Fuck, how badly had he snapped at the poor guy earlier?
He made an effort to loosen up when the waiter—Liam, as his name tag helpfully informed—popped open the bottle and poured a sample into Spencer’s glass. Daff and Liam both gawked at him expectantly, and Spencer sucked in an irritated breath before lifting the glass and—without bothering to do any of the swirling, sniffing crap—downed the entire portion in a gulp. Sometimes, brazening it out crassly was the only way to go. Putting up a front of impatience and arrogance was an excellent—if obnoxious—way of hiding any feelings of uncertainty.
“Awesome,” he said dismissively before pointing at Daff’s glass. “Fill up.”
“Yes, sir.” Liam leapt to it and practically genuflected before leaving with a promise to be back soon for their food orders.
Daff lifted her glass by the delicate stem, swirling it between her thumb and forefinger before taking a small mouthful. He watched her eyes close as she savored the taste of the wine—a taste he’d barely registered when he’d swigged it down—before swallowing it with a delicate movement of her slim throat.
“Good?” he asked, fascinated by that beautiful throat, and her eyes opened before she lifted her shoulders and placed the glass back on the table.
“Full-bodied. With subtle hints of black pepper, a mere suggestion of berries, that slight tang of woodsmoke—oak, if I’m not mistaken—and just the tiniest suggestion of vanilla.”
Spencer contemplated his glass dubiously before lifting his eyes back up to her somber face. That full lower lip was trembling ever so slightly, and Spencer felt his own lips curve.
“Bullshit.”
“Well, yeah!” she said, the “duh” unspoken but very present. “It tastes like red wine. I like red wine. It’s yum . . . but I never taste the hints of this and the overtones of that. Pretentious crap, if you ask me.”
“Right?” he agreed, feeling a chuckle rise up in his throat and escape before he could choke it back.
“Oh, he can laugh,” she observed, and he felt his cheeks heat. Did he give the impression that he couldn’t?
“Only when I find shit funny,” he said self-consciously.
“Well, then, do tell: What kind of ‘shit’”—she made air quotes—“do you find funny?”
“I don’t know. Random shit.”
“Like what? Adam Sandler movies?”
“Fuck no.”
“Ricky Gervais movies?”
“Who?”
“Work with me here, Carlisle. Tina Fey movies?”
“She’s pretty good.”
“What? I totally didn’t see that coming. You like chick coms?”
“When they’re funny. Y’know?”
“No I don’t, ’cause you won’t elaborate,” she complained, and he felt his smile widening.
“I don’t watch too many comedies; I find the humor forced.”
“Action man?”
“I wouldn’t say no to something with guns, fast cars, hot babes, and lots of explosions.”
“Improbable stunts? Fast and Furious style?”
“I’ve watched a few of those,” he confessed. “An okay way to spend a couple of hours.”
“We’re veering dangerously off topic, Carlisle. Come on, spit it out, what do you find funny?”
“Okay, so the other day,” he started, and Daff wriggled forward in her chair, eager and attentive. It was a little unnerving to be her sole focus, and he took a fortifying sip of the wine. “Customer comes in, asking if we sell branded condoms, you know, like Nike or Adidas condoms, and Claude, my manager, tells him”—he chuckled to himself at the recollection—“he says—”
He snorted when he recalled the expression on Claude’s face and his tone of voice. “He says, ‘I’m sorry, sir, the only Adidas latex we sell are those running shorts over there. Comfortable fit and ribbed for your pleasure and, yes, we do stock them in extra large.’”
By the time he finished his anecdote, he was practically clutching his sides. Usually he wouldn’t have condoned such attitude toward a customer, but this particular guy was a bored asshole who came in regularly with impossible requests. And Claude had such a genuine warmth to him that it was really hard to take offense to anything he said.
He wiped his streaming eyes and comprehended that Daff was sitting there with a polite smile on her face. He winced a bit.
“You—uh—you probably had to be there,” he said lamely, and the polite smile widened sweetly. It was a novelty seeing such a warm expression on her face, and he gaped.
“If the mere memory of it still has the ability to make you laugh like that, then I really wish I had been there.”
“Claude’s a funny guy,” he said, taking another drink. “He always says exactly the right thing at the right moment. Dry, quick wit.”
He knew he sounded wistful, but he did envy his store manager the ability to joke and put others at ease. He was a real people person, and Spencer had lucked out employing him. Claude was much better at interacting with the employees at SCSS. Spencer liked his staff, enjoyed being around them, and would move heaven and earth to ensure they were all treated fairly and enjoyed the best benefits. But while they were friendly and polite toward him, they maintained a certain reserve whenever they spoke with him. He knew that it was their way of showing him deference, and Spencer had to respect that reserve. He made an appearance at staff parties but never stayed long, knowing they would enjoy themselves more without him there.
Claude—with the easy smile and great sense of humor—was the guy they went to when they needed something. None of them would ever dream of approaching Spencer directly. And Spencer had long since made peace with that fact.
“So you find Claude funny?” Daff’s voice jerked him back into the present, and he smiled vaguely.
“Yeah.”
“Claude and Tina Fey movies. That’s a short list,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.
“And other stuff, of course,” he added, lifting his menu in the hopes of changing the subject. “I read that the food here is quite good.”
They both went back to studying the menu, and when Spencer caught sight of poor Liam hovering close by, he warded him off with a look and a curt shake of his head.
“Wait, you sell latex shorts?” she suddenly asked, and he grinned.
“Of course not. Claude was just bullshitting, but it was enough to send the guy packing.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met Claude,” she said.
“You must have seen him; he cycles to work every day. He’s passionate about his cycling; he’s entering the Argus next year.” The Cape Town Cycle Tour—commonly referred to as the Argus—was the largest individually timed cycle race in the world and attracted participants from every corner of the globe. It was a pretty grueling endurance test, and Daff was suitably impressed.
“Yes, I’ve definitely seen him. Great thighs,” she said admiringly, and Spencer instantly felt less than charitable toward his likable manager.
“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” he said, ice in his voice.
“Hard not to when he wears those spandex cycle shorts. Maybe I should pop into your store sometime.” That made him frown.
“It’s not like he wears them at work. He showers and changes before we open.”
“How tragic. Imagine how many female customers he’d draw to the store.”
“He’s married with four kids.”
“Four?”
“Happily married,” he stressed, and she sighed wistfully.
“The hot ones are always taken.”
Well, what the fuck was Spencer, then? Chopped liver? He couldn’t hide his frown and kept his attention on the menu to prevent her from seeing how her words had affected him.
“This all looks amazing,” Daff moaned. “How on earth are we supposed to choose?”
“I was thinking of trying the chef’s tasting menu—no need to choose then.”
She looked torn, obviously not wanting to agree w
ith him.
“I suppose that’s a good idea,” she admitted reluctantly, and he hid his smile from her. He’d refrained from telling her earlier that she was on the very short list of things and people he sometimes found amusing. She was so damned prickly and combative and contrary as fuck. Which, while annoying, could also be kind of funny.
“I’ve been known to have those on occasion,” he said drily. He summoned Liam, who had been watching from much farther away, and placed the order. The man enthused about their excellent choice, asked them if they wanted to pair each course with specially selected wine—they did not—and hastened away purposefully.
“So this party.” Spencer figured he’d better get the ball rolling.
“What about it?”
“Any ideas?”
“Not a clue. You?”
“Not really. I’m not into planning parties. You may have noticed that I’m not the most social guy around.”
“No,” she gasped, and he narrowed his eyes at her sarcasm.
“So you agree we should do an out-of-town thing? Plett or farther afield?”
“I think Plett is good,” she said. “People can carpool and get there quickly. And we can rent a few hotel rooms and confiscate keys at the beginning of the evening to prevent the more stubborn drunken assholes from trying to drive back.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose the first order of business is to figure out the guest list.”
“Mason doesn’t have a lot of local buddies. And most of the guys will be flying in a few days before the wedding.”
“So we’ll have to figure out when exactly they’re all arriving so that nobody gets left out of the plans.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” He watched her reach down for her purse and drag out a tiny notebook and pen.
“Can you guesstimate how many guys, approximately?”
“I’ve barely spoken with Mason about this. I mean, we have like three months left to plan. I didn’t think it was that urgent.”
She made a tsking sound and set the notebook aside.
“No, it’s two months, three weeks, and it’s nowhere near enough time to plan an event like this, Spencer,” she admonished. “Your first order of business after tonight is to sit your brother down and ask him how many guys will be coming to his stag. Does he even have groomsmen picked out?”
“I’m his best man,” he reminded her, feeling a little defensive and not entirely sure why.
“Yes, I know. But Daisy will have at least two bridesmaids—that’s not including any random cousins she may want to include. Mason will need a matching number of groomsmen.”
“I thought this was going to be a no-fuss wedding.”
“There’s no such thing as a no-fuss wedding.”
“God, if I ever get married, I think I’ll elope to fuckin’ Bali or something,” he muttered beneath his breath.
“Screw that, I’m never getting married,” she snorted, and that snagged his attention. He was about to question her about it when Liam returned with something tiny and decorative on a plate.
What the fuck? It didn’t even look like food.
“An amuse-bouche. With Chef’s compliments,” he announced with a smile and flourish as he placed the tiny black plates with cubes of perfectly pink meat and splotches of unidentifiable sauce and purple bits of something sprinkled artfully about. “Duck and honey jus, served with lightly toasted lavender sprigs.”
Right.
Daff looked genuinely delighted.
“How pretty,” she gasped, and the gorgeous smile that followed made the trip out here entirely worthwhile.
“Enjoy,” Liam urged them before beating a hasty retreat.
Daff lifted one of the smaller forks and Spencer quickly took her cue, finding the same fork before looking at his plate again. He cautiously stabbed a tiny cube of pink along with a miniscule sprig of purple and swiped it through a dab of golden sauce. Feeling braver than a man ought to when having dinner, he put it into his mouth.
His eyes widened as the flavors burst over his tongue. He didn’t do much fine dining—the fanciest he ever went was a good steak at a brasserie. This was . . . something else entirely. He polished off the small plate before Daff had even finished her first bite.
He was immediately happy he’d finished first, because he discovered that he really liked watching her enjoy every aspect of those couple of mouthfuls. The way her gorgeous lips closed over the fork, the tiniest bit of suction as she drew it back out. The suckling motion of her lips just before she chewed and then again that beautiful throat working as she swallowed it down.
Fuck, it was hot, and he was transfixed. He shifted slightly, his breathing jagged, his cock hard, his heart thudding heavily in his chest as he pictured those lips closing over his length and suckling in the same delicate motion. His eyelids grew heavy and he could practically feel those full lips engulfing the head of his dick, hot, moist . . .
Pull yourself together, asshole!
He jerked his eyes away, fighting for control over his crazy hormones. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was worse than a randy teenager. He was used to wanting Daff. Used to yearning for her. But this visceral reaction was new. Maybe because it was the first time he’d actually spent real time in her company. Having a civil conversation instead of just stuttering his way through yet another attempted flirtation. Turned out that spending time with the real, live Daffodil McGregor was a much bigger turn-on than worshipping Fantasy Daff from afar.
Who knew?
“Yum.” Her voice startled him, and he raised his eyes to meet hers. She was grinning from ear to ear, and it struck him that she was smiling a lot easier around him tonight.
“Good?”
“Yep. I love an amuse-bouche, it’s like getting a fun little predinner gift. I can get really comfortable in a world that gives you predinner presents.”
“So why do you think you’ll never get married?” he asked, remembering her statement before Liam’s arrival and grateful for a topic that could take his mind off his rampant hard-on.
“I don’t think, I know.” She seemed vehement about that.
“Why?”
“I’m not suited to it.”
“Why not? Your parents are happily married, Daisy and Mason are clearly in it for the long haul . . . you’re surrounded by nothing but happy couples. Why wouldn’t you be suited to it when it’s in your DNA?”
“Lia’s wedding fell through,” she reminded him.
“Lia deserved better than that asshole. As far as I’m concerned, that was a happy ending for her. And you know as well as I do that it’s only a matter of time before she falls for some other lucky guy and winds up happily married. I always figured you were headed the same way.”
“Not with the assholes I’ve dated in the past.”
“There must have been a good guy or two in the lot,” he probed, not really wanting to hear about her previous douchebag boyfriends, but curious nonetheless.
“Nah, rotten apples, the lot of them. I seem to attract losers and freaks.”
“Freaks? How so?” Her eyes slid from his and she started to look a little cagey, sending his curiosity into overdrive. What was she hiding?
“What about you?” she hedged. “You still holding out for that happily ever after, even after what Tanya did to you?”
Ouch. Living in a small town blew big-time. It hadn’t taken long for everybody from the priest to the local grocery packer to hear all about Tanya’s threesome. In fact, he estimated it had been less than a day before the whole town heard that he had caught her cheating. The humiliation had been unbearable, but he’d kept his head down and refused to discuss it with anybody. The only reason it got out was because one of Tanya’s asshole lovers—the local mechanic—was a blabbermouth who couldn’t wait to brag that he’d stolen the local rugby hero’s girl. As if he could steal Tanya—she didn’t belong to anybody, she belonged to everybody. She’d apparently flirted and fucked her way through half of
the male population in town, seniors and high school kids included. A lot of them while she’d been with Spencer.
“I’m the eternal optimist,” he said grimly, and she giggled—as he had intended—at those words delivered in that tone of voice.
“Were you in love with her?”
“No.” He hoped the curt tone in his voice would discourage further questions, but she scooched forward in her chair and rested her chin in the palms of her hands, her eyes intent.
“You were with her for three years.”
“Habit.” Even more curtly. It didn’t deter her at all.
“Yes, but . . . three years. I was expecting a wedding announcement soon.”
“It never felt completely right with her.”
“Maybe that’s why she cheated? She knew you weren’t entirely into her.”
“Way to blame the victim, Daff,” he chastised. “But maybe it never felt completely right because she was fucking everybody she could almost from the moment we started seeing one another.”
“Yikes.” She winced theatrically.
“Come on, everybody knew.”
“I didn’t . . . not while it was happening. I found out afterward, of course, but I never knew it went that far back.”
“As far as I could tell, she was never faithful to me. She said that—” The memory of her exact words made him press his lips together in an attempt to stifle the laughter rising to the surface. He wasn’t wholly successful and pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his face as the chuckles escaped in fits and starts.
Alarmed, Daff watched Spencer lower his eyes and cover his mouth. His shoulders started to shake and she gaped, horrified to discover how very raw the whole Tanya situation still was for him. Was he sobbing?
Oh God.
She cast an embarrassed look around the room, but nobody else seemed to notice his reaction, and she scooted over to the chair on his left.
“Hey, come on now, buddy. She’s not worth this,” she soothed, running a hand over one shaking shoulder. He looked up, and tears were gleaming in his eyes. His face was red and he seemed to be attempting to curb his sobs.
Wait. Were they sobs? His eyes widened at her sympathetic words, and his shoulders shook even more. She tugged at the hand he had clutched over his mouth, and when she managed to draw it down she saw that Spencer was laughing. Huge guffaws shook his body, and her concern seemed to set him off even more.
The Best Man (Alpha Men Book 2) Page 9