Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I happily take the blame.”
I say goodbye to my friend, then my kid and hers, and hoof it several blocks south to the designer’s showroom.
Fashion is not my thing. Shopping for my own suits is a bit like changing cat litter. A necessary chore.
Just like this outing with Asher.
That’s what this outing is⏤just another task. This mental trick works just fine until I reach Thirteenth Street, where my gaze lands on a tall, toned, ridiculously good-looking guy jogging down the block.
Effortlessly.
Looking really fucking good, and yeah, it’s a good thing Rosie isn’t here since I'm thinking about item 2B on my spreadsheet.
Focus, Mark.
Asher stops in front of me, looks at his wrist. “Damn, I impress myself. Forty minutes. Made it exactly on time,” he says, sounding insanely pleased.
I lift a brow. “You’re congratulating yourself for making it on time? Do you pat yourself on the back when you remember to brush your teeth, too?”
He shoots me a mega-watt smile, all gleaming teeth, and perfect lips. “Maybe I do, Banks. Maybe I do.”
“To each his own,” I say, as Asher eyes me up and down.
“I had no idea you owned anything other than your Wall Street uniforms,” he remarks, his gaze traveling over my navy-blue polo shirt and jeans.
“Well, it’s laundry day. Dieter, my valet, is brushing and steaming my wardrobe this afternoon. Straightening the pinstripes. You know.”
A wrinkle appears in the center of Asher’s forehead. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody is really named Dieter.”
“The second you think that, you run into someone named Dieter.” I take a beat. “That’s a mathematical probability.”
Asher looks doubtful. “Sounds more like coincidence. Admit it. They’re one and the same,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. I try not to follow the path of his fingers, but dammit, my gaze strays for a fraction of a second.
Probability of me making it through the next hour without thinking about 2C on my fantasy spreadsheet? Captain Filthy Mind says five percent.
So I return to his first question, answering it finally. “And yes, I own seven polos, five T-shirts, and three pairs of jeans. I don’t wear suits to my daughter’s softball games.”
That brings a smile back to his face. “I didn’t know your kid liked sports.”
“Of course you didn’t. You don’t know me.” And that came out snappish.
Asher rolls his eyes, like can you believe this guy. “I’m well aware of that.”
Why am I such a dick around him? Just because I can’t handle this inconvenient attraction? Man up, Banks.
I redirect my attitude. “Rosie loves softball. And she wants to try hockey too,” I say, aiming to inject more goodwill in my tone, and also to talk about anything besides clothes, so I don’t mention how good he looks in that tight not-a-T-shirt, not-a-polo, I-have-no-idea-what-it’s-called, but it’s short sleeve and just the right amount of snug to show off his pecs, and his biceps . . .
And that’s not helping.
We head inside, and I hope this fitting ends mercifully fast.
6
A COUPLE OF HIGH-NET-WORTH FLAMINGOES
ASHER
Angel Sanjay’s showroom is on the first floor of an old meatpacking house. The place is newly done up in riotous colors from the old wooden floors to the industrial rafters. A vintage neon sign advertises double-breasted suits, alongside a mannequin wearing a navy blazer over a tie-dyed tuxedo shirt. There’s even a Triumph motorcycle parked beside a captain’s chair.
Beside me, Mark whistles softly. “Now, I don’t think we’re in Target anymore, Toto.”
Chuckling, I take in the staid leather furniture and the brightly colored men’s shirts. “Not even in the same country. This place is basically the love child of Ralph Lauren and a Parisian bordello. Isn’t it great?”
Mark’s face says that he does not, in fact, think this mash-up is great. But he doesn’t get a chance to say so, because the designer himself strides toward us, his smile wide, his dark curly hair shining in the retail lighting.
“Asher! It’s great to see you again.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “So sorry that we couldn’t get you in here last week. I was in Milan. Then seeing family in New Delhi. Returned last night.”
“And back to work the second you landed,” I say. I shot an ad campaign for him last year. He was fun on the set and easy to work with. “Thanks for fitting us in. This is Mark, the brother of the bride. When I realized that Mark and I needed matching menswear for the wedding, you were my first and only call.”
“Radical!” His dark eyes dance as he shakes Mark’s hand. “My guy upstairs will fit you with whatever you need. But let’s give him some direction. This event is in Miami, right?”
“Right,” Mark says. “It’s a beach wedding, but fairly traditional. The bride is wearing white.”
“So we’ll need some color,” I add.