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)
But, nope. Rosie’s marbles are smaller than that thing.
She puts her hands on my chest, and the sparkle almost blinds me. “Mark, one of the reasons I was so happy for Asher to plan this party tonight is . . .” She stops, her smile growing bigger, like it’s about to unleash a secret she’s been holding in all evening. “Ever since we were kids, I always knew I would want to do this.”
Ah, I sense a moment coming.
Hannah isn’t dramatic, per se. But she does like to do things up. Why go hiking when you can go bungee jumping? Why go to a wine tasting when you can do mustard canning? Proof of her get-out-and-go-for-it approach is that she met Flip at a candle-making class in Brooklyn that she signed up for at the last minute, and that’s why you just need to try new things, since life is full of moments, and you need to be ready to receive them. Her words.
I’m not a moments guy. But I love my sister, and I owe her, so I go along with it. “And what is this exactly, Hannah Banana?”
Her eyes twinkle brighter than her diamond. “I’ve always imagined when I got married . . . that you’d be my best man.” She practically squeals the request.
And whoa.
That’s definitely a moment.
I didn’t think I’d be part of her wedding party, being a guy and all. I figured Yasmin would be her maid of honor. Bet she is, and I’ll be standing with Hannah’s college bestie.
“How many attendants are you having, exactly?”
“Just you.”
That’s all she says. But the way she says just you conveys the meaning. This matters to my sister. We’re twelve months apart in age. We’re good friends and always have been. We rely on each other.
I clear my throat, square my shoulders, and treat the request with the gravitas it deserves. “Yes, of course. I’d be honored.”
I pull her in for a hug, trying to wrap my head around how I went from the worst brother to the best man in twenty-four hours, but hey, it’s one of life’s moments. As she squeezes me, Asher sails behind her, moving next to Flip. My skin prickles. He’s everywhere, and I can’t get away from him.
When Hannah and I break the embrace, she locks eyes with Flip, then gives the quickest of nods. Like she’s giving him permission.
They’ve definitely got something planned.
Flip pivots, claps a hand on his wingman’s shoulder. “Asher, we’ve been best buds since our first year at Lyceum du Lucerne when we had the brilliant idea to try out for the ski team and I broke my leg instead of making the cut. But you carried my tray in the caf for eight weeks. You’re my guy. You’ve been there for me through everything. It’d be an honor if you’d be my best man.”
I groan inside. No fucking way.
I bet it’s not easy to surprise Asher St. James, but judging from the size of his hazel eyes⏤wide AF⏤Flip just did it.
And for the first time all night, I’ve got a sinking sense that Asher and I are feeling the same damn thing.
I don’t want to be “the best men” with that guy.
But it’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. What’s the big deal anyway? Asher was always going to be at the wedding. Who cares that we’re the best men? It’s not like we have to pick balloons and boutonnieres together.
Probably all we’ll have to do is stand opposite each other at the wedding. And right now, since Yasmin waves a hand high above her head. “This calls for a pic!”
She ushers the four of us together, and thank fuck she has the good sense to put the bride and groom in the center as she snaps a few shots of the wedding party.
When Yasmin lowers her phone, Hannah grabs my arm, and thrusts me next to Asher.
“Let’s get a pic of the best men, too,” my sister says.
Where is an escape hatch when you need one?
The answer is⏤nowhere close enough, especially since Asher throws an arm around my shoulders, and that is not fair.
Arms on shoulders are not supposed to send my mind spinning with thoughts.
My jaw clenches.
“Say cheese, Mark. You’re not getting a root canal. You’re going to a wedding,” Yasmin instructs.
“And I promise I don’t bite,” Asher says, in a volume just for me.
Biting.
That’s not helping.
I manage a sliver of a smile.
I probably look like I’m posing for my office headshot. Sidenote: I hate my office headshot. I also hate the existence of office headshots.
Ten endless seconds later, Yasmin is done. “I’ll send them to you, Hannah, and you can send them to the guys.”
There’s no need for that, but I keep my mouth shut on that front. Asher lets go, then says, “It wasn’t too painful,” then he heads off, probably to charm more guests.