The Wingman

by Natasha Anders

  “No,” she refused, while he held the fork less than an inch away from her mouth.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, brushing the fig along the closed seam of her lips. She sighed and opened up, tugging the sweet fruit from the tines of the fork. The guy really seemed to have no concept of personal space or inappropriate public displays of, well, if not affection, then familiarity.

  “So what kind of things do you knit?” The mundane question surprised her, and the genuinely interested expression on his face absolutely floored her.

  “Easy stuff. Scarves and hats.”

  “Guy I knew, Kyle Quincy, used to knit to pass the time.”

  “Model?”

  He grinned, stealing another fig off her plate and once again offering her half. She took it without thinking twice, too interested in his story to make a big deal out of it. “Soldier.”

  “Seriously?” She couldn’t even begin to imagine some macho soldier-type hulking over a pair of knitting needles.

  “Yep. Big bastard. He used to sit around knitting these dainty little baby things for his sister and later for his wife.”

  “I’m not going to lie, I find that both bizarre and awesome.”

  “Quincy was an awesome kind of guy.”

  “Was?” She watched the open grin fade from his face to be replaced by shadows and turmoil.

  “Yeah. He was KIA.” He fiddled with his fork and kept his eyes downcast. “Left behind his wife and two-month-old baby girl. Linzi.” A fleeting smile graced that mobile mouth. “We gave him hell over that name. I mean, who names a kid Linzi Quincy?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head and met her eyes, the distant look on his face replaced by something warmer. “It was years ago. Shit, Linzi is probably around eleven or twelve now. Hard to believe. I haven’t thought about Quincy in years.”

  Daisy didn’t believe that for a second. Something told her that he thought about his fallen brothers-in-arms every single day. “Well, if Quincy was knitting baby clothes, then he was probably a lot more skilled than I. That’s next-level knitting for someone who can barely finish a scarf.”

  “I’m sure your baking is pretty damned awesome,” he said, and she shrugged.

  “Nothing compared to Chris’s bread.” She was surprised by the sudden snap of impatience in his eyes.

  “Why do you do that? You’re constantly selling yourself short, and it’s annoying as hell. Chris is a trained chef; it’s his job to make excellent food. But I’m pretty sure your baking is a thousand times better than his amateur veterinary skills.”

  Mason was heartened by the shy smile that bloomed on Daisy’s lips and the slight glow of warmth in her cheeks.

  “I’m sure it is too. His mediocre attempts at a routine vaccination would most likely pale in comparison to my zucchini-and-bacon bread.”

  “Dear God,” he whispered in awe. “That’s an actual thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “How soon can you make one for me?”

  “I’ll call you the next time I bake one,” she reassured.

  “No, you’re baking one for me. You’re not giving me a slice from a bread that you just happened to bake.”

  “I’ll consider it,” she teased. He enjoyed it when she felt comfortable enough to tease him; it gave her eyes a saucy, naughty glint that was about 20 percent charming and 80 percent cute.

  “Consider this; I’ll be annoying and persistent as hell until I get my bread.”

  “And that’s different from the usual you, how?”

  “Bake that bread and you’ll never have to find out.”

  She laughed, and he relished the way her face lit up and her eyes crinkled at the corners, those gorgeous plump lips opening to reveal her straight white teeth. She had a piece of arugula caught in her teeth, and Mason found even that adorable as hell, though he knew that she would be mortified to learn about it.

  Daisy was genuinely sad to say good-bye to Chris an hour later. He had joined them at their table about half an hour before they left. Bringing coffee and rich chocolate cake to top off the perfectly decadent meal that Daisy knew she couldn’t afford to indulge in. Especially not a mere fortnight before squeezing herself into that sausage casing of a bridesmaid dress. She didn’t think she would ever be this comfortable and familiar with Christién Roche again. She might frequent his restaurant in the future without Mason, but she’d be just another customer.

  Chris almost immediately dispelled that belief when he hugged her and said, “You come back any time, ma petite fleur. We will eat and drink and converse like the old friends we will soon become. Oui?”

  “I’d like that so much,” she breathed, delighted by the invitation. And then even more delighted when—instead of the traditional double air kiss—he planted a great, smacking smooch right on her lips.

  She was a little dazed when Mason led her back to the car and incoherent for the first five minutes of the drive home, barely registering anything Mason said. She only tuned back in when he pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the engine.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Oh, back with me again, are you?” His voice was steeped in sarcasm.

  “I mean, the guy kissed me, Mason. Did you see that?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Didn’t impress me much.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t; you’re not into him at all.”

  “And you are?”

  “He smells nice and his lips are soft and very . . .”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake . . .”

  He wasn’t going to listen to her rhapsodize about Chris’s lips, for fuck’s sake. Sure, the guy had laid one on her but had kept his eyes on Mason the entire time, clearly hoping to get some kind of reaction from him. And if he had prolonged that kiss a second longer he would have gotten Mason’s reaction right in the teeth. Not cool, man.

  Now, only wanting to shut Daisy up about Chris’s dreamy lips, Mason cupped a hand around the nape of her neck to tug her closer, using his thumb to tilt her jaw up and her face toward him. He grunted in satisfaction when he had her lips angled exactly right and planted his own mouth over hers. Screw Chris, she’d forget about his lips in . . .

  Jesus, her mouth is soft. He sighed and leaned in closer; she tasted even better than he remembered. Tart, sweet, and savory all at once. His thumb was stroking idle patterns down her throat, and he lifted his free hand to cup the other side of her jaw, sweeping both thumbs down the soft skin of her throat and pausing at her pulse points to enjoy the crazy fluttering of her heart. His tongue demanded entry, and she opened for him, her own meeting his with delicate, shy flicks. He wanted more, needed more, craved more. He fucking deserved more.

  His breathing was out of control, and he was embarrassed by the hungry, primitive sounds coming from him as he deepened the kiss, one hand going to the back of her head and grabbing a fistful of that gorgeous hair before tugging and exposing her pale throat to him. His mouth moved down over that delicately scented column, farther down to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, and lower still to the gentle slope of her breast. She was making her own breathy sounds, the same sexy noises she made while she was eating. God, he had known that she would sound exactly like this when she was turned on.

  His hand moved down, burrowing its way beneath her layers of clothes until flesh met flesh; he found the ripe curve of her breast and toyed with the laced edge of her bra, until he lost patience and fully cupped the sweet, soft mound. It filled his hand perfectly, the hard nipple burning into his palm like a hot little coal. He flexed his hand experimentally, catching the nipple into his contracting palm and was rewarded by the guttural sound of pleasure that caught in the back of her throat. She arched into him, and he lifted her breast, lowering his head toward it, desperate to get that sensitive peak into his mouth even through layers of clothes.

  One of her hands was cupped around the back of his head, pulling him toward her, while the other clawed madly at his back. H
e could feel the scrape of her nails even through his thick shirt. He couldn’t get close enough, the seat belt restricting his range of movement, but before he could attempt to unfasten it, the sound of an air horn blaring as a truck shot by the car—close enough to rock it slightly—sent them both flying to their respective corners. Mason swore softly, and then put a little more effort into it, until the only sounds they could hear were the rain pattering on the roof, their heavy breathing, and Mason’s very prolific range of curse words.

  Daisy had both hands pressed to her lips, her huge eyes—magnified by her askew glasses—peering at him owlishly over her fingertips.

  He owed her an explanation. But what could he say after that performance? He had a huge erection—there was no hiding the thing from her—and he knew she was aware of it by the way she was very pointedly keeping her eyes on his face. So much for keeping her oblivious to his attraction to her.

  He finally ran out of English swear words and launched into French, which was only fair since it was Chris’s fault that they were in this position.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mason had kissed her, properly kissed her, and seemed to regret it almost immediately afterward. So why kiss her in the first place? And he wasn’t unaffected by it. Even with her peripheral vision she could see how very not unaffected he was. He was still breathing heavily and swearing. Well, she assumed he was swearing, since he had moved on from French to something that sounded like Arabic—and he was quite determinedly not making eye contact with her. He was doing that thing, where he ran his hand over his scalp. She had recognized it as a nervous habit the first time she’d seen it, and judging by the number of times he was doing it now, he was very agitated.

  He finally switched back to English.

  “Okay, so I’m really competitive,” he said, which was literally the last thing she expected to hear from him in this moment. “And when you were going on about Chris and his lips . . .”

  His voice trailed off, and it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

  “Oh.” Wow.

  “So it wasn’t really about you. Well, it kind of was. But not really.” Yeah, surprise, surprise . . . it was never really about her. What a—a jerk, seriously! One minute he’s chastising her for selling herself short, and the next he’s proving to her once again that she had reason to do so.

  “I see.”

  Damn it! Of course she believed this line of bullshit; the woman had very little self-esteem, so naturally Mason had to go and reinforce the low opinion she already had of herself. But he honestly did not see how telling her that he couldn’t keep his hands to himself around her would improve the situation at all.

  He wanted to fuck her, get her out of his system, and move on. But it always came back to not wanting to hurt her. Even though he seemed to fail at that time and again. Judging from the look on her face right now, he’d done it again.

  Yeah, he was a real fucking prince among men, wasn’t he?

  There was nothing more to say. He turned the key and restarted the car, and the music kicked on. A more current playlist this time, but she kept her eyes fixed on the wet green world sliding by, not even tapping a foot to the beat.

  As for Mason, well, it was another five miles before his erection finally subsided, and the feel of her hard, hot nipple faded from his palm.

  The drive home felt like it took forever, while in reality it was only half an hour. The rain had let up when he finally brought the car to a stop outside her little house.

  “I’m sorry. I was a bastard,” he said, and she was startled by the subdued words. His first since the kiss.

  “You were.” His lips twitched at her easy agreement.

  “I’m not really used to being friends with a woman,” he admitted. His eyes gleamed with sincerity, and she chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully before remembering his reaction to it earlier and immediately stopped.

  “We barely know each other; I’m not sure we’re actually friends.” He looked a bit taken aback by her frank assessment.

  “I enjoy your company. I like talking to you and hanging out with you. I think we have the beginnings of a pretty good friendship, Daisy.”

  “Mason, you’re a great guy. Anybody else would have called me crazy when I first brought up this stupid idea and called it a day. But when this is over, we won’t see each other again, we won’t hang out, we won’t be friends. That’s the reality of our situation. And I’m okay with that.”

  I’m not. The words hovered on the tip of Mason’s tongue but he swallowed them back. He had caused enough damage and confusion for one day.

  “Let’s just see this thing through and be done with it,” she continued, and he nodded.

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “I usually have dinner with my family on Sunday.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “Boundaries, Mason.”

  “What about them?”

  “You’re overstepping them again.”

  “You’re going to need me there.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Think of all the questions they’ll have. Do you really want to lie to your family? Or would you prefer me to be there to deflect the questions and do the lying on your behalf?”

  “Lying by omission is just as bad.” The crazy situation just kept getting worse and worse.

  “I’ll be there to watch your back, Daisy.”

  “It’s my family, Mason. They’re the ones who watch my back.”

  “Yeah? Seems to me they’re the reason you were driven to this course of action in the first place.”

  That made her pause for thought.

  “Maybe I should just avoid Sunday dinners for the next couple of weeks.”

  “You can have dinner at mine. I’ll cook.”

  “Oh my God.” He was missing the point entirely. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ward off the headache that was starting to build behind her eyes.

  “Well, you’re going to need a reason for bailing on dinner with your family, aren’t you? So what’s it to be, dinner with your family with me as your wingman? Or dinner at mine, just the two of us. And the dogs, of course.”

  This wasn’t quite the nightmare she’d been expecting. Dinner had gone off quite smoothly; it helped that her mother and Daff were still treading on eggshells around her, which had led to restrained and polite dinner conversation, even though she knew they were both dying to unleash a torrent of questions. Lia wasn’t at home, which had also helped a lot. After dinner, Mason and her father retreated to the comfortable living room for coffee, her father gently quizzing Mason about his combat experience along the way, and Daisy knew her reprieve was over. So much for watching her back; Mason and her father had kicked off a generational bromance from the very moment they had been reintroduced, and now they had both abandoned her to her mother and sister.

  “For the record, I never thought you weren’t pretty enough,” her mother fired the first salvo without warning. “And while I always thought you could stand to lose a few pounds, it was because I was concerned about your health.”

  Daff said nothing, merely shoved a stack of dirty dishes into Daisy’s hands for transport to the kitchen.

  “I know you’ve always had my best interests at heart, Mother,” Daisy said as they walked to the kitchen, hoping her voice carried a suitable amount of contrition. “But it can be a little overwhelming . . . even smothering at times. I’m not Daff or Lia; the things that interest you guys don’t always interest me. You have them for stuff like shopping and makeup and . . . and that.”

  Daff snorted, and Daisy shot her a glare, which her sister returned venomously. Okay, so apparently Daff was more than a little pissed off with her.

  “I just get a little sick of always being compared with them. And coming up short.”

  “You never come up short.”

  “Except literally, of course,” Daff said snidely, and their mother gave her a quelling glance, which she ret
urned defiantly for a second before returning to the task of loading the dishwasher.

  “Daisy, I love you girls equally. And you all have your own wonderful individual strengths: Dahlia has that kind heart, Daffodil has her spirit, and you have wit and intelligence. None of those characteristics have anything to do with the way you look. What kind of mother would I be if I judged you on your looks?”

  “Then why are you always going on about my hair and my weight and my makeup and my clothes and all of that?”

  “Because, like the saying goes, I want you to be the best version of yourself you can be.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I want to hear no more about this. You girls clean up the kitchen while I go and rescue Daisy’s charming friend from your father.”

  Daisy waited until she was out of earshot before turning to Daff, who had stopped loading the dishwasher and was now leaning against the counter with her arms folded across her chest. Everything about her stance told Daisy that her sister was not happy.

  “Let’s have it,” she invited wearily.

  “I can’t believe you. You think you have it bad? Lia and I have been compared to you—and coming up lacking—all our lives. You’ve always been Daddy’s favorite. He does everything with you while he merely tolerates us. And Mom is constantly going on and on about how proud she is of you. You’re the doctor, the one with her own house, the independent, clever one, and you have the nerve to bitch about looks? Do you know how it feels to constantly be told that even though we’re not clever like you, at least we’re pretty? We’ve been made to feel like that’s literally all we have going for us, so of course the stuff you find so shallow is important to us. It’s all we have.”

  Daisy could feel her jaw dropping, but she was helpless to do anything about it. She felt as if the whole world had been flipped upside down. After all these years of feeling completely lacking compared to her sisters, it was humbling to understand that they had experienced the same snide comments and felt the same insecurities and doubt that she did.