“Don’t you like that show, Mark?” Hannah asks.
“Sure,” I grunt. I don’t go into detail, though, about the side story I liked best—the one where Lord Oliver and Sir Trevor stared longingly at each other from across the drawing room, with gazes that said they wanted to rip off each other’s waistcoats. I’m really looking forward to the spin-off series starring those two men.
But that’s not a topic I want to open up in front of Hannah’s beau. And, mercifully, the chime of the elevator announces another arrival.
Flip springs up. “That’s Asher,” he says, and wow, they must be BFFs for life if this guy doesn’t even have to get buzzed up into a swank building like this.
Flip heads to the door, and seconds later, two men are laughing in the hallway.
“You’re late!” Flip says.
“I know, I’m sorry. But here I am at last. Hide the liquor and the women, as they say. Except the women are safe with me.” The newcomer rounds the corner.
The first thing I notice is his hair. There's a lot of it. But then I get a look at his face. Holy crap, this guy is attractive. Like, cover-of-a-magazine good-looking. Doesn’t that just figure? The rich playboy and his superhot wingman.
My sister rushes to him. “Hello, you handsome devil. Do you have a good excuse for being . . .” She looks around to check the time.
“Twenty-seven minutes late,” I say through clenched teeth since it’s just rude to show up whenever you want.
The attractive fucker looks at me then, tilting his head as if inspecting me.
And, God, he has beautiful hazel eyes. He makes me nervous somehow, which is stupid. My jaw ticks so hard it’s in danger of cracking.
“Sorry,” he says again. “I was right on time, but you know that newspaper kiosk on the corner of Seventy-Ninth? There was a soaking wet puppy wedged between The Times and The Journal boxes. I almost walked right by, but she whined . . .”
“A puppy?” My sister squeaks. “How does a puppy get left outside in New York City? In December of all months.”
“No idea.” Asher shrugs.
Is he putting us on right now? I rescued a puppy sounds like a close cousin to my dog ate my homework. Is Hannah really going to fall for that?
Asher pulls a finely knit scarf out of his pocket. “Is there somewhere I can hang this? The puppy was soaked. Oh, and here’s a photo of her. Isn’t she sweet?” He pulls his phone out of another pocket and hands it to Hannah, who squeals again. “Oh! Those big, beautiful eyes!”
Shit. This man is good. Twenty-seven minutes late, with an iron-clad excuse and photographic evidence.
“Asher St. James?” My sister hands the man his phone. “This is my brother, Mark Banks. Also known as the man who’s going to destroy you on game night.”
“Oh, is he?” Asher steps forward wearing an attractive smirk. God, even his mouth is super sexy, with pouty lips. “I look forward to the challenge.”
As I stand to shake, I’m about to agree. But when our hands clasp, the contact sends a sizzle to my central nervous system. The smack talk just dies in my throat.
Get a grip, Banks, I order myself. The world is full of attractive men and women. There’s no need to lose your cool.
“What game should we play first, honey?” Flip asks my sister. “No doubt you’ve already made a plan.”
“You know it!” She beams at him, and my terror notches up once again. Hannah is smitten. She’s all in for Flip the rich playboy prepster, who has an unfairly hot friend. “We’re going to play Draw it Out as a warmup. Then we’ll move on to Scrabble.”
“What’s Draw it Out?” Asher asks, tossing his coat on a chair.
“You have to draw whatever the card says, and the fastest team wins,” my sister replies. “No letters, no numbers, no talking, no tears.”
I snort out a laugh. My sister and I have always been fierce competitors. “We’re partners, right, Banana?”
“Of course! The Bankses versus the men of Lyceum du Lucerne.”
“Lyceum du Lucerne?” I ask, glancing at Flip.
“That’s where we met. At boarding school in Switzerland. We were paired as roommates from our first day, when we were twelve. And that was it. Friends for life.”
A Swiss boarding school? Of course that’s where they met.
Sitting back down on the couch, I put my wine glass on a coffee table the size of a city block. “Let’s do this,” I say, even more eager to match my Ohio public school wits against a couple of snobs.
“Right,” Asher says, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt.
Damn it. My eyes practically pop out of my head as he exposes muscular, golden forearms.
The guy is too hot for words.
He can’t even be real.
But he’s far too real as he sits next to me, making my whole body flash hot. “Hannah, ladies first. You draw the first clue. Pass the woman the whiteboard.”