The Wingman

by Natasha Anders

  “That’s not very funny,” she fumed, and he shrugged, hooking an elbow over the back of his chair and leaning back indolently.

  “I’ll say not,” he agreed easily. “I’ve been a walking hard-on for days.”

  Daisy felt her cheeks heating at his words, and she glared at him, absolutely furious.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said, his face and voice revealing absolutely nothing.

  “Of course I don’t believe you,” she snapped. “Mason, on Friday your brother had to practically beg you to talk to me. And today you’re telling me you want me . . . sexually?”

  Mason tried to bite back a grin at the quaint phrasing and the hushed way she said sexually, like the word was dirty and forbidden. He shouldn’t have said what he did, but her wholly accurate assessment of his personality had sent him into defense mode, and he had lashed back with a truth that he knew would make her uncomfortable. He had also known she wouldn’t believe him for a second. Still, to have that knowledge confirmed was annoying as hell. He wanted her to believe him, tell him she wanted him back, and then he wanted them to go upstairs and have hot, raunchy sex. The kind that was wet and steamy and dirty and left you wrung out and strung out afterward.

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” he said, injecting a healthy dose of sangfroid into his voice. He didn’t want to scare her off completely.

  “Well, I’m telling you I don’t believe you, and I told you before, I don’t appreciate being the butt of someone’s stupid joke.”

  This again. He should have known she’d think he was having a bit of fun at her expense. The fact that she knew that Spencer had practically forced him to speak to her on Friday didn’t help his cause either.

  Mason knew he was foolish to actually verbalize his desire. Better to stick to the “rules,” no matter how crazy they seemed.

  “Sorry I upset you,” he muttered. “I guess I overstepped a little.”

  “A little?”

  “A lot.” His admission mollified her for a moment, and she took another gulp of wine.

  “I should probably get going,” she said.

  “You haven’t even had dessert yet.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry about what I said. You just . . .” He shook his head and figured a strictly edited version of the truth would probably be his best defense here. “I didn’t like what you said. About me. It hit too close to home. I often feel like an ungrateful bastard because just when something seems perfect, I find a way to deliberately fuck it up. Vashti seemed perfect for me—gorgeous, intelligent, funny—but when she started talking about moving in together, I called the whole thing off. Said I didn’t love her.”

  “Did you love her?” Daisy asked breathlessly, and he shook his head.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It felt like I should. I cared about her.” He didn’t know why he was revealing so much. He was telling her stuff he’d never actually even acknowledged to himself. It was unsettling. “How do we ever really know if what we’re feeling is love?”

  She shifted her gaze, and the deliberate furtiveness of the movement caught his attention.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Have you ever been in love?”

  “No.”

  “So much certainty,” he observed. “Your ex-boyfriends couldn’t have been very noteworthy.”

  “You could say that.” She was hiding something. He could tell from her rigid posture, her averted eyes, and the tension that radiated from every pore. He didn’t like it. What if she still carried a torch for some past lover? The thought of her in love—whatever the hell that meant—with some undeserving bastard didn’t sit well with him at all. What if it was some guy in town, someone she saw every day? How the hell would she get over him if she saw him all the time?

  “Are you still in love with one of them?”

  She looked startled by his question. “No. I just told you I’ve never been in love. Why would you ask me that?”

  “You’re hiding something,” he pressed, and she threw him a disbelieving glare.

  “And that’s the conclusion you’ve leapt to?” Her color was high, her eyes huge as they scowled at him over the rims of her glasses, and even her curls seemed to crackle with annoyance. He beat back a smile; she looked like a hissing kitten.

  “So what are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Daisy.”

  “It’s none of your damned business.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m supposed to know this shit. I haven’t been here for thirteen years, everybody else knows your business, and they’ll know when you’ve kept something from me, and I don’t want to be blindsided with the news that you were once involved with a groomsman at the wedding or something.” It was a paper-thin excuse to pry into her business, but it made her pause for thought.

  “I wasn’t,” she said, and he clenched his teeth in frustration.

  “It was an example.”

  “Mason, there is nothing you need to know, no nasty surprises that will be sprung on you unexpectedly. Okay?”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “I can.” She pushed her chair away from the table and got up, clearly dismissing the topic. Frustrated, Mason rubbed his hand over his short hair and squeezed the nape of his neck in an attempt to ward off an incipient headache. God, she was infuriating.

  She started to stack empty plates and dishes, and he sighed impatiently.

  “Leave it.”

  “It’s no problem . . .”

  “I said leave it,” he growled, and she jumped, nearly toppling the growing stack of dishes in her hands. She pursed her lips and carefully placed the crockery back on the table.

  “I’m not in the mood for dessert, and I have an early start to the day tomorrow, so I think I’ll go. Thank you for dinner. It was really delicious.” She could barely meet his eyes, and Mason sighed, admitting defeat. Daisy McGregor was a tough nut to crack, and frankly, it wasn’t his job to crack her shell. He was just along for the very short ride, and then he’d be out of her circle of acquaintances and friends again. The thought made him feel somewhat melancholy, but that was the reality of their situation.

  “I’m sorry for prying,” he said, watching as she pulled on her coat and called Peaches to her. The little dog was still curled up in Cooper’s bed, while Cooper was lying in front of the fire. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the small intruder, seeming simultaneously confused and intrigued by her. When Peaches didn’t even lift her head to acknowledge Daisy’s summons, Mason snorted and strode toward the bed to scoop the dog up with one hand. Peaches growled and bared her sharp little teeth at him, but he lifted her to face level and growled back, which shut her up immediately. He handed the dog to Daisy, who tucked her beneath her coat again, before grabbing her bag and heading for the front door.

  Mason beat her to it and had the door unlocked and opened seconds before she got there.

  “Thanks again for dinner,” she said, meeting his eyes reluctantly.

  “No problem. Tomorrow night? Dinner at MJ’s?”

  “I have plans.” He could tell she was lying but didn’t call her out on it.

  “Let me know if they fall through or change.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned down to kiss her good night, but a firm hand on his chest stayed the movement.

  “No.”

  “Somebody could be . . .”

  “There’s nobody out there,” she interrupted, impatience lacing the words. “It’s after nine, cold and wet. And this is the only house up on this godforsaken hill. Why would anybody be out there?”

  Chastened, Mason shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Good night, Mason.” It sounded like good-bye, and he hated that.

  “I’ll see you soon.” And that was a goddamned promise.

  The week flew by. Work kept Daisy busy, and, in an effort to avoid Mason, she volunteered to help with some of the last-minute wedding stuff. H
e called every day. He had her mobile number but rarely contacted her on it, leaving messages with the receptionist at the practice. She knew he was doing it to keep up the pretense and was grateful for that. He even sent flowers the day after their dinner. The bouquet arrived in the middle of the day, when the surgery was teeming with people, and everybody heard the deliveryman ask for Daisy. It was both embarrassing and flattering.

  Now, late Friday evening, she was seeing off her last patient—an impeccably groomed Pekingese with an eye infection—when Mason strode into the reception area. Both Lucinda—their receptionist—and the Peke’s owner, one of her mother’s country club cronies, gaped at him.

  He smiled when he saw Daisy. A beautiful smile that told her—and everybody else in the room—that he was happy to see her, that he had missed her, that he was focused on her alone and had eyes for no one else. And it nearly had her completely fooled.

  “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate but loud enough for Lucinda and Mrs. Cage to hear. “I missed you.” He lifted his hand to the nape of her neck and tugged her toward him for a kiss. A very thorough kiss.

  Daisy felt a little out of sorts afterward; she was barely able to string together a coherent thought and wholly incapable of actually formulating words. He had his forehead pressed to hers, his hand still at her nape, and when he spoke she barely registered his words.

  “Daisy?” There was infinite patience in his voice, and irrepressible amusement in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “I asked what you’re doing tonight.”

  “I have plans.”

  “Can I join you?”

  “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “I don’t care. I want to spend some time with you.” Her lips twitched; he was laying it on much too thick.

  “Well, then, since you put it that way, I suppose it would be okay if you joined us.”

  “Us?” He looked surprised, and she grinned. Of course he thought she’d just been making these plans up in an effort to avoid him.

  “Mom, Lia, Daff, and I. Dad is taking a rare evening off and heading to Ralphie’s with some of his golfing buddies, but a man’s opinion is always welcome. So everybody will be thrilled to know you’re joining us.” She relished the flare of panic she saw in his eyes and kept her smile sweet and beatific.

  “What exactly will you be doing?”

  “We’re still having problems with the seating arrangements, if you can believe that? Just a week left, and it’s a shambles. I swear it’s worse than a logic puzzle.”

  “I’m great at puzzles; I’ll get it done,” he said confidently, and Daisy tried not to roll her eyes.

  “And we’re assembling the last of the welcome bags.”

  “What are those?”

  “Little gift bags for all the guests.”

  “We’re getting gifts?” He sounded boyishly excited by the idea, and she laughed.

  “Yep.”

  “So does this evening of hard labor include dinner?”

  “It does.”

  “Great. Pick you up or meet you there?” He was being optimistic in even asking, and she laughed.

  “Meet you there. Six thirty on the dot. Lia gets hysterical if anybody’s late. She’s gone full bridezilla over the last few days . . .” She paused before adding, “Do not tell her I said that.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” he promised, holding a dramatic hand to his heart, and another laugh bubbled up in Daisy’s throat. He was just so charming, and she had missed him. Which was odd, considering she barely knew him and hadn’t spent more than a few short hours in his company.

  “I’ll see you then.” He dropped another kiss on her lips and then glanced around and did a little double take as if he were noticing the other two women for the first time. He grinned at Lucinda. “Hey, you must be Lucy. Sorry for hassling you so much this week. But my little Dr. Daisy has been almost impossible to pin down.” He sent her such a smoldering look that all three women gasped at its potency.

  “It’s nothing,” Lucinda—Lucy?—dismissed, going beet red when he smiled at her again.

  “Sorry for the delay, ma’am.” He smiled charmingly at Mrs. Cage, and the woman pursed her lips.

  “Just be more mindful of your sweetheart’s working hours next time, young man,” she admonished with very little heat in her voice. Wow, he was good. Mrs. Cage could be impossibly crotchety at times.

  He gave them all a cocky grin before exiting the building. The room instantly felt bigger and emptier without him in it, and Lucinda sighed into the silence.

  “Well, Daisy. That young man certainly looks like the best and worst kind of trouble, doesn’t he?”

  She could say that again.

  “This is impossible,” Mason growled as he glared at the seating chart stuck onto a whiteboard in the middle of the kitchen. Daisy was surprised by how very seriously he was taking this seating business. He looked like a military strategist planning to go to war. Within ten minutes of arrival he had the chart streamlined and color coordinated. It was both impressive and uncanny. Now, an hour later, they had hit the same brick wall Daisy’s family had been slamming into for weeks. “Why can’t we put the Goldsteins at the same table as the Redwoods?”

  “Because Mr. Goldstein and Mrs. Redwood had a thing about twenty years ago, and Mr. Redwood has been gunning for Mr. Goldstein ever since,” Daff explained gleefully, and Mason’s brow lowered.

  “I suppose that makes sense,” he conceded thoughtfully. “I’d probably want to kill the guy too if he’d slept with my wife.”

  “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Redwood weren’t married at the time,” Lia supplied helpfully.

  “What?” Mason practically yelled. “The guy is pissed off because his wife had a sex life before they were married? What the fu-uudge?” He caught himself just in time and cast a guilty look at Millicent McGregor. The older woman turned away and hid a grin from him, but Daisy saw it and barely bit back her own snicker. He had been trying to be super polite all evening, but the seating chart was taking its toll on his good humor too.

  “Okay, so then put the Redwoods at this table.” He pointed to one of the little circles on the chart, and all three women hissed collectively. “What? What’s wrong with that?”

  “Mrs. Redwood had a relationship with Mr. Abernathy. Mr. Redwood has been trying to put Mr. Abernathy out of business since then, and both men hate each other’s guts.”

  “Well, then, put the Abernathys and the Goldsteins at the same table; the enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?”

  “Can’t.” Lia shook her head regretfully. “At the time Mrs. Redwood was having her thing with Mr. Goldstein, she was also sleeping with Mr. Abernathy. The men got into a massive fight over her, and they haven’t really spoken since.” Mason sighed but said nothing. Just pointed to another table, and all three women winced.

  “Mrs. Redwood slept with Mr. Abbot and—”

  “Mr. Redwood wants to murder him,” Mason finished Daisy’s sentence wearily, and she smiled at him sympathetically. He stood up from the round kitchen table and paced back to the whiteboard, glowering at it intently. The women remained seated.

  “Okay.” He cracked his neck and shook his arms as if he were limbering up for a fight and reevaluated the chart. “Let’s approach this differently—who didn’t Mrs. Redwood sleep with back in the day?”

  The pause was so long and significant that Mason groaned and threw up his hands in disgust.

  “Jesus.” He glanced at their mother. “Sorry.”

  “Why not just give them their own table?” he asked.

  “That wouldn’t be right; they’d feel excluded.” Lia was ever sensitive to everyone’s feelings, no matter what the cost.

  “Why did you invite them at all?” Daff asked Lia. “Mr. Redwood doesn’t get along with anybody, and Mrs. Redwood drinks and flirts with every man within her radius.” Lia glowered at her. It was an argument that kept resurfacing every time the frustration levels hit boilin
g points. Daisy groaned and buried her head in her arms on the table, while their mother tried to keep the peace. Mason just kept his gaze fixed on the board.

  “Who is Kenna Price?”

  “A cousin,” Daisy said, propping her chin on her forearm and watching as he shifted Kenna’s magnetized name strip off to the side.

  “And her plus one?”

  “Her partner, Trudi.” The plus-one card also moved off to the side.

  “What about Martin Mikkelstone?”

  “One of Clayton’s old university friends,” Lia supplied, intrigued.

  “He also has an unnamed plus one,” Mason pointed out.

  “Clayton said Marty will definitely bring a girl, but that’s yet to be confirmed.”

  “And the guy is young, unlikely to have slept with Mrs. Redwood?”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Daff muttered grimly.

  “Daffodil,” their mother chastised, wearily.

  “What? The woman seems to go through legions of men. I would be shocked if she’s not a cougar too.”

  Daisy, still with her chin on her forearm, released the other arm and started twirling the curls at her temple.

  “Katinka Van Buuren is also bringing a plus one, her mum if I’m not mistaken,” Daisy pointed out, and Mason grinned at her, before moving Katinka’s name with its plus one off to the side.

  “I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before.” Daff shook her head as she watched Mason move a couple more names to the side. “It’s so simple.”

  “If you stare at a problem for too long it starts to seem insurmountable,” Mason said. “Add the pressure of a deadline into the mix, and it becomes damned near impossible.”

  “I’m not sure what’s going on.” Lia shook her head in confusion.

  “Mason is cobbling together a table of young singles and their plus ones and foisting the Redwoods off onto them.” Daff chuckled.

  “We’ve been trying so hard to place them with their contemporaries, when the simple fact is, they don’t get along with any of their contemporaries,” their mother mused.

  “But that will throw the other tables off balance,” Lia despaired.