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.

And I suppose it wasn’t that bad.

And being the best men together won’t be either.

How long does wedding stuff take? Two days? Then I’ll be free of the object of all this weird, misplaced lust.

I move away from the center of the party, when Hannah grabs my arm, Flip beside her. “Just one more thing,” she says.

I turn around. “Sure.”

“The wedding is going to be a small one, and I’m already asking our friends to drop everything to come to it next month. So . . . remember that favor I said I needed?” she asks, rocking back on her heels.

Flip puts a protective hand on her waist. And I try not to hold it against him.

“Of course, Hannah,” I say. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about the wedding. We’re going to be pulling this off at warp speed, right in the middle of your MTA next month.”

“Right, I do appreciate that.” MTA, or mandatory time away, is a requirement for all securities traders who run more than a billion dollars of risk for the bank. For two weeks, you’re not allowed to step foot in the building, so your books can be marked to market by someone else.

It’s meant to root out fraud. But it’s really just the best scam ever. Two weeks of paid freedom. If I ever meet the genius who devised MTA, I’m probably going to kiss him, because MTA is extra hot.