The Wrong Kind Of Right
Asher stood in front of the floor length mirror in their hotel suite, shirt half buttoned, sleeves rolled up, collar open.
He looked fine.
Not too much. Not like a date. Just… casual.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
He yanked the shirt off with a frustrated huff and threw it on the bed beside the others.
Three shirts, two pairs of jeans, and one pair of shoes too polished for a maybe drink with a woman he didn’t even care about.
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