Super Hot Wingman, page 1
SUPER HOT WINGMAN
LAUREN BLAKELY
SARINA BOWEN
Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Blakely and Sarina Bowen. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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CONTENTS
1. Red Flags
2. You Handsome Devil
3. Nothing But A Pair of Blue Briefs
4. The Lust Zone
5. Standing Would Be a Bad Idea
6. The Hot Nerd Vibe
7. Shotgun Wedding
8. Epilogue: Past His Bedtime
9. It Seemed Like A Good Idea at The Time
The Best Men by Lauren Blakely and Sarina Bowen
Also by Lauren Blakely & Sarina Bowen
About Lauren Blakely
About Sarina Bowen
1
RED FLAGS
MARK
My first thought when my sister calls to tell me she met a totally great new guy is he better not break her heart like the last guy did.
But I don’t share that with her. Yet.
I do the wise older brother thing instead. I ask all the right questions.
“And how did you meet him?” I ask Hannah as I put away the suits I picked up from the cleaners earlier this evening. “Was it at that pickling class you went to? Or was it mayonnaise canning?”
“Don’t be silly. Mayonnaise is gross. It was at a candle-making workshop,” she says.
“So I was close,” I say as I shut the closet in my bedroom and head to the living room, straightening up a farm puzzle my daughter left on the coffee table.
“I almost didn’t go to it. Which means it was kind of a moment when I met Flip.”
Hannah lives for moments. Let’s hope this is a good thing. “And are you going to see this guy again?”
She laughs, like she’s never heard anything so silly as my question. “Yes.”
“Why is that funny?”
“Well,” she says, whispering the next words like a confession. “I’ve already spent four days with him.”
The piece with the tail of a wooden cow falls from my hand with a clatter. “What? But . . . it’s only Monday.”
More laughter comes from her. “Yes, you’ve always been good at counting, Mark. That means I spent Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday night with him.”
“Every night?” I ask, hackles raised.
There is nothing worse for a relationship than rushing into it. That’s a red flag.
“He’s amazing,” she says with a sigh. I know I should feel happy for her, but my radar is beeping. “We both had Friday off so we just spent the whole time together. Mark, I am completely serious when I tell you this—I think he’s the one.”
I force myself to take a deep breath. “Hannah, that seems really soon,” I say as I pick up the cow and set the barnyard animal cutout on the coffee table next to the pig.
“When you know, you know,” she says, all breezy, like nothing can ruin her day.
This man could, though. He could ruin many of her days. Or her years. I don’t want to see her get hurt or make the same mistakes I've made.
“He treats you well?” I ask carefully. “Or am I going to have to rescue you like that time a few years ago when you were on a date and texted me in the middle of dinner to call and pretend your apartment flooded?”
She laughs. “There will be no fake floods with Flip.”
But a fake flood would be preferable to what went down with the guy who broke her heart a year ago. “Or what happened with Colin,” I add.
“Mark! Stop mentioning the ghosts of boyfriends past. Flip is amazing. I promise you don’t have to go all ‘protective big brother’ on me. He’s great and I want you to meet him. I’m sure you'll give your full seal of approval.”
I’m not so sure about that. But we’ll see. “What are you thinking? Coffee or dinner in a couple weeks?” I ask as I flop down on the couch, tired after another long day. Wall Street plus parenting will do that to a guy.
“As if I can wait that long. You get to meet him this weekend.”
I sit up straight. “What’s happening this weekend?”
“We’ve decided that Saturday night will be game night! And you’re going to be there,” she pronounces.
“Oh. I am, am I?”
“Yes. You and Flip’s best friend. I’m claiming you as my Scrabble teammate. And you don’t even have Rosie that night so it’ll be perfect,” she says.
Damn, she’s good. “How did you know I don’t have Rosie then?”
“I might have stopped by Bridget’s wine shop to grab a bottle, and she mentioned it was her weekend. It works out perfectly. So you can’t say no.”
I bristle at the mention of my soon-to-be ex-wife, even though I’m impressed by my sister’s sleuthing. And if anyone should have what she wants, it’s my little sister. “Fine. I’ll be there. What do I need to bring?”
“Just that big brain of yours and your competitive spirit. I’ll text you the address. Come over at eight. Flip and I will handle drinks and everything else. Although I should see if Asher wants to bring some of these incredible mackerel rolls he sent over to us last night from his favorite sushi place. Which is now my favorite sushi place. They were melt-on-your-tongue-worthy rolls.”
What the hell is she talking about? “Some other guy sent you mackerel rolls?”
“Yes, Flip’s BFF. You’ll love him too, I’m sure.”
Whatever. I don’t really care about some dude who’s friends with my sister’s new man. But this guy, Flip? The man Hannah’s suddenly over the moon for? My job is to check him out very carefully, and make sure he’s worthy of my baby sister. She waxes on for a good long while about Flip and how wonderful he is as I head to the kitchen and clean up the tomato and cheese sandwiches I made my kiddo for dinner.
When Hannah hangs up, I check on my six-year-old. Rosie’s sound asleep, and I press a soft kiss to her forehead, wondering briefly what you wear to a game night to meet the dude your sister is nuts for.
Yep. This is my life. Separated single dad at the age of twenty-seven, and the most exciting thing I have to do is play party games with my sister’s new friends.
Yay me.
2
YOU HANDSOME DEVIL
MARK
On Saturday evening, I’m right on time to hunt for Flip’s flaws. Besides the obvious one—his name is kind of ridiculous.
And the other one. He lives on Park Avenue in a penthouse apartment that spans the entire twelfth floor of the building. When I step off the elevator, I’m standing in the man’s private foyer.
A goddamn Degas sculpture stands opposite the coat rack. It’s a brass one of the dancers. At best, our man Flip is a super-rich art collector.
At worst, he has a thing for skinny teenage ballet dancers.
News flash: I don’t trust this guy.
It’s not that I don’t trust rich people. It’s that I don’t trust people, especially people my sister seems enamored of, and she definitely is fond of the preppy, penthouse-owning, gray-eyed guy who struts into the entryway to shake my hand. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he says, his smile showing perfectly white, straight teeth.
“Nice to meet you,” I manage. And I give him a handshake that says, if you hurt her I will disembowel you.
At least, I hope it says that. I looked this guy up on social media and he’s never been short of female companionship. Year after year, he has beautiful women by his side. I don’t want Hannah to be one in a long line.
She appears next to him a moment later, tackle hugging me, nearly knocking my glasses off. “This is amazing! My two favorite people have met!”
As I adjust my glasses, I feel a little nauseated, honestly, but now Flip is looking at her like he’s already in love. “This is pretty great,” he says. “Good thing Asher suggested I get a hand-carved jukebox at the place right next to the candle-making studio, or else I never would have tried the class. And never would have met my amazing new girlfriend.”
Then Flip kisses her, right in front of me. This is all too soon, and I want to grab my face and scream like the guy in that Munch painting.
Who calls someone his girlfriend after one weekend?
Also, who needs a hand-carved jukebox?
Who needs a fucking hand-carved anything?
This is worse than I even feared.
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting on a giant burgundy sofa, sipping wine out of a glass the size of a fishbowl, and trying to make small talk while Flip and my sister make lovey-dovey eyes at each other.
What we aren’t doing, though, is playing any board games. Because we’re waiting for this Asher guy to show up. “Is he still coming tonight or can we get started without him?” I finally ask.
“I’m sure Ash will be here soon,” Flip says, then tells me how my sister convinced him to binge watch Archibald Lane during their marathon weekend together. “I figure if anyone can convince me to try period drama, I shouldn't let her get away.” He drops a kiss to my sister’s cheek.
“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
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.”
Maybe we get lucky on the first round. It only takes us fifteen seconds of Hannah’s drawing for me to spit out “pizza sauce” after scrutinizing my sister’s circular artwork.
“Nice one!” Flip marks down our time, and gives Hannah a kiss.
I look away.
Then it’s their turn, and I have to admit they’re a good team. Flip isn’t an artist. But his skier is easy enough to discern, especially after he hashes out a mountain in the distance. Then he draws circles around the figure’s eyes, and Asher blurts out “ski goggles!” for the win.
“Wow, eight seconds,” I say. “You guys have a mind meld.”
“This is Zermatt, right?” Asher points at the peak in the corner of the drawing.
“You know it!” The two high five each other.
I roll my eyes.
Our next turn doesn’t go as well, though. The card I choose reads “vegetarian.”
Christ. What does a vegetarian look like?
“And . . . go!” Asher says.
I hastily draw a face on the whiteboard, with an open mouth. Um . . . okay. I will draw a vegetable. I try a turnip. “Apple mouth!” my sister yells. “Bobbing for apples!”
With the side of my fist, I erase the turnip and draw a carrot instead. And then another carrot. And then a bunch of grapes, which take forever. And a banana.
“Monkey! Hungry! Fruit eater!”
“Time’s up!” Flip calls.
“Vegetarian,” I gasp.
Hannah slaps her forehead. “Ohhhhh . . .”
“Is it just me?” Flip asks. “Or were you thinking—”
“—Blow job!” Asher says, and the two of them burst into laughter, while high-fiving each other again.
Now I’m thinking about blow jobs.
And Asher’s wicked mouth.
Shit.
“Your turn, boys,” Hannah says sweetly. “Let’s see if you can do better.”
I say a modest prayer. Please, Lord, if you’re going to make my sister gaga over this player and his insanely sexy friend, at least please give them a difficult word.
Asher takes the marker as Hannah readies the stopwatch. He picks a card from the deck, squints at it, and places it facedown on the table.
“Ready?” my sister prompts. “And go!”
Asher begins to draw. And . . . WTF, God? Really? Asher is clearly a damn artist. In the center of the board he draws a perfectly articulated leg. A manly leg, where the calf muscle curves artfully beneath the knee.
Then he draws an arrow to the shin.
Moving to the left, he sketches . . . a big, flaccid penis. My sister hoots with laughter as he deftly adds the curve of a testicle at each side, just in case Flip can’t identify a peen without the balls.
Asher puts a plus sign between those two drawings.
Penis plus shin? What?
Then he moves to the right and draws a sort of messy cloud. At which point Flip yells, “DICTIONARY!”
“Twenty-nine seconds!” Hannah cries.
“You’re a fucking genius!” Flip shouts. He and Asher embrace like they’ve just won the doubles tournament at Wimbledon.
Which, admittedly, they kind of did.
“Dick-shin-airy!” my sister says. “That really was a mind meld.”
When the Boarding School Wonder Twins break their bro hug, the stupidly hot one winks at me.
