“Oh, you can bet I’ll do that later.”
But there’s no more time to flirt, because once we finish with Ramon, Hannah scurries over and asks me to help review the reception seating.
I do that poolside for a few hours, stealing glances at the time, hoping I don’t miss my last chance tonight.
But this is the world’s longest planning session.
It never ends as vendors rush by, as flowers are delivered, as caterers set up for the rehearsal dinner in four hours, as the day thins, and the hours disappear. It continues even as I take a quick dip in the pool with Rosie, then I return right away to the planning table.
As the clock races toward three, Hannah, my mom, and I are knee-deep in seating charts and I want to stab myself in the eyes.
But this is Hannah’s one and only wedding, so a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
Including trying to keep my eyes off the guy who thinks last night was nice. He’s stalking toward the table, phone to his ear. “Yes, Simone. I understand.”
That’s the wedding photographer, and Asher’s voice sounds heavy. “Sure, things come up. But . . .”
His jaw is tight as he paces along the pool.
“And you’re good with the Steinbergs here?” my sister asks my mom.
Mom answers but I pay no mind. My ears are on Asher. If the photographer is bailing . . .
My shoulders tighten.
“Your apprentice? Hmm. Well, I’d have to see her work,” Asher continues.
I stand, cross over to him. “Have them send a portfolio now,” I hiss.
He waves me off. “Right. You’re on the road, and she’s finishing a shoot. Fine, tell her we’ll meet her at the studio in thirty.”
Then he hangs up.
“What the hell?” I ask.
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “We need to go see Simone. Evidently, she’s double-booked for tomorrow, but she has a backup.”
No fucking way. “We didn’t pay for her backup. We paid for her. We reserved her. You said everything was fine,” I say, my blood starting to boil.
“And it will be. Let’s go sort it out,” he says, trying to reassure me.
“I’ll fix this,” I say quickly, because I fucking will.
With concerned eyes, Hannah walks over to us. “What’s going on, guys?”
“It’s the photographer—”
“—We’ll work it out. I’ve got my pit bull here to handle things,” Asher cuts in, squeezing my shoulder. “We’re going to see her now.”
Hannah’s brow knits, her eyes darting from Asher to me. “Good cop, bad cop?”
“It’s our thing,” Asher says, but he taps his wrist. “Gotta go.”
Hannah worries at her lip. “You’ll fix this, Mark?”
“Absolutely, and if not, Asher can take the pictures.”
He snaps his fingers. “Good thinking.”
Then we take off for the Porsche, and the second we’re in the car, I huff out an annoyed breath. “I can’t believe this is happening the day before the wedding. Hannah loves Simone’s shots. You have to take the pics if she can’t,” I say as Asher backs up the red sports car, then turns onto the street.
He says nothing. Just smirks.
“It’s not hard to keep your word,” I continue. “It’s not rocket science to keep a damn calendar.”
His lips twitch wickedly as he flicks the turn signal.
“Aren’t you pissed?”
The car slows at the stop sign. He pushes up his shades. His eyes glitter with mischief. “Everything’s fine with Simone. We talked and she’ll be here tomorrow as planned. That stunt, Captain Filthy Mind, was for you.”
My mind is a messy blackboard with numbers in the wrong place. A math problem I can’t solve. “What do you mean?”
As the car idles, he curls a hand around the back of my head, drags me close and plants a hot, desperate kiss on my lips.
The world winks off.
I sigh into his mouth, kissing him back hard and relentless as I solve the equation instantly. When he breaks the kiss, I say, with a little more wonder in my tone than I expected, “You did that . . . for me?”
“I needed to get you alone.”
“For sex?” I ask, not caring that my voice pitches up with dirty hope.
He scoffs, then plucks at his board shorts. “For the beach, Banks. I’m taking you to the beach in Miami, like I promised. You’ve never been, and that’s a sin. But you can find your absolution with me right now.”
Then he reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
I don’t even care if we’re not going to get it on in the sand.
I. Have. Butterflies.
And I’m going to be okay with that for the rest of the afternoon as Asher St. James takes me on a date to the beach.
31
AFTERNOON DELIGHT
MARK
Asher counts off on his fingers as we walk through the sand. “Let’s see. I introduced you to your first time with a dude. To first class on a plane. And now you’re, finally, after twenty-seven years, going to the beach.”