“Yeah, I do,” I tell him, and just like that, I’m vibrating with lust once again.
A feeling I already tried to get under control.
But it keeps slipping away from me.
Twenty-nine minutes later his phone buzzes. “Bet it’s the restaurant,” he remarks, but when he slides open the screen, a line digs into his forehead. “Shit,” he murmurs.
I straighten my spine. “What’s wrong?” Better not be something with the wedding.
“It’s the DJ. Tomorrow’s all booked up,” he says. “He’ll try to see us on Thursday.”
I grimace. “That’s too far away.”
“I know, but we’ll figure it out,” he says, right as his phone beeps again, and he heads off to greet the delivery guy. Where he’ll probably strike up a conversation, memorize the guy’s children’s names and tip fifty percent.
Pink streaks paint the sky when Asher returns a few minutes later with dinner, and a bottle of wine. I don’t touch the wine, but the food is good.
And when we’re done, the sky is dark. The moon is casting silver light across his face. I look at the time. Eight-forty. Perfect. I don’t even have to tell him I’m cutting out early to watch a sexy-as-fuck TV show. I’ve got the kid excuse.
“I should go,” I say, gesturing to the cottage.
“Do you have an inflation index to adjust?”
“Yes, St. James. I’m magic with inflation. I can make it disappear.” Just like inconvenient boners. “I need to call Rosie. I promised I’d call her every night at eight forty-five,” I tell him.
“See you in the morning.”
I leave the pool and open the door to the guest house, a little relieved. I made it through the first day in Miami with the sexiest man I’ve ever known.
And he has no idea I’m thinking of him naked.
I’d call that a win.
12
I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE
ASHER
It’s a dick move to give Mark a hard time for turning in early. I’ve been hoping to find a reason to head inside and watch my show. I have a reputation as a party boy to uphold. The Miami hotspots are just about to start their engines for the night. But I have a hot date with a nineteenth century bad boy poet and the lord who loves him.
So I watch the house as Mark moves around, pacing the tiny living room while he says good night to his little girl. Eventually, he disappears into his room. The living room goes dark. And then—like a child—I legit count to a hundred before finally getting up and carrying my wine glass inside the house.
But, seriously. I’ve been waiting for An Arranged Marriage for months now. I must witness the hotness between Lord Oliver and Sir Trevor when they’re allowed more than one kiss. The trailer was full of meaningful glances and doors swinging shut at just the wrong, torturous moment. I’m so there.
At 8:59, I’m sitting on the bed in my room, clicker in hand, streaming my laptop onto the bedroom TV. The show kicks off with a carriage ride through London, a conniving duchess and the death of the lord’s uncle, all in the first seven minutes. And by the time Ollie and Trevor plan a secret rendezvous on a London rooftop, my tongue is practically hanging out.
Gah! Their plan is foiled at the last minute when the duchess detains Oliver on false pretenses! And poor Trevor is left, candle in hand, gazing at the gently lit rooftops of a CGI’d London, feeling certain that he’s been stood up.
Trevor, my man. I’m sorry. I know how this feels.
On a goddamn rooftop too. It’s like they know me.
Laughing to myself, I hit pause on the show. Can’t wait to find out how the drama unfolds in the final twenty minutes. But the sparkling water and the rosé I drank at dinner means I have to pee. I head into the john to take care of business, walking past the screen door, and the gentle sound of the bay lapping against the island. I love the way Florida smells—like salty air and palm trees. If I didn’t love New York so much I’d consider living here, among the modeling agencies and the excellent nightlife.
In the minus column, there are hurricanes and alligators. But hey, nobody is perfect.
When I turn the sink off after I wash my hands, a swell of music comes through the wall, or maybe the open window. Mark is watching TV too.
But hang on. That’s a familiar swell of music.
And it’s followed by the clip-clop of horse hooves, like the sound they make on ye olde London’s cobblestone streets.
Hold the phone. Could Mark be watching An Arranged Marriage?
My stomach shimmies with amusement. This is rich. I wonder if he knows what this show is about?
Mark is a very smart man. He’s much smarter than I am. So the odds that he doesn’t know what he’s getting into are small.