Then, before I can remind her, Rosie remembers her manners and turns to Alba’s mom. “Thank you for taking me with you to dinner.”

“And thank you for taking care of Blackbeard while I’m gone, too,” I tell Valencia.

Rosie lifts a finger, all six-year-old bossy, as she sometimes is. “He gets two-thirds of a cup of cat food a day. That’s sixty-six percent of a cup. Well, almost sixty-seven.”

With an eyebrow arch, Valencia stares daggers at me. “This is your fault, Mark. All this mathing.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I happily take the blame.”

I say goodbye to my friend, then my kid and hers, and hoof it several blocks south to the designer’s showroom.

Fashion is not my thing. Shopping for my own suits is a bit like changing cat litter. A necessary chore.

Just like this outing with Asher.

That’s what this outing is⏤just another task. This mental trick works just fine until I reach Thirteenth Street, where my gaze lands on a tall, toned, ridiculously good-looking guy jogging down the block.

Effortlessly.

Looking really fucking good, and yeah, it’s a good thing Rosie isn’t here since I'm thinking about item 2B on my spreadsheet.

Focus, Mark.

Asher stops in front of me, looks at his wrist. “Damn, I impress myself. Forty minutes. Made it exactly on time,” he says, sounding insanely pleased.

I lift a brow. “You’re congratulating yourself for making it on time? Do you pat yourself on the back when you remember to brush your teeth, too?”

He shoots me a mega-watt smile, all gleaming teeth, and perfect lips. “Maybe I do, Banks. Maybe I do.”

“To each his own,” I say, as Asher eyes me up and down.

“I had no idea you owned anything other than your Wall Street uniforms,” he remarks, his gaze traveling over my navy-blue polo shirt and jeans.

“Well, it’s laundry day. Dieter, my valet, is brushing and steaming my wardrobe this afternoon. Straightening the pinstripes. You know.”

A wrinkle appears in the center of Asher’s forehead. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody is really named Dieter.”

“The second you think that, you run into someone named Dieter.” I take a beat. “That’s a mathematical probability.”

Asher looks doubtful. “Sounds more like coincidence. Admit it. They’re one and the same,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. I try not to follow the path of his fingers, but dammit, my gaze strays for a fraction of a second.

Probability of me making it through the next hour without thinking about 2C on my fantasy spreadsheet? Captain Filthy Mind says five percent.

So I return to his first question, answering it finally. “And yes, I own seven polos, five T-shirts, and three pairs of jeans. I don’t wear suits to my daughter’s softball games.”

That brings a smile back to his face. “I didn’t know your kid liked sports.”

“Of course you didn’t. You don’t know me.” And that came out snappish.

Asher rolls his eyes, like can you believe this guy. “I’m well aware of that.”