But right when I’m about to ask another question, a statuesque flight attendant with serious Gisele Bündchen vibes stops at our row.
“Hello, Mister St. James, it’s so wonderful to see our frequent fliers again. Would you care for a mimosa? Coffee? Tea? Or anything else for you and your . . .”
She trails off as her eyes drift from Mark to me and back.
Oh, this is rich.
I laugh, but Mark gapes, and there’s that familiar shade of fire engine red again, creeping up his neck.
“You can just call us the best men,” I say to her. “And a mimosa sounds great. Mimosa for you, Banks?”
He shakes his head whip fast. “I’m good. Thanks,” he says, like there’s sand in his throat.
A few minutes later, my drink arrives, and I savor it, relaxing against the leather seat. My eyes are just beginning to feel heavy when Mark says, “Wouldn’t now be a good time for our battle plan?”
“Sorry?” I take another sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice and sparkling wine. “Is that a movie?”
In answer, he turns his laptop to face me. “Our battle plan—for getting the wedding sorted out. I’ve listed everything we need to do, with deadlines. And I’ve color-coded it for priority.”
“That’s a spreadsheet,” I say sleepily. “I’m not good with spreadsheets.”
“It’s a list,” he insists. “Everyone is good with those.”
I’m pretty sure both Lucy and my ex would disagree. But I keep that to myself. “Are we going to divide and conquer? That leaves more time for the swimming pool.”
He blinks. “We have about the rest of the week to plan a wedding. It has to be perfect. I doubt I’m getting any sun unless it’s during the ceremony on Saturday.”
Well, shit. I’m as eager as anyone for my bestie to have a great wedding weekend. But I never thought that meant I’d spend the whole time busting my ass. “But there are people for that. Your sister already hired some vendors, right? A tent? A caterer? It’s all handled.”
His eyes narrow. “What? You can’t just depend on people like that. We have to check-up on all of them ahead of time. We can’t drink beer on the beach and hope the catering truck rolls up the driveway on Saturday like they said they would.”
Not beer, I argue privately. When I’m in Miami, I prefer a nice rosé. But Mark’s searching stare lets me know that the cork isn’t coming out of that wine until he gets some satisfaction.
And not the fun kind.
I let out a groan. Just a small one. And I mentally put my wine glass back in the cabinet. “So show me this list.”
Mark gestures to a terrifying-looking chart on the screen that makes my head spin. “Okay, Column A is the contact name. Column B is the phone number . . .” His tone turns more animated, like this column stuff turns him on. Hmm. What does turn him on? And why the hell do I want to know?
I focus on the horror on the screen.
He’s collected the email address, the business hours, and physical address for every single contact. So at least they’ll be easy to find.
“. . . First, after we drop our stuff at the house, we can measure that patio for the tent, to make sure my sister and I ordered the right one. And then I thought we’d swing by the florist.”
“Give me a task,” I argue. “This will go faster if we split them up.”
With an intense stare from behind those black glasses, Mark scrolls through his list. “Well, a lot of this stuff I need to see with my own eyes. But I guess you could call the officiant.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s it? Are you sure you’re willing to trust me with this one alone? Wow, Banks. I know I have a reputation for being kind of a mess. But I can probably be trusted to make a couple phone calls without fucking it up. I could record them for you to review later.”
While I’m sunbathing.
“Hey.” His blue eyes fly to mine, and his tone gentles. “That is not what this is about. You run a damn business, right? I’m sure you’re single-handedly dazzling clients from sunup to sundown.” His scowl is back before I can even say thanks for the compliment. “But this is my only sister’s wedding. Her only wedding, I hope and pray. And I have less than four days and a lengthy list of sins to atone for.”
“Oh.” I blink. “So this is about those drunk texts? You want to make sure everything’s perfect, because then it doesn’t seem like you hate the idea of this wedding?”
He slumps in his chair. “Yes and no. I want to do this for Hannah. She already knows that, though. We spent every night these last two weeks at my kitchen table, working hard on this stuff.”