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.
He grunted suddenly and reached into the bag to produce a couple of bottles of water, which he plonked down between them. Daff didn’t say anything, merely nodded her thanks. She was starting to understand that Spencer didn’t need much in the way of conversation, and Daff—the consummate talker—was strangely okay with that.
They both devoured their lunch before speaking again.
“I was wondering if we should have the parties out of town. Plett, maybe?” Spencer said after taking a sip from his water.
“Like an overnight thing?”
“Hmm.” He picked up an apple and held it out to her, and she accepted with a soft “thanks” before crunching into the ripe, red fruit appreciatively.
“That’s a really good idea,” she said around a mouthful of sweet apple, and when he didn’t respond, she looked up and caught him staring. Wiping self-consciously at her chin, where some of the apple juice had dripped, she lowered her eyes.
“So . . . uh . . . what exactly did you have in mind?” she asked, taking another, smaller bite of the apple.
“I don’t know; it was just an idea. Figured we could brainstorm together,” he said almost shyly, and she raised her eyes to meet his. His expression was hard to read. He really was the most frustratingly enigmatic man. It was weird how she could see that now, where before she’d simply dismissed that closed-off personality as a man without much intelligence, having nothing of note to say. An unfair assumption based on nothing more than the fact that he was good at sport, rarely spoke, and couldn’t flirt worth a damn.
“Well, it’s a start,” she said, and he nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
“How do you feel about Mason and Daisy moving?” she asked, the words tumbling from her lips without warning. Maybe she wanted to see if Spencer was as affected by the news as his brother had said he was.
“I knew it was coming,” he said, his voice and face without expression, and Daff was about to dismiss Mason’s words of the other day as sheer bollocks when she saw it—the brief tightening around his eyes and mouth, the tense set of his huge shoulders. He looked like he was bracing for a hit.
“You knew it was coming but you were upset by it,” she elaborated, and he shifted uncomfortably, saying nothing in response. Not even a grunt this time.
“Not my place to be upset by it.” He shrugged, gathering up the empty containers.
“Bullshit, you’re his brother. I’m bummed Daisy’s leaving. I’ll miss the hell out of her. We were just starting to reconnect, and I think it sucks that she’s leaving just when we’re starting to act like sisters again.”
“You seemed sisterly enough before,” he said.
“Not really. We got along and loved each other, but we never seemed to have very much in common. It’s been a lot better since your asshole move last year.” He grimaced at the reminder.
“So maybe you can thank me instead of constantly bitching about it?” he suggested, and she laughed incredulously.
“You’re joking, right? Dude, you treated my sister like she didn’t matter.”
“Yeah, and I’ve apologized. More than once,” he reminded her through clenched teeth. Spencer Carlisle looked seriously pissed off and Daff—perversely—found herself mildly turned on by that. She was beginning to discover that she liked pushing his buttons. It kept her in control. She preferred being in control these days. She had allowed others to control her too often in the past. She was done with that.
“Anyway, I was saying that you have a right to be upset about your brother leaving.”
“It’s none of your business how I feel,” he muttered, carelessly dumping all the cartons into the large brown paper bag. He shoved to his feet, looming threateningly above her, and Daff was secretly thrilled by the deliberately intimidating display. Big, bumbling Spencer Carlisle seemed almost scary, and it was pretty damned awesome.
God, I’m so messed up, she thought, shaking her head slightly. One second wanting to be in control and the next thrilled because of his show of dominance.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” he snapped.
“Okay. Thanks for lunch,” she said in a sickly-sweet voice with a matching smile. He said nothing in response to that, just glared at her before slamming his way out of the store.
“Touchy,” she said softly, exhaling on a whistle.
How the hell did she always manage to get the upper hand like that? Spencer seethed as he walked the short distance back to SCSS. One minute he was staring at her luscious mouth while she devoured that fucking apple, and the next she had him on the back foot about some ancient history that nobody else even cared about anymore. And worse, why the fuck would she nose around about his feelings concerning Mason’s imminent departure? What did she care?
She was the most frustrating woman. He didn’t know how to converse with her, and it didn’t help that he was semihard every time he was in her general vicinity. He didn’t know why the hell he was so turned on by her. Sure, she was pretty, but she’d never been anywhere near civil to him. Maybe he liked being treated like dirt. It was familiar—it was how most people had treated him for the entirety of his life. And it was disturbing to think that he was still such a victim that he would willingly seek out this treatment from someone like Daff, someone he desired, someone he couldn’t seem to stay away from.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
“Hey, boss,” Claude Meintjies, his manager, greeted him when Spencer stepped back into the store, and Spencer lifted a hand in greeting. The salesmen and women all looked up with smiles and waves, too. They were a friendly lot, hardworking, efficient, and he valued every single one of them. He kept them incentivized and well paid, and he made sure there was room for growth within the company. SCSS was so much more than just this store. He intended to expand and branch out. And he made sure his staff knew that they would be right there along with him.
“I’ll be up in my office, Claude,” he informed, striding past the smaller man as Claude gave him a thumbs-up. Spencer made his way to the back of the store, through the storeroom, and up a short, winding staircase to the small glass office upstairs. The second floor of the building was a huge empty space, housing only the staff break room, Claude’s cubicle, and Spencer’s office. But Spencer had big plans for this space.
He shut himself into the office, closing the door and the blinds. His staff would know not to disturb him. He lowered himself into his desk chair and threw his head back on the rest. He examined the stained ceiling board above his desk, the remnant of a damp problem that had long since been taken care of. He should have replaced the board, but he liked the familiarity of the elephant-shaped stain.
His phone beeped and he dragged it out of his pocket and raised it to his line of sight, blocking out the elephant in the room. A text message . . . from Daff.
Seriously. Thanks for lunch.
He sighed and chewed the inside of his cheek for a second before sending a thumbs-up emoji.
He waited for a moment, but no response was forthcoming . . . she wasn’t even typing. He was about to lower the phone when it pinged and her response—a grinning emoji accompanied by a thumbs-up—popped onto the screen.
He stared at the two cheery little pics for a moment before screwing his eyes shut and then opening them to type two words. Words he knew he’d live to regret.
Dinner? Tonight?
“For fuck’s sake,” he gritted, furious with himself. He was a sucker for punishment. Clearly he was a masochist. Who knew?
She was typing . . . and typing . . . and typing. Jesus, how many words did she need to spell out a rejection? In the end, after endless amounts of typing, he found himself staring at just one word: Okay.
No shit?
He nearly dropped the phone in his haste to respond. He fumbled and caught it before it fell and sent his response before he could change his mind.
Pick you up at 6:30
Another thumbs-up in response, and that was it.
Someone knocked on her door at six that evening. Daff was in the middle of getting dressed for her dinner—date?—with Spencer, and she cursed the timing of this unexpected visitor. A quick peek through the peephole had her groaning and she unlocked the door with palpable reluctance. Daisy stood on her doorstep, a huge canvas bag tucked beneath her arm and clutched protectively to her side. Her entire demeanor was furtive, and Daff’s curiosity was immediately piqued.
The younger woman pushed her way into the small house and Daff stepped aside, allowing the intrusion. It was Daisy’s place, after all, even though her youngest sister would never really intrude unless she absolutely had to.
Daff closed the door, shutting out the cold, and followed her sister into the living room.
“Thank God you’re home,” Daisy was saying, gingerly placing her bag on the coffee table. “You have to hide these.”
“Hide what?” Daff asked blankly and then watched as Daisy carefully unloaded the contents of her ugly canvas bag.
“Ugh! No, I don’t want to hide your creepy caterpillars,” Daff protested as Daisy gently placed her entire caterpillar collection onto the coffee table. A little revolted, Daff gawked at one complacently smiling little caterpillar, a ceramic thing wearing a jaunty sailor uniform.
“Come on, please, Daff,” Daisy begged. “You even have the perfect display case for them, right there.” She pointed at the empty cabinet that had previously housed the unsettling caterpillars that Daisy had always found so inexplicably fascinating.
“Why?”
“Mason keeps swapping them out for these weird butterfly trinkets.”
The information startled a laugh out of Daff, which she quickly stifled when Daisy scowled at her.
“Why would he do that?” she asked, trying very hard to keep a straight face.
“Some nonsense about me letting go of my negative self-esteem issues and embracing my inner butterfly.”
Aw, hell! That Mason was constantly surprising Daff. She honestly couldn’t have asked for a better man for her baby sister.
“I’m not keeping them.”
“But I like them,” Daisy insisted.
“You do not. You collected only a quarter of these before everybody else started showering you with the hideous things and you found yourself drowning in them.”
“I’ve grown attached to them. I’m not holding on to them because I have negative self-esteem. Not anymore. They’ve become . . . I don’t know . . . a collection. Mine. I don’t want to part with them.”
“So explain that to Mason,” Daff said reasonably. “He loves you, he’ll understand.”
“I know. But he can be stubborn, and I just want to give my caterpillars a temporary safe haven until I can convince him of that fact. He’s already disappeared three of them and he won’t tell me where they’ve gone.”
This was absurd. But kind of cute, too.
“I suppose I can keep them for a while.”
“Oh thank you . . .”
“Not for long,” Daff warned her sharply. “You don’t sort this out soon and I’ll start disappearing them myself. So you and Mason find a way for caterpillars and butterflies to safely coexist.”
Daisy grinned cheekily at that and nodded.
“Definitely,” she said and hugged Daff before taking a step back to peruse her appearance. “You look nice. Are you going out?”
“Yes.”
“On a Tuesday night?”
“Yes, Mom. I have a social life even during the week,” Daff said with a roll of her eyes.
“Jeez, no need for sarcasm, I was just asking.”
“It’s just a . . . a meeting, kind of. With Spencer,” Daff confessed, trying not to look or sound self-conscious.
“Spencer? Really?” Daisy looked inordinately pleased by that news, and Daff smiled. “That’s great, Daff.”
“We’ve been planning your crazy mixed ‘last glorious days of singledom’ party,” Daff elaborated, and Daisy smiled widely in response to that.
“Thank you,” she said and then surprised Daff by enfolding her into another warm hug. “I know you guys don’t always get along and I’ve been worried, even though Mason has been telling me that I’m stressing for nothing. I’m so glad to know he was right.”
“We love you guys,” Daff said into Daisy’s neck. “And we want your wedding to be perfect and stress-free. That’s more than enough reason for us to set aside our differences.” She tried not to wince as she showered her sister with comforting half truths, but who knew, maybe tonight would be the night they actually, for real, set aside their differences.
Daff still had no idea why he had asked her to dinner, or—more pertinently—why she had accepted. In fact, she shouldn’t have texted him in the first place, but once her smugness in provoking a reaction from him had worn off, she’d immediately felt bad for pushing him like that. She’d felt the need to end their lunch on a more positive note. She certainly hadn’t expected a dinner invitation after the way they had left things.
“What time are you meeting him?” Daisy asked, stepping out of the hug.
“He’s picking me up in about ten minutes.”
“Oh gosh, and you were getting ready? I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
“It’s nothing.” Daff shrugged, feeling a bit awkward. “It’s not like it’s a date or anything.”
Except she’d been fussing over her clothes and makeup almost exactly like it was a date. She now found herself grateful for Daisy’s interruption, because it put everything back into context.
“Maybe not, but I’m sure you still want to look nice.”
Daff lifted her shoulders casually. “Makes no difference to me. I mean, we’re probably just going to Ralphie’s or MJ’s. Not exactly fancy.”
“Well, you still look very pretty,” Daisy said warmly, and Daff looked down at the black jersey knit dress that she’d fully intended to change before her sister’s untimely interruption. It was too low in the neck, too high in the hem, and definitely clung to her slender curves a little too lovingly. It was entirely inappropriate for a casual dinner with Spencer Carlisle. An authoritative rap sounded at the door and Daff stifled a sigh. It was too late to change now. She squared her shoulders, smoothed her hair, and moved toward the door. She swung it inward just as he lifted his hand to knock again, and he lowered his arm and his eyes ran over her body solemnly.
“You look nice,” he observed, his voice so neutral he might as well have been commenting on the weather. His regard shifted from Daff to a point beyond her left shoulder, and his mouth quirked while his eyes wrinkled at the corners.
He smiled with his eyes. Daff had never noticed that before. It was as distinct as an actual smile—his expression warmed and his eyes shone. It was devastatingly attractive and she was quite taken with it. Sadly, the warmth wasn’t directed at her but at the person standing behind her.
“Daisy, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Hi, Spencer.” Her sister moved toward him and stood on her toes while he hunkered down, allowing her access to kiss his craggy cheek. “I was just dropping something off. I’m on my way again. I just wanted to thank you for going the extra mile with Daff. Mason and I really appreciate it.”
His eyebrows lifted to his hairline and his scrutiny moved to Daff, who lifted her shoulders behind Daisy’s back.
Go with it, she mouthed, and his head dipped for a very brief instant, acknowledging her words.
“We just want your big day to be cool,” he mumbled, and Daisy wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him for good measure. The embrace was over before he could figure out what to do with his comically outstretched arms and Daff bit back a grin, loving how flustered he looked.
“Anyway, happy planning, guys. I’m sure whatever you come up with will be awesome. Daff, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure,” Daff responded and waved her happily smiling sister off. The silence after Daisy left felt weighted with both expectation and uncertainty, and Daff wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“I should probably drive myself,” she said, voicing the thought that had occurred to her just seconds after their text conversation the previous evening. “More convenient that way.”
“Convenient for whom?”
Whom?
“You? Me? Both of us?” she supplied, her voice breathless.
“Since I just drove here with the intention of picking you up, it wouldn’t be convenient for me,” he pointed out.
Daff couldn’t fault that logic.
“Ralphie’s or MJ’s?” she asked, reaching for the coatrack alongside the front door. He beat her to it and grabbed her double-breasted cashmere coat—not the one she would have chosen considering the rain—and held it open. Damn it. She would not be charmed by his unconsciously courteous little gestures.
Deciding not to say anything about his choice in coats, she slid her arms into the armholes and buttoned and belted it efficiently. She tensed when he unexpectedly dropped a hand onto one of her shoulders and slid the other beneath the hair at her nape, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin there as he lifted the shoulder-length fall from the neck of the coat. He smoothed a gentle hand over her hair, patting it in place before stepping back without a word and reaching past her to open the door.
Still staggered by the alarming intimacy of his previous action, it took Daff a moment to readjust and even out her jagged breathing and erratic heartbeat. This was crazy. It was Spencer, he was harmless . . . he wasn’t the kind of guy who normally attracted her.
Then again, considering how spectacularly all her previous relationships had crashed and burned, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
She shook herself. Allowing herself to think like that was dangerous. Spencer Carlisle wasn’t someone with whom she could have any kind of romantic interaction. When it failed—and it would fail—she wouldn’t be able to simply erase him from her life. He’d always be around, at family gatherings, in town, at work . . . reminding her of yet another failure in her life.
“Daff?” The gruff sound of her name in his voice didn’t help. Why was everything about him suddenly so damned sexy?
“Yes. Sorry. I was trying to remember if I had my wallet or not.” The words sounded lame and unconvincing to her, but it was all she had.
“Doesn’t matter. You won’t need it.”
Rolling her eyes at that bit of macho nonsense, she chose not to respond. She’d fight that battle when she had to. She waved him ahead, and when he gave her that truculent look she was becoming so familiar with, she fought against rolling her eyes again.
“I know you’re a gentleman and ladies first and all that, but I have to lock up, so move your ass.” He stood there for another second before, with obvious reluctance, moving ahead and exiting the house. He stopped on the tiny front porch, opening the umbrella and waiting for her to lock up.
When she turned to join him, he hooked his—much too familiar—arm around her waist and dragged her to his side to shelter her beneath the umbrella before leading her out into the rain. She was in his car before she even had time to protest, watching him run around the front, not bothering with the umbrella this time.
She had been expecting the pickup truck, but this sleek, masculine automobile was a lot more elegant and beautiful than the truck he normally drove. She’d seen him drive by in it a couple of times, of course, but not often enough for her to begin associating this sexy ride with the Spencer Carlisle she’d known all her life.
Because of his humility, the fact that he drove around in an old pickup truck, and dressed in sweats most of the time, it was easy to forget how successful he was. This car was tangible evidence of that success and wealth. A gorgeous, metallic-blue panther of a machine.
“Nice car,” she said drily when he climbed into the driver’s seat, and he glanced at her for a second before starting the engine.
“I like it,” he said without inflection after he had himself belted in.
“What is it? Maybe I’ll add this one to my Christmas wish list or something.”
“Audi R8, and you should stick to your VW. You’d be a menace on the road in one of these.” He eased the car onto the road, and she gasped at the slur.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked indignantly.
“I’ve seen you drive. I’ve had the bad luck to be stuck behind you on occasion. You never use your turn signals and God, woman, you’re a road hog. You tailgate, speed, weave in and out of lanes like you’re doing some kind of crazy dance. And that’s just in an ancient, shitty little hatchback. Can’t imagine you in one of these.”
It was the most she’d ever heard him speak at one time, and every word was an insult. What an asshole.
She’d be a lot more pissed off by his words if they weren’t also true—she had a few (dozen) traffic violations to her name to corroborate what he was saying. Both of her sisters would rather walk than get into a car with her behind the wheel.
“I’m an awesome dri—” she started to say, but a rude sound from him, this one unmistakably scathing, shut her up.
“You don’t even believe that,” he said, and she glared at him before crossing her arms over her chest and diverting her attention out of the window. She sat up a moment later, her mien alert as she watched the scenery slide by.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Dinner.”
“We’re heading in the wrong direction,” she stated. “Town’s the other way.”
“We’re not having dinner in town.”
“But . . .” Panic flared in her chest. This wasn’t the plan. She wasn’t comfortable with the thought of seeing him outside the usual familiar settings.
“I’m bored with MJ’s and Ralphie’s.” He shrugged and she chewed on her bottom lip, wondering if she should insist they head back to town. It seemed like an unreasonable response to a casual dinner, and she bit back the words.
“So Knysna?” It wasn’t a long drive, twenty minutes to half an hour at most. Maybe faster when the roads were this empty.
“Yeah, I read about this great place.”
“I see.” She nervously folded and unfolded her hands in her lap, a habit she had developed in an attempt to stop chewing her nails but that had just devolved into a different nervous tic. Still, it was preferable to ruining a perfectly good manicure.
She continued to fidget until he reached over and engulfed both of her hands with his free one. He gave them a brief squeeze before lifting his hand back to the steering wheel. The gesture made her breath catch, as did the lingering warmth of his touch, and she found herself striving to appear casual after the fleeting contact.
“Relax,” he growled. “I’m not driving you to some remote location to murder you or anything.”
“Wow. That thought hadn’t occurred to me . . . till now.” Her voice was tart and—despite the dimly lit interior of the car—she could see his lips tilt just enough to reveal one of those masculine dimples to her. It took everything in her not to reach up and trace her thumb over the indentation in his stubbled cheek.
“So what kind of place is this? Am I overdressed?” Considering the rough and ready guy he was, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he’d simply take her to a pub much like Ralphie’s.
“You look perfect.” His gravelly voice sounded intense, and Daff felt her face heat at his words.
“Thank you. You look quite nice, too.” And he did. He was dressed in a pair of faded jeans that fit him perfectly; her eyes drifted over thickly muscled thighs and the snug pull of fabric over his crotch before she hastily diverted her attention upward. The view was no less unsettling—a pale-blue dress shirt, slightly damp in spots from where it had caught the rain, lovingly draping and dipping over his broad chest. The top two buttons were undone, leaving her with a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, tanned skin. She couldn’t see much because of the dim car interior, but it put her imagination into overdrive and made her breath quicken.
God, Spencer Carlisle was seriously good-looking. Not conventionally handsome, but so damned sexy it made her skin feel tight and uncomfortable. Like she had an itch that was just out of reach.
He had slipped into one of those contemplative silences he seemed to enjoy so much, and not feeling the need to break the silence, Daff fumbled for her phone and pretended to check her messages and Facebook. He left her to it and only when she saw the lights of Knysna rapidly approaching about ten minutes later did she put her phone away again.
“I’m starving,” she said, and he grunted in agreement.
“Nearly there,” he informed her, and she stretched luxuriously, curling her toes in her shoes.
“Awesome.” She sighed, paying closer attention to their surroundings. “We’re headed toward Leisure Isle.” She didn’t know why that surprised her. Leisure Isle was a residential suburb surrounded on all sides by the tidal estuary and only accessible by a narrow causeway. Daff had never visited the tiny lagoon island before and was both flustered and impressed with his choice of destination. It was touristy and upmarket. Maybe he wasn’t taking her to a pub after all.
“I’ve been meaning to try this restaurant for a while—this is as good an excuse as any to give it a go.”
“This isn’t a special occasion,” she hastened to remind, and she could hear his sigh even over the engine noise.
“Never said it was.”
“Just saying.”
“Hmm.”
Frustrating man.
“This is a hotel,” she pointed out suspiciously when he finally drew the car to a standstill, and he slanted her an exasperated look.
“It’s a lodge,” he corrected before continuing, “with a great restaurant. Don’t worry, Daff . . . I didn’t bring you here to seduce you. I know better.”
What was that supposed to mean? She nearly asked before thinking better of it and keeping her mouth shut. Instead she perused the exterior of the whitewashed building. It looked sublimely luxurious and was situated right on the lagoon’s edge, promising fantastic views. A shame they wouldn’t be able to enjoy it on a dark, rainy night like this.
“Fancy,” she observed when he held the passenger door open for her. She was suddenly grateful for the little black dress she was wearing and then instantly peeved with Spencer for not warning her that he’d be bringing her to a place like this. What if she’d dressed for Ralphie’s or MJ’s? She’d have looked distinctly out of place in jeans and a T-shirt.
He led her to the restaurant’s separate entrance, where they were greeted by a smiling maître d’.
“Carlisle,” Spencer said succinctly, and the officious little man’s smile broadened.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Carlisle.” He picked up a couple of leather-bound menus and tucked them into the crook of his arm. “Right this way, please.”
He led them through a maze of white-clothed round tables—some empty, some filled with smiling, relaxed people—toward the back of the restaurant.
“Here you go. Your server will be right with you,” he said. The table was in a great location, right beside one of the huge picture windows, with a fantastic view of the night-black lagoon. There were a few blinking lights from boats and reflected lights from homes and buildings, but it was eerily dark out there. Especially with the cloud cover. Still, the view was amazing, and Daff would have loved to see it on a sunny day, when it would probably be brilliantly blue and ethereally beautiful. She turned her avid scrutiny back to her immediate surroundings and was impressed by the gorgeous decor of the place. Everything was white and cream and airy. The austere color palette worked in this setting.
“This is a little much, don’t you think? We could just as easily have discussed the party plans over a beer and some pretzels,” she said, her eyes meeting Spencer’s.
“No skin off my nose,” he said with a shrug before lifting his hand to summon a waiter. “Ralphie’s it is.”
The waiter was there in seconds.
“Ready to order your drinks, sir?” he inquired.
“We’ve changed our—”
“Not yet,” Daff interrupted hastily, sending a glare Spencer’s way. He merely lifted a brow and folded his arms over his chest before leaning back in his chair and watching her with something like a smirk on his brutally handsome face. “Give us a few more minutes, please.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the young man said with a polite little bow before retreating.
“Thought you wanted to leave.”
“I’m starving,” she complained. “And I can’t stand the thought of another long drive on an empty stomach. We’re here, we might as well eat something.”
“Hmm.” He turned his attention to the wine list, his overly long hair sliding forward as he bent his head.
“Use your words, for God’s sake,” she groused beneath her breath, and he tilted his jaw just enough to look at her from beneath the long flop of hair. Daff grinned before reaching for her purse and digging around a bit until she found what she was looking for.
“Need a hairclip?” she offered, holding the tiny sparkly butterfly clip out to him. He ran a sheepish hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face in the process.
“No time to get to the barber. Been meaning to hack it off myself.” He sounded charmingly embarrassed, and Daff’s grin widened even while she was appalled at the thought of Spencer doing a hack job on that gorgeous mane. She acted without thought, reaching across the table to slide her fingers through the silky hair that kept falling over his eyes and used the ridiculously feminine clip to pin it back. She snatched her hands back almost immediately and hid them in her lap beneath the table. Spencer reached up and touched the clip with the tip of his long index finger. He surprised her by leaving it in place and thanking her gruffly before bending his head to contemplate the wine list again.
Daff, in the meantime, kept rubbing her palms against the material of her skirt, trying—and failing—to rid herself of the feel of his luxurious hair on her skin.