet?” I call out, carefully removing my new shirt.

“I thought we’d go over it on the flight tomorrow,” he mutters. “Unless you’re just making fun of my spreadsheet. In which case, fuck you.”

“Oh my,” says the fitter, appearing in the doorway. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, no,” I say grandly. “Don’t be fooled—that’s our love language.”

Mark snorts from behind the curtain.

“Can I give you these things for the wrap desk? And my credit card,” I say to the fitter.

“Of course,” says the obsequious man. “Let me just hang everything on a special trolley, and I’ll have you out of here in no time.”

Mark’s arms appear from behind the screen, holding perfectly creased trouser pants, the shirt and jacket neatly on the hanger.