“Asher,” I repeat stupidly as heat flares inconveniently along my skin “Blond guy?” With gorgeous hazel eyes and a face that could stop traffic?
“He bought cookies,” Rosie says with obvious glee. “Me ’n’ Hannah both had some. And he gave me this marble. He got it at a meeting for work. We talked about soccer, but he calls it football.” She takes the marble from my hand and holds it up to the light. “I told him my daddy has meetings too. But there aren’t any toys at your work. Except that one time you let me play with the stapler.”
I hold back a sigh. Even my kid is enamored with Asher St. James. What is that guy’s deal?
“Aunt Hannah says Asher is a photographer." My daughter pronounces the word with great care. “But he used to play sports on TV.”
Well, that just fits him too well.
Rosie tucks the marble into her pocket, and I make a mental note to keep those pants out of the washing machine.
“Can I play with my toys until dinner?” she asks.
“After you put your lunchbox by the sink and hang up your coat,” I insist.
“Okay, Daddy.” My darling child finally does as asked, then she hugs me once more and disappears into her room.
I sit down at the kitchen table and pick up my phone. And then I do something I’ve been trying not to do since game night. I Google Asher St. James.
And I instantly regret it.
The first photo is of him in soccer gear, his thigh muscles popping out over those tall socks the players wear. He’s hoisting some kind of trophy into the air with muscular arms.
But the second photo almost kills me. It’s a photo shoot for Calvin Klein. A younger Asher reclines on a white divan in nothing but a pair of blue briefs and a fashion-week pout.
Goddamn. I want to lick my phone. How can anyone be so good-looking and talented at the same time?
I keep scrolling. There’s an interview with Sports Illustrated, and another one with Out Sports. His Wiki tells me he was a striker on an English Premier League team. He has a degree from a European art school. There are more photos. More accolades. More golden skin. More six-pack abs.
I’m lost down the rabbit hole of his soccer stats when the oven timer suddenly dings, startling me.
I kill the browser window and slap my phone facedown on the table. What the hell am I even doing? Asher is nothing to me. He’s an irritating man I met once. That’s all.
I look up, jerking my head back when I find the cat on the table, staring at me, judging me quietly. “Don’t tell a soul what I was doing,” I hiss.
He swishes his tail. He makes no promises.
But so far, he’s kept all my dirty secrets.
Heaving myself out of my chair, I set down my glasses so they don’t get steamed up, then open the oven and check on our dinner.
This is what I should be doing—parenting—not staring slack-jawed at pictures of one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen.
THE LUST ZONE
MARK
Six weeks later my little sister is still going strong with Mister Prep Bro. This will likely still burn out like a brush fire, and I’ll be here for her when it does, like I have been the other times.
Tonight, though, I have to put on my game face for her dinner party and act like I’m all good with her romance with a player.
And, oh yeah, pretend I don’t have a crush on a certain former soccer star. Because a grown man does not have a crush on his sister’s boyfriend’s best friend. That’s ridiculous. Also, technically, it’s not a crush. Asher St. James just happens to be the star of a recent dirty dream.
That’s all.
On a Friday night in February, I enter Flip’s monster pad, giving the side eye to the Degas dancer when Hannah greets me as if she hasn’t seen me in years. “I’m so glad you could come. You get to meet some of my new friends,” she says, throwing her arms around me.
My doubt meter ticks higher. His life has become her life. His friends are now her friends. How can this warp-speed love affair last? “Sounds great,” I say when we separate, my game face in full force.
“I have to tell you something.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and drops her voice. “I think I’m going to move in officially in a couple weeks.” My radar pings again, a loud warning. “I’ve practically been living here already. Flip has only been asking me to move in since January.”
Wait, what? Does she not realize how fast this is? Did she forget what happened the last time she moved in with a guy? And this is so much sooner than Colin. “January was only a month ago,” I point out, as if she doesn’t have access to a calendar.
“I know! Crazy, right?”
“I’ll say. Do you think it’s a good idea to move in that quickly?” I ask out of the side of my mouth. “Don’t you remember?”
“Marky Mark,” she chides, wagging a finger. “What did I tell you about protective big brother mode?”
“It’s just fast,” I point out, in case she’s forgotten how time works. Especially bad boyfriend time.
“I’m in love with him. He’s in love with me,” she says, as she sails into the dining room. “Why would it be a bad idea?”
“You know why,” I say. But there’s another reason too. A big one I’ve learned firsthand—when relationships level up too soon, they shatter, causing collateral damage to a family. “Please give it some time,” I beg, following her.
She pats my shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about me. Here’s what you can do though.”
“Sure,” I say, eager to help. Maybe I should run a background check on Mister Monopoly, for instance.
“If you know anyone at your bank who might want to sublease my cute little studio apartment in the Village let me know.”
On that note, she breezes into the kitchen, where Flip wraps an arm around her waist and drops a kiss to her cheek.
They look too perfect. That’s the trouble. If something is too good to be true, it usually is.
But there’s no time to dwell on Flip since the elevator doors chime once again, and I tense. I just know it’s going to be him.
“I am here, so now we can begin,” Asher says, his too sexy, too rumbly voice floating through the apartment, coasting down my back and making my skin prickle.
Whoever invented the idea of lust is pissing me off.
But it’s poker face time.
As Asher joins the crew, I focus on the other guests in the kitchen, making small talk with Oscar and Felicity, a pair of Brits who are here from Paris, and Archie and Danya from a few blocks away. They ask if I know some dude at some hedge fund, and some other dude at a private equity firm. I act interested in flipping through my Wall Street rolodex since it helps me avoid the guy several feet away who turns me on and frustrates me at the same damn time.
Once it’s time for dinner, Hannah shows me to my chair at the dining room table.
Right next to Asher.
That’s not gonna fly. I scan my brain for a good excuse to sit someplace else when my phone rings. Hannah gives me a look that translates to turn your phone off at dinner.
But I grab it from my pocket and waggle it at her. “Rosie’s calling to say goodnight,” I explain, then slip into the living room, relieved to get away from the object of my inconvenient desire.