The Best Man Page 10

  Exasperated, she flounced back to her chair and sat with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for the chuckles to subside.

  Part of her was enjoying the display, though. He looked boyishly handsome when he laughed, young and ever so slightly innocent. She’d noticed it earlier when he was telling that god-awful anecdote about his manager. He had an amazing laugh, warm and carefree, and she felt privileged to hear it when she knew that few others did.

  Still, it would be nice to be let in on the joke. He reached for a napkin and wiped the corners of his eyes, finally seeming get himself under some semblance of control.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, still trying to keep the chuckles at bay. “It’s just . . . the look on your face made it even worse.”

  “What set you off?” she asked.

  “Tanya—what she said in defense of her cheating—she said trying to keep her in a committed relationship was like caging a mermaid. When she was meant to swim free and frolic with dolphins.”

  Daff blinked and then pressed her lips together.

  “As mermaids do,” she said with a somber nod.

  “Wild and free. With the dolphins.”

  “A mermaid?”

  “Yep. A freaking mermaid.”

  “I mean . . . she knows mermaids aren’t real, right?” He grinned at the question, stifling another chuckle.

  “Who knows? Although, since mermaids don’t have sexual organs and she was fucking everything with a dick, I don’t know why she’d go there.”

  “Why were you with her so long? I’ve had a few conversations with her in the past and . . . she’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  “Like I said before, habit. She was a warm body to come home to. She was sweet and affectionate. And I liked that she made no demands. She seemed happy enough in the relationship.”

  “Were you hurt? By her infidelity?”

  “I think you mean infidelities,” he corrected, a shadow crossing his expression. “I felt betrayed, obviously. And humiliated.”

  The last was conceded almost reluctantly, and he looked like he immediately wished the words back. Before he could say anything more, the waiter returned with their first course and Daff was suitably distracted by the beautifully arranged sliver of yellowtail, accompanied by a swirl of lemon jus and fennel foam.

  She looked up to share her delighted smile with Spencer and caught him glaring at the plate in front of him.

  “Should have eaten before this,” she heard him mutter beneath his breath, and her smile widened. He was entertaining as hell. Something she hadn’t expected at all. His sense of humor was odd, but it was gratifying to know that he had one. No matter how offbeat it was. She was already borderline addicted to the sound of his laughter, and she could watch him smile all night.

  He was ridiculously attractive, and she was trying her level best not to succumb to that attraction. She did stupid things when she liked a guy, and for the first time in years she found herself without a significant other. It was revelatory. She liked herself more when she wasn’t trying to impress some man. It was like unearthing a whole new Daffodil McGregor, and she found that she liked the person she was discovering beneath the layers of pretense that she hadn’t even known were there.

  An attraction to Spencer Carlisle might halt that discovery process entirely.

  Put it out of your head, Daff, she admonished herself severely. It’s not going to happen.

  She lifted her fork and noticed that Spencer mirrored her movement. He’d done that earlier as well, with the amuse-bouche, and she clued in to the fact that he wasn’t as familiar with the place settings as she was. She found it curious that he’d chosen to come here, despite the fact that it appeared to be outside his comfort zone.

  “Why did you choose this place?” she asked, and his fork halted halfway to his mouth.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful, and the food’s fantastic. I was just curious. You said you’ve been meaning to try it for a while. It just isn’t the type of place I pictured you liking.”

  “Why not? Because I’m a Carlisle? Because I once did whatever it took to survive and grew up in a dilapidated old house with broken windows and no heating?”

  Jesus, Daff hadn’t known that his childhood was that dire. She’d heard snippets from Daisy, but to hear it from Spencer himself was . . . sad.

  “No.” She finally found her voice and responded to his defensive questions. “Because you seem like a down-to-earth, meat and potatoes guy like—”

  “Like who? My deadbeat alcoholic father?” He bristled, and she rolled her eyes.

  “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I barely remember your father. I was going to say, like my dad. But you’re acting like a hormonal chick, so I take back that particular compliment. My dad is awesome, and you’re being less than awesome right now.”

  He paused, his face clearing as he lowered his fork back down to his plate.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, the words brimming with sincerity. “It’s a touchy subject. My dad, I mean.”

  “You brought him up.”

  “Hmm. I also feel a little uncouth in a place like this.” The confession was hushed, and his eyes were directed out over the dark lagoon in an effort to avoid meeting her stare. Daff could barely hear him over the piano music in the background and the chatter of the other restaurant patrons. “With its weird wine rituals and place settings and unrecognizable food.”

  “Then why come here?” she asked again, her voice gentling.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  Oh.

  For God’s sake. Why was he so damned sweet?

  “I do,” she said after a beat. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  His eyes swung back in her direction, and she met his scrutiny head-on. Her expression was serious, but she hoped that he could see that she was being sincere. His eyes darted back and forth between hers for an excruciatingly long moment before he smiled. The parting of his lips was slow and hesitant, like a foal taking its very first steps. It was like watching the sun come out from behind a cloud, and the subsequent brightness was almost blinding after so much gloom.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Now try the fish. It’s freaking awesome.”

  “There’s barely enough here to feed a fuckin’ gnat,” he complained, and she laughed.

  “This is the first of seven courses. You’ll be stuffed after this, trust me.”

  He looked dubious but lifted his fork nonetheless.

  “I hope so, or we’re stopping at a McDonald’s on our way home.”

  “Trust me,” she repeated, keeping her gaze level, and he nodded.

  “Hmm.”

  “What a fucking revelation that was,” Spencer groaned in the car a few hours later. The evening had gone surprisingly well after his stupid, embarrassing first-course rant. They had kept the subjects neutral and limited to mutual acquaintances and party planning. Daff was an easygoing, witty companion, and his fascination with her was stronger than ever by the time the long and shockingly good meal was finally done.

  “I mean, most of that stuff looked like art—how the hell did they manage to make it so delicious and so filling at the same time? I don’t get it. It’s like some weird sorcery.”

  “You ate seven courses, Spencer,” she reminded him. “That’s a lot of food.”

  “It didn’t look like a lot of food.” He shook his head, still astonished.

  “But it was.”

  “I didn’t hate it.” He could hear the shock in his own voice, and she laughed.

  “I didn’t hate it, either. In fact, I found everything about it quite enjoyable. The company included.”

  He nearly swerved from the road in his rush to look at her.

  “Hey, watch the road, buddy,” she criticized.

  “Sorry. I just . . . I enjoyed your company, too.” And now he sounded like a teenage boy after his first date, and he cringed a little.<
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  “Good to know we can spend a few hours together without killing one another, huh? Bodes well for this partnership.”

  “I never find your company a hardship,” he said, focusing his attention back on the road. Disturbed by her words. “If anything, you’re the one with some inexplicable grudge against me.” He heard the questioning lilt in his statement, inviting her to elaborate on exactly why she always seemed to have it out for him. But she didn’t respond, just kept her attention on the darkness outside.

  Fuck it. He was going to ask and let the words fall where they may.

  “Why don’t you like me?”

  And didn’t that just sound needy as fuck?

  “I don’t not like you,” she said, her voice completely emotionless, which frustrated the hell out of him.

  “You always seemed to.” Why was he pursuing this? It was humiliating, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “I just don’t think we have much in common, that’s all,” she elaborated. “You were a rugby player.” She said the words in the same tone of voice one might use to say serial killer.

  “Not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” he muttered.

  “Nothing, I just tend to get along with more cerebral people.” The dashboard lights highlighted her immediate wince, telling him she regretted the words as soon as she said them. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “You think I’m dumb.” He was hurt and completely offended by her words and her attitude. And was sorry to witness the resurgence of her snobbery, which had been refreshingly absent all evening. “Guess that explains the mushroom thing.”

  “No, I don’t think you’re dumb. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Daffodil,” he said, quite fucking fed up with this bullshit, “but you barely finished high school and didn’t go to college, right?”

  Silence.

  “Because while I may have been just a rugby player and it may have been what got me into college, it wasn’t what helped me graduate summa cum laude. It wasn’t what made me start a sports shop from scratch and turn it into one of the most thriving businesses in the area. That all came from here”—he stabbed his forefinger against his forehead and then lowered his hand to jerk a thumb at his chest—“and here.”

  “Spencer—”

  He’d had more than enough and leaned forward to turn on the radio, flooding the car with loud rock music. She was still trying to talk and he cranked the volume, ignoring her and whatever trite apology she felt the need to throw at him this time.

  When would he learn his lesson where Daffodil McGregor was concerned? He was like a dog that kept going back to someone who beat it constantly. It was humiliating. It was past time to grow some balls where this woman was concerned.

  The rest of the ride was punctuated by loud, angry music, and when he slid to a stop outside her house, he was still so pissed off he didn’t bother to get out and open the passenger door for her. He could tell from the way she sat and watched him for a few moments that she was expecting him to, and when he didn’t she sighed and opened the door.

  Before exiting the car, she reached forward and pushed the mute button on the radio. The immediate silence thundered between them, but he still refused to acknowledge her, maintaining a death grip on his steering wheel as he glowered grimly ahead.

  “I’m really sorry, Spencer. I had a pretty great time tonight.”

  He wasn’t going to soften, no matter how sweet her damned voice. He’d fallen for that bullshit before—it was the way she operated. Pretend to let him in before shutting him down so hard his head reeled. He’d experienced a few concussions during his rugby days, but none of them had ever left him as dazed and confused as Daff did.

  “I’ll see you at lunchtime tomorrow?” His hands tightened on the wheel, and he ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Good night.” She left without a further word, and much as he wanted to just speed the hell out of there, he still felt compelled to make sure she got into the house safely. Once the door was shut and the lights were on, he took off like a bat out of hell. Promising himself that he would never allow her to fool him again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Daff tossed and turned all night. The way things had ended between her and Spencer weighed heavily on her mind, and she felt awful about it. No matter how much he blustered to the contrary, she knew she had hurt him, and it bothered her. He was a decent man and she was smearing all her crazy and her wrong off onto him. But she couldn’t leave it the way it was. She just couldn’t.

  She picked up her phone and checked the screen for the umpteenth time since she’d sent her message just after arriving home from dinner. Her apology remained unread, and that stung a bit. Not that she deserved anything better, it was just . . . she didn’t want to ruin whatever it was that seemed to be building between them. She was beginning to discover that liking Spencer was a good habit to have and a hard one to break.

  She tossed and turned some more, checked her phone again, and at around 2:00 a.m. knew that she wasn’t going to get any sleep. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. She could go around to his store in the morning, take him and his staff some doughnuts, even if it wasn’t their usual doughnut day. Or maybe she could take him lunch for a change.

  She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on top of them. She stared off into the darkness pensively, wondering how to fix this.

  He hadn’t even bothered to open the car door for her this evening, and that had bugged her so much. Not the fact that he hadn’t done it, more the idea that she’d taken a decent guy and angered and corrupted him to such an extent that he’d willingly forgone his hard-earned impeccable manners. And knowing Spencer, she figured he must have fought his chivalrous instincts very hard to make that point. She hadn’t missed that death grip on the steering wheel.

  She groaned and got out of bed, dragging on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a thick cable-knit sweater. She put her hair up in a sloppy ponytail, shoved her feet into comfy fur-lined boots, and grabbed her keys on the way to the front door. She had to make this right tonight.

  Somehow.

  The house was dark and quiet. A modest two-floor white building with gingerbread trim and a peaked roof. It looked almost too feminine for a man like Spencer, but rumor had it Mason had designed it to Spencer’s exact specifications. This beautiful family home with the white picket fence and the huge front and back yards was the home of a man who longed for a settled life with a wife and kids. The home of a man who didn’t have room in his life for a woman like Daff. But here she was anyway, knocking, at nearly two thirty in the morning. And when that didn’t get a response, she leaned on the doorbell.

  A few short minutes later, an upstairs light switched on, then another, and she could hear, even above the thundering rain, the sound of him cursing roundly at the interruption of his sleep. The door unbolted, and her breath hitched in her throat as she grasped that he probably hadn’t even had a chance to drag on a robe to cover his nudity. Again she pictured his naked chest and thighs, and that anticipation zipped along her nerves in addition to the anxiety already bubbling there as a result of this insane move. This wasn’t the behavior of a rational person, she knew that . . . but she didn’t know what else to do. She had to make him understand that she was sorry . . . that she . . .

  The door was yanked open, and she gaped at the hulking figure silhouetted there in absolute shock.

  “P-pajamas,” she heard herself stuttering like an idiot. Yes, there he stood, this big, sexy beast of a man, resplendent in his flannel pajamas. Plaid, red-and-black pajamas. They were buttoned all the way up to his throat. Only his hands, face, and large feet were naked.

  It was . . . unexpected, to say the least. And Daff’s throat went dry as she discovered that reality—this buttoned-down image that was nothing close to what she’
d been picturing for days—was so much better than her imagination. He looked absolutely, unexpectedly gorgeous. He’d cut his hair since dinner, she noted regretfully, before immediately wanting to run her fingers through the newly shorn, inch-long locks.

  “Daff, what the fuck?” She came back to reality with a bump as she jerked out of her lustful haze to remember that she was dripping in the man’s doorway.

  “I—I wanted to t-tell you . . .” Her teeth were chattering, and she couldn’t tell if it was because she was nervous or cold. “It’s not that I don’t like you, Spencer. It’s that I like you too much. I think I’ve always liked you too much. And that t-terrifies me. I don’t want to like you. Not when I’m just starting to like myself.”

  He looked confused and a little alarmed.

  “Jesus, have you been drinking? Come in, for Christ’s sake, it’s freezing and you’re turning blue.” He dragged her over the threshold and grabbed a huge coat from the coatrack to drape around her shivering body. He then ran his hands vigorously up and down her arms, returning some of the sensation she hadn’t even known she had lost, before enfolding her in his arms and enveloping her in his delicious warmth. She sighed and cuddled closer, only vaguely aware that she was getting his sexy pajamas wet.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

  “Oh darling, you’re a complete mess,” he murmured into her hair, and her eyes filled with tears at both the words and the old-timey endearment. Of course Spencer would use an endearment like darling—it was exactly like him and it made her feel treasured.

  “I am.” She nodded with a wet sniff, and he sighed.

  “You are what?”

  Your darling.

  “A mess. And I didn’t mean to drag you into my mess. I just wanted to tell you something.”

  “That you like me?” he said on a questioning lilt.

  “And something else.” He lifted his head at that and looked down at her, his striking, savage face much too close to hers.

  “What?” he asked curiously.