CHAPTER THREE
Bland!
Thwack.
Insipid!
Thwack.
Boring!
Thwack! Thwack! Thwa—
“Fuck! Balls! Shit!” Spencer swore when his ax lodged in the fallen tree he’d been attempting to split for firewood. It wasn’t his favorite chore and he’d been delaying the job for days, but he needed to get the anger out of his system and could think of no better outlet than violent physical activity. It was this or beat the shit out of the punching bag in the makeshift gym that doubled as his home office. He had chosen this option because at least it yielded positive results from released negative energy.
Well, that was the idea, anyway. He glared at his stuck ax and swore again, wiping his forearm across his forehead to prevent the sweat beading there from dripping into his eyes. He tugged at the ax before releasing his breath on yet another curse word. He wasn’t getting the damned thing unstuck anytime soon. He’d need a chain saw or something to dislodge it.
God. Sometimes she pissed him off.
She made him feel capable of conquering mountains one day and smaller than a bug the next. It was very fucking unhealthy, and he knew it. But today . . . to hear those words from her. The wake-up call had been a long time coming, but it was welcome nonetheless. Just what he needed to get her out of his head once and for all. He didn’t know how someone with such a rancid personality could have come from such a perfectly lovely family. It was baffling, really. And she was one to comment on his character, when hers was as grating as nails on a chalkboard.
Frustrated, he lifted his arms and linked his fingers behind his head as he glowered blindly at the wind-felled tree. Why did he always let her get to him? Daffodil McGregor had been treating him like a second-class citizen since . . . well, since forever, really, and he was done with her. She was unreasonable and a little unhinged and it would be better if—after this wedding—he stayed as far away from her as humanly possible.
On the upside, at least her obnoxiousness had taken his mind off the fact that his brother was leaving again. The news, while unsurprising, had shaken him more than he cared to admit. After Mason and Daisy left, he’d be alone once more. He had some friends, sure, cultivated relationships with the occasional woman, but he never felt like he was truly a part of something. For a while, when he was dating Tanya, he’d felt like he finally belonged somewhere and with someone. Only to find her sandwiched between two guys in his bed one day. She’d had the nerve to smile when she spotted him in the doorway. Smile and invite him to join them.
He’d tossed them all out on their naked asses and then he’d burned the bed.
He’d loved that fucking bed.
Awesome. Now he was remembering Tanya spit-roasted between two guys. Not pretty, and yet the memory didn’t sting half as much as the recollection of Daffodil McGregor saying he had the personality of a mushroom. A mushroom, for fuck’s sake!
He growled. He actually growled like a wild animal, shocking himself in the process. He threw a longing stare at his ax before wearily making his way to his home gym.
It looked like the punching bag was going to get that workout after all.
The following night, Daff glared at her phone screen in frustration. There they were, in stark black and white. Two words. Sincere and yet completely inadequate.
I’m sorry.
She couldn’t send it to him. She wanted to. She so desperately wanted to send it and then be able to tell Lia in all honesty that she had apologized, but she knew that it was a cop-out and she also knew that Spencer deserved more. It had already taken her more than twenty-four hours to get to this point. She had spent the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday cleaning and telling herself to get busy apologizing to the man. Yet she still hadn’t plucked up the courage to do anything more than stare at the two simple words on a phone screen.
She hit “Delete” and watched the words disappear from her screen. One tiny letter at a time. She scrolled through her contacts until she found his name, and her thumb hovered over the “Call” button for a very long time. She should go to his store tomorrow, apologize in person. But if she called first, paved the way, so to speak, it might be easier than just going in cold. She could start laying the groundwork now. It would be better if she didn’t have to look at him when she did it.
But it was just as much of a cop-out as a text message. No . . . it was better than a text message. He would be able to hear the sincerity in her voice and know that she meant it.
She hit “Call” before she could talk herself out of it and put the phone on speaker. Somehow, lifting it to her ear and hearing his voice so intimately close felt too personal. Especially when she was in bed, wearing nothing but panties and a tank top.
The phone rang, twice . . . three times . . .
This was a terrible idea. She was about to cancel the call when his voice rang out in the dark silence of her room. He sounded groggy, angry, unutterably sexy . . . and like he was right there in bed with her. The rogue thought made her uncomfortable, and she immediately regretted making this call from her bedroom.
“Daff? It’s twelve thirty. Why are you calling so late? Are you okay? Mason? Daisy?” Okay, she couldn’t lie to herself—she found it sweet as hell that he was immediately concerned for her well-being.
“Daff?” he prompted, irritation and fear mounting in his voice when she didn’t respond straightaway.
“I didn’t know it was so late,” she admitted. It was the truth—she’d been stressing about this matter all evening, and the time got away from her. The silence stretched between them, taut, uncomfortable, and incredibly awkward. Daff wasn’t sure how to break it. She heard the faint rustling of crisp, clean bedsheets as he shifted.
“It couldn’t wait till morning?” he finally asked, and she was relieved that he had spoken and not merely hung up on her.
“I—I had to apologize.” Even though it was something she wanted and needed to do, the words still had the consistency of sawdust in her mouth.
“Had to, huh?” He sounded speculative, and she heard the bedsheets rustling again. Was he sitting up? What was he wearing? Was he bare chested? Had the covers just slid down his chest to pool in his lap? Was he more than bare chested? Did he sleep naked?
The distracting thoughts made her groan, and she pinched the bridge of her nose to get herself back on track.
“I said some pretty nasty things,” she admitted, and he grunted. It sounded like agreement. “I should apologize for them.”
“You should,” he agreed amicably and then felled her with a zinger. “But do you want to?”
Her answer didn’t take much thought. “Yes. I want to.” She was surprised to find that she meant it.
“You mean you don’t think I’m . . . what was it? Bland, boring, and insipid?”
“I mean, I barely know you,” she prevaricated, and that prompted another grunt from him. She couldn’t quite interpret this one. “So I can’t be the best judge of what you actually are.”
“As apologies go, this one is pretty shitty,” he said, stifling a yawn.
“I’m trying, okay?” she snapped. Then immediately regretted the slight lapse in temper.
“If I have the personality of a mushroom, you have the disposition of a wasp—skinny, sometimes good to look at, with a propensity to go on the attack with little to no provocation.”
She gasped, his words immediately getting her back up, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and fought to get her temper under control.
“Okay, you earned that shot. We’re even now.”
“Still waiting for my apology,” he reminded her, and she scowled at her phone screen.
“You could be a bit more gracious about this,” she hissed, and he sighed.
“Daff, it’s nearly one in the morning. Why not get this over with so that we can both get a decent night’s sleep? I don’t know about you, but Monday is my busiest day and if I don’t get enough sleep I won’t be able to function very well at all.”
“Fine,” she snapped through clenched teeth, before swallowing and screwing her eyes shut. “I’m really sorry I said those things about you. It was wrong and I do regret it.”
“Okay.” Her eyes flew open and she stared at her phone—the only source of light in the room—in disbelief.
“‘Okay’? That’s it?” Didn’t he know how much the stupid apology had taken out of her? And that was all he had to say in response to it?
“Yeah. And thank you.”
“But—”
“I’ll see you soon, Daff. Sleep tight.” He hung up before she could say another word, and Daff gritted her teeth before lifting a pillow to her face and screaming in frustration. She immediately picked up her phone, did a quick Google image search, and loaded a new profile picture and name to replace the white-on-gray SC that had formerly been on the screen next to his name. There. Much better.
She flung her phone aside and threw herself down on the bed and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and fuming. Getting little to no sleep at all.
Daff sat with her chin in her hand—one fingertip absently tracing the rim of her warm coffee mug—and watched even more customers enter SC Sporting Solutions. They’d had a steady stream of customers all morning, and most exited the store with huge shopping bags. Daff sighed and scanned the boutique grimly. The place was neat as a pin, had beautiful couture clothing on display, and had attracted just one customer that morning—a window-shopper who, after one discreet glance at a price tag, had hastened back out.
God, she was so bored.
She looked out again. She had opened slightly after nine this morning, feeling groggy and a little hungover from lack of sleep, and had missed Spencer’s habitually brisk walk past the huge boutique window on his way to work. Daff usually arrived at eight thirty in the morning, a full fifteen minutes before Spencer. She liked to ease into her day—put on the coffee in the tiny back kitchen, start up the soothing ambient music, which she hated with an absolute passion, and then check her e-mails and inventory. As if there were any danger at all of running out of stock. She snorted at the thought. She should be so lucky.
Now she wondered if Spencer was at work already. More than likely. She had never seen him arrive late. Always eight forty-five on the dot. It was Monday, so he would probably be wearing the black sweat suit instead of the gray one. He looked good in both, of course, but she preferred the black one. It made him look sleek and less overwhelmingly brutish. He tended to alternate the colors every day. Monday was black day.
Daff would cut off her own left thumb rather than divulge how familiar she was with Spencer’s wardrobe changes. Her job was boring, she tended to notice things, and since she saw Spencer every day, of course she would start to pick up on silly details like that.
Such as the fact that he always carried a refill mug—presumably of coffee—and a doughnut box from MJ’s on Monday mornings. Every other day of the week he had only the mug, but Monday was doughnut day. The box was large enough to feed his entire staff of ten, so she figured it was a beginning-of-the-week staff treat. That was really nice of him.
Daff lifted her mug to her lips and took a cautious sip, wrinkling her nose when the bitter brew hit her tongue. Well, that was what happened when you rushed through the coffee-making process. The stuff was undrinkable. She sighed and put the mug aside. She’d have to brew another pot.
She considered going over to SCSS and apologizing in person, but she lacked the courage to face Spencer so soon. Maybe this afternoon. Possibly tomorrow morning.
She glowered across the road again. Oh look, more customers wanting sporting goods. She muttered something vile beneath her breath and dragged out a tattered secondhand historical romance novel. Might as well catch up on her reading. Would Duke Sexy rescue Lady Gorgeous from the Pornstache Villain’s clutches?
Chapter fifteen revealed all and yeah . . . no big surprise, he rescued her and she gratefully swooned into bed with him.
Daff was so absorbed in her reading that she didn’t see the figure approaching the store until the bell above the door tinkled. She dropped her book guiltily and plastered a smile on her face. A smile that faded seconds later.
“Spencer?” What was he doing here?
“Hey. What are you reading?”
“Why are you here?”
“Rude,” he admonished before dragging over an expensive, ornate, and purely decorative chair to the opposite side of the checkout counter. He sat down with a satisfied sigh. “Thought we could have lunch together.”
Seriously. What the hell?
“Why?”
“Give you the opportunity to apologize in person. I know you must be desperate to.”
“This is really weird. And it’s way too early for lunch.”
“How good is that book if you’ve lost complete track of time?” She checked the clock, and sure enough, it was after twelve. Retail people rarely took lunch at midday, but since Spencer was the boss and Daff hardly ever had customers, there was nothing stopping them from eating right now.
“I have plans for lunch.”
“Hmm?” He sounded way too skeptical for her liking. “Too bad, I have more than enough to share with you.” He lifted a brown paper bag to the counter and removed a cellophane-wrapped sandwich from its depths. “Smoked hickory ham, cheese, tomato, lettuce, and mustard on rye.”
God, that sounded delicious, and considering that she just had a small salad and an apple for lunch, it was also highly tempting.
“That barely looks like enough to feed you,” she pointed out. No way half a sandwich would sustain a man Spencer’s size.
He rumbled in agreement and lifted a second sandwich from the bag.
“Which is why I have two,” he said.
“Is that from MJ’s?” she asked faintly, unable to resist asking.
“Made them myself.”
She didn’t know why, but somehow that made it seem even more irresistible.
“Are your lunch plans really that urgent?” he asked, unwrapping the tasty-looking sandwich and holding a perfectly cut triangle up in front of her nose. Gosh, it looked good. Her stomach rumbled eagerly, and she blushed when he chuckled at the sound.
“I suppose I could postpone them till tomorrow or something,” she conceded, reaching for the sandwich with both hands. He handed it over and rummaged around in a separate bag that she hadn’t previously noticed before placing two clear bottles of orange juice and a large bag of salted potato chips on the counter between them. He nudged one of the bottles toward her.
“To wash it down,” he said before taking a hearty bite from his sandwich.
They didn’t exchange another word until they had both polished off their sandwiches and started on the salty deliciousness of the potato chips.
“So,” she began, reaching for a chip and crunching down on half of it before continuing, “I really am sorry about the things I said.”
“Pissed me off a little,” he confessed placidly, and she leveled a surprised look at him. For all that he looked brutish, Spencer always seemed personable and mild mannered. She couldn’t imagine him angry at all. What did that even look like? Her breath hitched in her chest as she imagined a furious Spencer. Would he go all quiet and deadly or would he be loud and blustery? Somehow she couldn’t picture the latter at all and decided that he would be cold and aloof, like Duke Sexy in her romance novel.
Ugh, and what was she doing, romanticizing Spencer Carlisle?
Get a grip, Daff! she warned herself sternly, but she still couldn’t help feeling a bit hot and flustered at the thought of Spencer Carlisle getting his mad on.
“It did?” she asked stupidly, and he frowned at her.
“Well, of course it did. Nobody wants to be compared to a fucking mushroom.”
She twirled the other half of her chip for a few seconds before popping it into her mouth.
“The mushroom thing really bothered you, didn’t it?” she said in dawning realization, but he didn’t reply—just glowered at her. “I said I was sorry.”
“You did.”
“So can we drop it now?”
His jaw clenched for a moment before he shrugged. “I don’t bear grudges,” he said between gritted teeth, the words so strained that she had a hard time believing them.
“Well, that’s good, since we’re going to be forced to do a lot of stuff together over the next few months.”
“Will it really be that bad? Just a couple of dances at the wedding and that’s that, right?”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t want to do separate hen and stag nights. So we’re going to have to collaborate on that.”
He looked so horrified by the notion that Daff was bordering on seriously offended until he spoke.
“A mixed stag and hen? What the hell is that about? It goes against the laws of nature,” he exclaimed, and, a little relieved that the look of horror hadn’t been at the thought of them working together, Daff laughed.
“I know, right? I don’t even know how to go about planning something like that.”
“I suppose we could start off with separate events and have them mix halfway through the evening?” he ventured and Daff nodded, thoughtfully crunching away on another chip. She washed it down with some juice.
“That would be . . . not entirely horrible. We could get the strippers out of the way before the parties mingle,” she acknowledged and then grinned when he snorted in amusement. She was starting to differentiate between his grunts and sniffs and snorts. Go her. “Look at us collaborating like pros.”
“It might not be too bad,” he agreed.
“We should probably double-check if they want a mixed event, but Daisy did say something to that effect.”
“Mason never mentioned it.”
“He’s a guy, of course he never mentioned it.”
“Watch it. Guys are people, too.”
“Ooh, witty.”
“Yeah, I’m not quite the Neanderthal you think I am,” he said, crumpling up the empty chip bag and shoving it—along with their sandwich wrappers and empty juice bottles—into one of the empty paper bags.
“I don’t think you’re a Neanderthal,” she hedged, and he slanted her a blatantly disbelieving look from beneath his heavy brows. He leaned over the counter, his face uncomfortably close to hers before responding.
“Liar.” The word was barely a whisper, a breath of warm air fanning across her cheek, and she flinched slightly in reaction to both his closeness and the shivery blaze of awareness that skirted down her spine. He withdrew and got up, gracefully easing his large frame out of the tiny chair, which had surpassed all expectations by bearing his weight admirably.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said abruptly. She was still trying to process his words when he left. He’d see her tomorrow? Did he mean like in passing? On his way to work? She was still trying to work it out when the bell tinkled again and his head popped back in.
“Don’t bring lunch.”
“Whoa . . . hold on a sec—” The door closed on her protestation and he was walking down the road to his store before she could even begin to formulate a proper response.
It was colder than a witch’s tit this evening, and Spencer hadn’t really expected much of a turnout. The kids were barely interested in any of the activities he organized at the best of times, and Spencer figured freezing temperatures combined with an outdoor activity would definitely serve as the ultimate turnoff for most of them.
He was stomping his feet to keep the circulation going, steam from his own breath clouding his vision, as he hopefully watched the local sports field’s entrance. The field generally served as a rugby, soccer, and cricket arena, and a lot of people used the track for jogging. In summer it hosted the community fete and various other social functions. Old ladies did their tai chi here when the heat in the gym got too claustrophobic. But in winter—aside from the high school soccer or rugby matches—it remained relatively unused. Spencer had had the—probably misguided—idea to rope Mason in to teach a few self-defense classes for his youth outreach program. He figured the kids would love to learn from a pro like Mason, but on a night like this even someone with as much badass cred as Mason might not be enough of a drawcard for already unmotivated kids.
“Why couldn’t we have done this at the gym or the community center?” Mason groused, blowing hot air into his cupped hands and swearing under his breath.
“You’re getting soft, Mase. I thought the weather didn’t bother you.”
“Easy living will do that to you,” his brother said with a cocky grin. “I can tolerate the weather when necessary. This doesn’t seem necessary. Not when we have perfectly good interior alternatives.”
“Yeah, well, Harry ‘the Ass’ Walters doesn’t want a bunch of ‘young hooligans’—his words—fucking up his expensive gym equipment. And I told you, man, the community center has a water leak. The place is flooded. We’re working on fixing the problem, but until then this is the only place we can come to for the youth program.”
“I don’t think anyone is going to show up, Spence,” Mason said, his voice almost apologetic. He knew how much the program meant to Spencer.
“Let’s give them a few more minutes. Some of them have to travel a distance to get here. I’m thinking of chartering a bus or something to pick them up every week. But it’s tough finding a driver who’s willing to go to some of the places these kids live.”
Mason nodded, and they stood in silence for a moment before the younger man spoke again.
“I didn’t mean to spring the news on you like that. About moving to Grahamstown, I mean.”
“Well, I was kind of expecting it. You can’t exactly go to university in Riversend, can you?”
“Yeah, but five years is quite a stretch.”
“Better than twelve years,” Spencer responded, referring to the last time Mason had left. “And at least this time you won’t be on the other side of the world.”
Spencer wasn’t happy to be losing his only family again, but he wasn’t about to reveal to Mason how he felt. His brother had enough on his plate without having to worry about Spencer’s feelings.
“Daff says you and Daisy want a mixed stag and hen?” Spencer said, changing the subject. Mason grimaced.
“It’s weird, right?” he said with a slight shake of his head.
“Off-the-charts weird,” Spencer agreed. “What the fuck, bro?”
“Daisy mentioned it, and she looked so damned cute and hopeful I found myself agreeing to it before I knew what I was doing.”
“Come on, Mase. At least put up a semblance of a fight. If you’re already crumbling over shit like this, you’ll never have a say in anything in your marriage.”
Mason laughed.
“It’s not like that. The stag thing isn’t important, and if it makes Daisy happy then that’s all that matters. I just think it’s bizarre as fuck to have a mixed thing, is all.”
“Daff and I were thinking we could start off separately and the two parties could merge later in the evening.”
“Daff, huh?” Mason crossed his arms and tucked his hands beneath his armpits.
“We’re just getting a jump on the whole maid of honor/best man thing.”
“You guys aren’t going to kill each other and break my fiancée’s heart, right?”
“Depends on how much more of a bitch Daff is.”
“Come on, she’s not that bad.” Spencer said nothing in response to that, merely watched Mason with raised brows, and the latter laughed.
“You’re the one with the hard-on for her,” Mason pointed out, and Spencer ran an irate hand through his hair.
“I’m over that.” And he was, despite giving in to his really odd whim to take her lunch that afternoon. Even odder was the fact that it couldn’t be dismissed as an impulse. He had prepared the extra sandwich before work, fully intending to give it to Daff. He couldn’t explain what had motivated the act any more than he could explain the knowledge that he was going to do the same thing tomorrow. Maybe it was because he knew that she’d probably packed a salad in her misguided attempt to diet. He was pissed off with her, sure, but he didn’t really want her to starve herself.
“Spence, no one’s coming,” Mason said after another beat of silence, and Spencer sighed and nodded.
“It’s the shitty weather. Who can blame them? Maybe we can reschedule for next week.”
“Suits me.” Mason moved to quickly and efficiently stack the half dozen exercise mats they had brought into a neat pile. “Want to grab a beer after this?”
“Shouldn’t you be getting home to do wedding stuff?”
“Nah, I already committed to spending the next few hours with you, so we might as well hang out. Besides, Daisy’s still pissed off with me for even mentioning the word braai in relation to the wedding, so I’m kind of in the doghouse as far as wedding plans go at the moment.”
“That was a dumb move.” Spencer chuckled as he lifted one side of the stacked mats and Mason grabbed the other. They carried the mats to the back of Spencer’s huge pickup truck with Spencer ribbing Mason all the way.
“You Carlisle?” The young, gruff voice came from behind them, and both men looked over to see a slight boy, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen, watching them warily. Spencer assessed the boy. He had never seen the kid before. Small, skinny, hands thrust in jeans pockets, and shoulders hunched defensively. His black hair was cropped short and spiky, he had warm, golden-brown skin, and—as with a few of the other mixed-race kids Spencer worked with—had striking light-green eyes.
“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 partner 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.