The Best Men (The Best Men 1)

Interesting. I file Mark’s comment about his parents away for safekeeping as I scroll down the spreadsheet a little farther. “This is very thorough. We can hit most of these places tomorrow. We could even visit the florist first. It’s not far from the house. I know where this address is.”

“Thank you,” Mark says softly.

“No big.” I hand the computer back, because our breakfast is arriving. “Quite the spreadsheet. What do your parents do for a living?”

“Dad is an auditor. Mom is a librarian.”

And the background to the Mark Banks picture fills in a little more. “That kind of explains a lot.”

He rolls his eyes as a beautiful plate lands on his tray table—china, of course, followed by silver utensils. And a mimosa in a crystal flute. “Wow. Thank you,” he says to the attendant, and his reaction to first class is adorable. But best for me not to think of him that way. It’s adorable in an I-can-understand-the-other-best-man-a-little-better way. That’s all.

“My pleasure.” She puts the same in front of me.

“How are we feeling about first class now, Banks?” I ask after she’s gone.

He spreads a real linen napkin across his lap. “It will do, you posh fucker.”

Now I’m laughing too hard to take a sip of my drink. Just wait until he sees the car I rented, and the mansion my friend lent us for the wedding. His nerdy little head might blow off.

I can’t wait.

9

I KNOW HOW TO HANDLE A STICK

MARK

I survived three more hours with the superhot posh fucker. Maybe I’ll get that printed on a T-shirt as a souvenir from this trip. All I have to do is make it through the next few days.

Can’t be too hard.

Especially since everything is going our way. No line at the car rental, so Asher’s finishing the paperwork as I answer some texts.

Valencia: Question. When Blackbeard swats me, that means he’s biting the hand that feeds him?

Mark: No, V. It means he likes you. It’s his love language.

But thinking of Asher’s remarks from yesterday makes me stop and reverse course as I tap out another reply.

Mark: Or maybe it means he’s just a cat.

Valencia: Got it. He’s a feline. Ergo, a cocky jerk. But so handsome. I just can’t stop petting him.

I’m not going to touch that one, so I say thanks, then check out the texts from my parents.

Mom: I’ve never been to a mansion before. Do you think the kitchen will have a casserole dish? Or should I bring my own?

Mark: Mom, you won’t need a casserole dish. The wedding is catered. You’re just going to relax and enjoy everything.

Dad: Mark, there have been eight hundred recorded shark attacks in Florida since 1845. Please stay out of the water.

Mark: Thanks! I’ll bear that in mind.

I’ve learned to humor my father. My mother? Not so much. If she attempts to serve a casserole at Hannah’s gourmet wedding, I will have to do some kind of ninja stunt to make it disappear.

So I have that to look forward to.

As Asher peels away from the counter, I close the text app, and we leave the cool lobby and cross the parking lot. Along the way, he scratches his jaw, his eyes twinkling. “One thing I wanted to mention.”

Why do I think he’s setting me up again? Oh right, since it’s his favorite pastime. “You didn’t really rent a car? You ordered a surprise helicopter to fly us to the . . .”

My joke dies when we arrive in front of a sleek ruby-red car that gleams like a just-polished fire truck.

The hood of the swank Porsche 911 convertible catches Asher’s reflection, and my too cool, too charming, too good-looking traveling companion grins at the vehicle like a most satisfied man.

I look up at the rental company’s lit sign above the parking space for confirmation of what I already know. In brightly lit all caps it reads: ASHER ST. JAMES.

This guy.

He does everything big.

“Are you kidding me right now?” I gesture to the wheels. “Do you do anything the ordinary way? Or is your whole life super-size?”

“We’re in Miami, Banks. What else would I rent? Or wait. Are you worried about your hair getting messed up?”

“Nah. I was more concerned about you. I don’t want it to affect your next Pantene commercial.”

With a laugh, he tosses the keys up and down in his palm. “Want me to take it back? Get a Subaru instead? Or how about a hatchback? Something with room for groceries and your chess sets in the back?”

I burn a little inside. This guy doesn’t understand that not everyone gets a shot to be Mr. Big Time. Some of us live in a different reality.

And, fine, I’m annoyed that he can get my goat better than my sister did when we were kids.

Yet nothing about being with Asher feels familial.