He gives me a dark look, but doesn’t bother to respond. Understandable. That comment was more for my amusement. Which, let’s be honest, a lot of things I do are.

But there was one I’m so sorry I definitely wanted a front seat to. I clear my throat. “I noticed I didn’t get one.”

“An apology?” Mark snorts, furrowing his brow. “Unless you’re going to the chapel after knocking up my sister, I don’t think I insulted you.”

A laugh bursts from my chest. “Something no one will accuse me of. Ever.”

“Then we’re all good,” he says.

I give an easy shrug. “Sure, sure. I guess I don’t require one. After all, you did say I was hot. Nothing to be sorry for there. You’re absolutely right.” Then I flash him a grin. A damn good one, and I know how to give them. Though, as a rule, I don’t flirt with straight men. Waste of time, right? But why did Mark say I was hot? Where did that come from?

But the loose-lipped texter is hard to read. He’s shooting me an I-can’t-be-bothered look. Damn. Mark Banks must kill it at poker. He has some impressive bluffing skills. “That was just the whiskey talking,” he says evenly.

I scoff-laugh. “Right. Of course. Whiskey often goes on and on about levels of hotness.”

“Like I said, you can’t trust the words of a single-malt scotch,” he says.

Hmm.

So that’s how he’s spinning this. Well, two can play that game. “You may be right. It is hard to trust the liquor, so I better refresh my memory to make sure I got it all correct.” I stop, grab my phone from my pocket, and whip it out, sliding a thumb across the screen.

Mark cuts in quickly. “There’s no need for that.”

Ha. Now I’ve rattled him. I clear my throat, and read aloud my new favorite text message ever. “Also, what is the deal with your friend with the hair?”

I glance up from the phone, tilt my head. “You noticed my hair. So sweet,” I say, giving a shake of the locks.

“It’s impossible not to. It enters the room before you do.”

“Allow me to continue. Why is it so floopy . . . wait . . . floppy . . . nope . . . it’s floofy. His hair is floofy.” I look up. “Is floofy even a word?”

He answers my question head-on. “Yes. It’s a combo of poofy and fluffy.”

Well, he’s a worthier adversary than I expected. All the more reason to keep going. “My hair is not poofy, Banks. It’s shaggy. But we’re not even at the best part of your epic rant.” I inhale deeply, savoring what’s to come. The piece de resistance.

He knocks back his orange juice, and kudos to the man. He’s taking the text message reenactment like, well, like a champ.

I brandish my phone, savoring every single second. “Anyway, whose hair looks like a shampoo commercial? Who takes off his shirt at a dinner party? Who has a body that annoyingly perfect? He’s not even real. He’s like a fucking comic book hero in those graphic novels I used to read. Here he comes . . . FLIP’S SUPERHOT . . . WINGMAN! Asher, with his stupid hair and stupid lips and ridiculous body. Who even looks that good in real life, Hannah? No one. Just no one.”