“Hmm. I’m sorry, we’re packing up. We didn’t think anybody was going to come. You must be new. I’m Spencer Carlisle. This is my brother, Mason.” He held out a hand in greeting, but the boy kept his own hands firmly tucked into his pockets.
“I know who you are,” he snapped.
“And you are?” Spencer prompted, ignoring the rudeness. The kid said nothing at first, merely stared at them with those unnerving eyes.
“Charlie,” he finally replied.
“Well, Charlie, if you don’t mind skipping the self-defense class, we can maybe grab something to eat before I take you home? Or will one of your parents be picking you up?”
“I don’t need your charity,” the kid snapped. His jeans looked at least two sizes too big, and the belt had a few extra holes punched into it to accommodate his small waist and to keep the baggy trousers up.
“It wasn’t meant to be charity. I usually order a pizza for the kids anyway, and I figure you came out in this weather, the least I can do is offer you something to eat since we’re not doing the class. Kind of as an apology for wasting your time.”
Charlie narrowed his eyes on Spencer’s face, as if he were trying to gauge the older man’s sincerity.
“I’m all right. Thanks. I’ll just go home.”
“You need a ride?”
“It’s close by.” Now it was Spencer’s turn to try to figure out if the boy was being truthful, but he couldn’t see anything beyond defiance and challenge in his eyes.
“Check the community center announcement board tomorrow to see when our next self-defense class will be.”
The boy shrugged.
“I hope to see you there.”
“Whatever.” The kid turned away and kicked at the muddy ground as he trudged away, leaving the two tall men to watch his retreating figure.
“You ever seen that kid before?” Mason asked, and Spencer shrugged.
“Never.”
“She seems familiar.”
“She?”
“Yeah, man. Don’t tell me you fell for that gruff act.” Spencer scrutinized the kid’s back speculatively and had to admit that there was a definite feminine gait to Charlie’s stride.
“Why the hell would she pretend to be a boy?” Spencer speculated.
“I can think of any number of reasons, none of them pleasant.”
“Do you think she needs help?”
“Beyond the obvious, you mean?”
“I’m just wondering if she’s in immediate jeopardy.”
“I think she probably does have a safe place to stay tonight—she didn’t seem that desperate.”
Casting another look at the boy—girl—and contemplating whether he should push the issue of food and possibly shelter, Spencer decided that it would probably succeed only in alienating her. Best to tread carefully with a prickly personality like hers. He wanted her to come back so that he could better ascertain what kind of help she needed. He just hoped she really had a decent place to stay and that she wasn’t in a dangerous situation.
“I’ll ask Oom Herbert and Principal Kane if they know her,” he decided out loud, and Mason nodded.
“Good call.” Oom—or Uncle—Herbert was the popular local minister who ran the homeless shelter. And old man Kane had been the principal at the high school since Mason and Spencer were kids. They would know if the girl was local and what her situation was. Then again, Spencer knew pretty much all the at-risk kids in and around town, and he had never seen her before. Somehow he doubted that young Charlie was local.
He sighed and climbed into the cab of his truck. He was going to worry about her all night; it was really bucketing down by now and she was skinny as hell—she could get sick easily. He hoped she really had decent shelter close by. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to her.
Daff was in the middle of reorganizing her overstuffed closet when her phone rang. Her eyes skimmed the room, and she wondered which pile of clothes hid the clamoring device.
“Shitsticks,” she muttered as she dug through the nearby charity heap. Not there. She dived through a few more heaps: skirts, blouses, and jumpsuits—how in the hell had she managed to accumulate so many jumpsuits?—before she finally found it beneath a smaller pile of scarves. Naturally, the second she laid her hands on the damned thing, it stopped ringing, and she swore colorfully while she checked the screen to see who had messed with her cleaning mojo. Her language got even more creatively foul when she saw who the call had been from.
She had a brief moment of hesitation before jabbing at the screen to return the call.
“Hey.” He answered on the first ring, and she glared at the mess she had made of her packing system while searching for the phone.
“Why were you calling me?”
“Must you always be so rude?” he chastised, and that made her even more irritable. She hated being called out on her bad behavior. And she discovered that she hated it that much more when it was Spencer doing the calling out.
“It’s ten o’clock . . . at night.” She tacked on the last two words for emphasis, and he chuckled; the rich sound startled her and sent a wave of warmth through her.
“Yeah. I got that.”
“There is no reason to be calling me at ten p.m., Spencer.”
“I beg to differ.”
She said nothing in response to that, merely waited silently for him to elaborate. But the silence stretched for what seemed like an endless moment and she sighed.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Why the call?”
“Oh.” She could practically hear the smile in his voice, and she wondered what possible joy he got out of annoying her like this. But at the same time, she sat down on the soft sofa and folded her feet under her butt, wriggling slightly to get comfortable. “I was wondering if you’re allergic to eggs.”
“What?” The fuck? The last two words were unspoken but had to be pretty apparent in her tone of voice.
“I was thinking of making something eggy for lunch tomorrow.”
“Don’t bring me lunch tomorrow, Spencer.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s weird. I told you, I don’t understand why you’d do something like that.”
“I’m a giving kind of guy. And we can start strategizing our BM/MOH stuff.”
“What?”
“Best man, maid of honor. Apparently it’s the thing to use acronyms—MIL, FIL, BM, and so on.”
She fought back a smile; he sounded so pleased to actually know that bit of information. She toyed with the frayed edge of a silk cushion for a few moments before talking again.
“No,” she said, and he was quiet for a couple of seconds.
“No, what?”
“I don’t have an egg allergy.”
“Cool.”
“But I don’t like eggs,” she continued smugly.
“Who doesn’t like eggs?”
“I don’t.” Nobody else really knew that. Back in the sixth grade, a cute boy had offered her half of his egg-mayo sandwich, and she had accepted the hateful thing with a gracious smile before swallowing it down without even flinching. A week later, Daff and young Byron Blake had been going steady. Ugh, she winced at the memory . . . and at the thought of his name. His parents had named his sister Barrett and his younger brother Browning. Apparently back in the day, it had been all the rage to give your kids dumb alliterative names that would make them cringe when they were adults. Her own parents had also fallen prey to the unfortunate trend. Her innocent relationship with Byron had set the tone for every relationship that followed. She liked whatever her guy of the moment liked, wanted what he wanted, ate what he ate, and after years of the same, it was hard for Daff to know what her real likes and dislikes were.
Except eggs. She knew that she hated eggs, and she had relished telling Spencer that. Almost as if admitting it confirmed that she didn’t find him attractive. She had no wish to put up her usual perfect potential part
ner façade. It was liberating.
“Okay, no eggs,” he said easily. “Do you like mayonnaise?”
Did she? She thought about it for a moment before shrugging.
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“So what are you doing?” he asked, his voice intimate and gentle in her ear. He sounded too far removed from his usual awkward self, and it was making her very uncomfortable.
“Irrelevant,” she replied.
“But interesting.”
“Not really . . . I’m rearranging my closet.”
“I was doing some accounts.” Again, she could hear a smile in his voice, and once more she wondered what he found so amusing. This was probably the most infuriating conversation she’d ever had, nothing amusing here at all.
“And you probably want to get back to that.”
“Not really. It’s frustrating the hell out of me.”
“Why?” she asked before she could stop herself. She heard the muffled sound of fabric against fabric and pictured him making himself more comfortable in his chair. She imagined him lounging, legs stretched in front of him and thighs spread. Again she found herself wondering what he was wearing. It was pretty late; he must have had a shower by now. Once more the image of him bare chested and in boxers floated to mind, and she swallowed down the saliva that suddenly flooded her mouth. Why was she salivating at the thought of Spencer Carlisle’s bare chest and thighs? She needed serious help.
“Well, I was trying to find the funds to fix the plumbing at the community center.”
“Why is that your problem?” she asked curiously.
“The youth outreach program,” he replied succinctly. “Our last couple of meetings were washed out by the rain and the community doesn’t appear to have enough money to fix it, so I figured maybe I could work something out.”
Of course. It had been stupid of her to ask; everybody knew how strongly he felt about that program. In fact, he was the one who had taken it to where it was today. Over the last four years, since he had started helping Oom Herbert with the program, three at-risk kids had gone on to college or technical school, thanks directly to Spencer’s influence and help. He was doing admirable work, but until now, Daff had only been peripherally aware of it.
“It doesn’t seem right, using your own money to fix the community center. It belongs to the town—surely there are funds allocated toward maintenance?”
“This isn’t your run-of-the-mill maintenance job. Looks like all the pipes will have to be replaced. They’re over a hundred years old and should have been sorted out long before now. There just isn’t enough money in the budget for it.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m on the town committee.”
“I thought only old people were allowed on that committee,” she mused.
The high school principal, the Catholic priest, the township minister, the librarian, the alderman, and also Daff’s dad, the vet, were all middle-aged or older. Daff couldn’t picture a strapping thirty-four-year-old like Spencer sitting on that committee.
“I have an old soul,” he quipped, and she frowned. Who the hell was this witty guy? She didn’t like feeling so completely wrong-footed by him, it was too unsettling.
“Well, good luck with that. I have to get back to what I was doing.”
“Cleaning out your closet, you mean?” Why did he have to make it sound like a metaphor?
“Yes. Good night.” She severed the connection before he could respond and stared blindly at the lit screen of her phone for a few long moments.
CHAPTER FOUR
The following afternoon, Spencer showed up at the boutique just after twelve. This time Daff was ready for him; she didn’t have her novel out, instead she was industriously changing Maggie—one of her trendy silver mannequins—into a ridiculously expensive designer dress. She enjoyed this aspect of her job. Window dressing, marketing, trying to attract clients. In summer she consistently had the best-dressed windows on Main Road, and the boutique had won the best Christmas store display three years in a row.
“Hey,” he greeted casually as he dragged the same spindly chair as yesterday over to the checkout counter.
“I’m really busy today, Spencer,” she grunted, dragging the mannequin’s arm up in an attempt to shove it through the dress’s armhole. It was an exercise in frustration, since the dress was stupidly strappy and Maggie’s splayed fingers were getting caught on the straps.
“Hmm.” The low, rumbling sound could have been interpreted as agreement. She kept her attention on the task at hand but was fully aware of his every move. He ignored her while he unpacked plastic containers and plates and cutlery from the big brown paper bag. Once he had everything laid out to his liking, he refocused his attention on her.
“Need help?” He drifted over to where she was building up a fine sheen of sweat, struggling to get Maggie’s stupid fingers untangled from the millions of spaghetti straps.
“I’m fine. Just super busy.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered, hanging back to watch her. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and rocked slightly back and forth on his heels. His silent perusal unnerved her and made her clumsy.
“Shit,” Daff hissed when she seemed to be making absolutely no progress. The dress, dripping with sparkly beads and sequins, weighed a mother-loving ton, and Maggie was starting to wobble precariously. It would look amazing in the window display, but Daff was starting to regret her decision to start this task just before she knew Spencer would arrive. She had wanted to look busy, not completely clumsy and incompetent.
“It has nipples,” Spencer suddenly said, his deep voice layered with incredulity. “Why the fuck does it have nipples?”
“What?” She stopped what she was doing and met his wide green eyes over one of Maggie’s narrow shoulders.
“The mannequin. Why does it have nipples?”
“Oh.” Daff gaped at where one of her hands was resting on Maggie’s perky breast, the lifelike little nipple peeking out between her fingers. She reddened and snatched her hand away, but Maggie started to topple and Spencer made a grab for the heavy mannequin. This time his huge mitt of a hand covered the small breast completely, and Daff’s throat went dry. Maggie’s breasts were almost exactly the same size as hers . . . and seeing Spencer’s hand so completely engulfing it made her stomach flutter alarmingly. She couldn’t help but wonder how that same hand would feel on her breast, and it was messing with her head.
Spencer, unaware of Daff’s wayward thoughts, held on to Maggie while yanking the strap over her hand and then her arm, his longer reach making the task look easy. Determinedly shoving her unexpected and inappropriate thoughts aside, Daff felt her face settle into a glower.
“I don’t need your help,” she protested, and he silenced her with a long, speaking look that really made her feel like a petulant child. When he was certain that he had silenced her protests, he refocused on the task at hand.
“Why the hell does this thing have so many straps?” he growled beneath his breath as he wrestled with Maggie’s other arm. Daff eased the straps over the mannequin’s fingers and up over the smooth, plastic arm. The task was much easier with his help. She tried to ignore his closeness, the heat coming off his huge body, and the warm, delicious musk of his aftershave. He made her feel small and delicate, and Daff didn’t like feeling small and delicate—it made her uncomfortable.
Once they had Maggie dressed, they both stepped back and took in the effect. The dress had a plunging cowl neck, dipping very low between the mannequin’s breasts and resting just above the perky nipples that had so disturbed Spencer. The confounding off-the-shoulder straps settled beautifully on her upper arms.
“Seriously, why the nipples?”
“I don’t know,” Daff said, resting her hands on her hips as she tilted her head, trying to figure out how to accessorize with the dress. Because it was so damned sparkly, it didn’t need much embellishment, so she decided to leave it as it was. It was
going to look fantastic backlit in the window at night.
“They seem pointless as fuck,” he said, still on about the damned nipples. Daff was trying very hard to forget the image of his big hand over that small boob, because the memory deeply, deeply unsettled her. She crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to hide her own perky nipples, which were starting to stand up and beg for attention. They were probably well hidden by the padding of her bra, but she wasn’t going to chance him figuring out that she’d had a rogue moment of attraction toward him.
“Ready for lunch?” he asked, giving the nipples a rest, and Daff huffed impatiently.
“I told you I’m busy.”
“Not leaving till you eat,” he said in that terse way of his, and she shoved a stray strand of hair out of her face before sighing.
“What did you bring?” she asked, recognizing that the fastest way to get rid of him was to just get this over with.
“Couscous, grilled chicken, and some fruit.”
“That sounds”—delicious—“nice.”
He shrugged and started opening up the containers he’d laid out on the counter. He’d placed everything on a tea towel, which he’d brought with him, and she found the gesture unexpected and really thoughtful.
“Hmm. You can eat healthy without starving yourself,” he pointed out as he began to heap a large pile of cold couscous onto one of the plates. He stabbed a piece of grilled chicken with his fork, dumped it onto the plate, and pointedly put it down in front of her. Daff’s eyes widened as she took in the huge portion.
“Eat,” he commanded, stabbing his fork in her direction. Daff cleared her throat and sat down before delicately dipping her fork into the fluffy pile of couscous and lifting it to her mouth.
God, it was good.
“This is delicious,” she said around a mouthful of the stuff, and he merely grinned in response. He’d garnished the grain with cucumber, olives, tomato, avocado, feta cheese, coriander, and some lemon juice, and it tasted light and fresh and very satisfying.
The Best Man Page 6