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)
And I suppose it wasn’t that bad.
And being the best men together won’t be either.
How long does wedding stuff take? Two days? Then I’ll be free of the object of all this weird, misplaced lust.
I move away from the center of the party, when Hannah grabs my arm, Flip beside her. “Just one more thing,” she says.
I turn around. “Sure.”
“The wedding is going to be a small one, and I’m already asking our friends to drop everything to come to it next month. So . . . remember that favor I said I needed?” she asks, rocking back on her heels.
Flip puts a protective hand on her waist. And I try not to hold it against him.
“Of course, Hannah,” I say. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s about the wedding. We’re going to be pulling this off at warp speed, right in the middle of your MTA next month.”
“Right, I do appreciate that.” MTA, or mandatory time away, is a requirement for all securities traders who run more than a billion dollars of risk for the bank. For two weeks, you’re not allowed to step foot in the building, so your books can be marked to market by someone else.
It’s meant to root out fraud. But it’s really just the best scam ever. Two weeks of paid freedom. If I ever meet the genius who devised MTA, I’m probably going to kiss him, because MTA is extra hot.
“We’re going to do a glam little destination wedding in Miami,” she says. “It was Asher’s idea, actually.”
Of course it was his idea.
“But some of us don’t have Wall Street jobs with MTA.” She rolls her eyes playfully. “And I want to use my vacation days for my honeymoon. So I was hoping you would fly down there a few days early and check out all our vendors. The caterer, the DJ. That kind of thing.”
“Sure?” I rub the back of my neck, trying to picture how this would all work, since I’m not, well, a wedding planner. “I’m not that familiar with Miami, though.”
“You won’t have to be,” Flip says. “Asher will be there to help you.”
Wait. Did he just say what I think he said? “Asher and me?” I choke out, hoping I got it wrong.
But Flip nods. “Yup.”
“Just Asher and me?” I ask, in case Flip arranged for a wedding planner to join us in Florida. Preferably a little old lady who carries a small white dog everywhere she goes⏤they’d be the perfect cock-blocking pair.
“Asher doesn’t have a shoot that week, so it’s no problem for him to fly down and help out,” Flip continues. “He’s the one who found us this sweet venue. A client of his owns a mansion on the beach. You two can be around to tell the equipment rental people where to set up. The tent. Chairs. Stuff like that.”
“O-kay,” I say slowly. My mind whirls while I try to think of a good reason I can’t do this, because I can’t be alone with a guy I’m stupidly attracted to. “If I don’t have Rosie that week. Let me do some checking.”
Hannah holds up her phone. “I already texted Bridget to invite her to the wedding. Maybe she’ll bring Rosie down with her, so you can go early and help me.”
“Who knows if Bridget is free, though? I bet she’s busy. Probably has a wine show.”
God, I hope she has a wine show. A wine anything.
But who am I kidding? My ex loves Hannah. She loves Florida, and used to complain in the early days when we couldn’t afford vacations.
She’ll take to this trip like a calico to catnip. I’m so screwed.
When I open the door to my apartment on West Sixteenth Street, my phone pings. I click on the notification.
It’s the dreaded group chat.
And Hannah has dropped in pics.
Nope. I’m not going to look.
I stick to that mantra the whole time I get ready for bed. I don’t so much as glance at those photos as I give Blackbeard a couple scratches on the chin, or while my one-eyed rescue cat watches me brush my teeth from his favorite staring spot on the bathroom counter. Weirdo.
I let the tap run lightly for a few seconds so the orange beast can drink straight from it, then I turn it off. And I still don’t look.
My willpower holds out until I flop onto my mattress, just before I take off my glasses. I leave them on, though, for one moment too long.
That’s all it takes to peek at the last photo.
And, damn. That easy smile. That casual pose. That fucking arm around me.
Yup. He’s annoyingly perfect, and I’m double screwed.
4
THE DA VINCI OF UNDERWEAR
MONDAY, A MONTH LATER
ASHER
I gaze at my forty-two-inch monitor, putting the finishing touches on a photo campaign I shot for UnderKlad.
Translation: I’m staring at photos I’ve taken of the ripped bodies of professional athletes who model underwear on the side.