CHAPTER SEVEN
“No! Mom, tell them I look terrible in yellow,” Daff complained after dinner with her sisters and mother. They were at Mason and Daisy’s place, and Daisy had prepared dinner. Well, actually, she had ordered dinner from MJ’s.
Daff had been completely distracted all evening, and they appeared to have finalized bridesmaid dress colors while she was off in Happy Horny Dreamland.
“Well, you agreed to it,” Lia pointed out a little smugly, and Daff sent her a death glare. Everybody liked to think that Lia was the nice one. Maybe because she dressed like a librarian, taught children, and spent all her free time helping others.
“I did not.”
“We literally placed the swatches on the table, Daisy asked what we thought about this one, I said I loved it, and you said, ‘Yes, very nice.’”
“Come to think of it, you’ve been saying ‘yes, very nice’ to everything tonight,” Daisy chimed. “Cravats for the men? Yes, very nice. Four-inch snakeskin stilettos for the bridesmaids? Yes, very nice. Daffodils for the bouquets—”
“I did not. I would never!” Daff shook her head, horrified. She absolutely hated her namesake flower. Every time a guy brought her flowers it was daffodils. Ugh. They always just assumed she must love daffodils.
“Yes, very nice!” her sisters and mother all chimed at the same time and then giggled hysterically. Cooper, Mason’s gorgeous mixed Labrador retriever, peered up briefly when the high-pitched laughter woke him from his nap.
“We’re not really going with any of those things, by the way,” Daisy said.
“Except the yellow for the dresses,” Lia chimed in.
“No! I hate that yellow.”
“But it’s my accent color,” Daisy pouted, and that’s when Daff knew they had to be pulling her leg. Daisy never pouted. Well, she had started recently with Mason, and the guy was a complete sucker when the lower lip came out. Did her every bidding. It was sad and embarrassing, really.
“Come on, girls,” their mother chastised as she absently stroked Daisy’s toy Pomeranian, Peaches. The little fluff ball always managed to wind up on their mother’s lap. “You know she looks sickly in yellow.”
“Mom,” Daff whined, hating to have her shortcomings pointed out.
“You do, you know it, and that’s why you refuse to wear it.”
“Well, okay, but you don’t have to rub it in.”
“We just wanted to see what would snap you out of your semi-fugue state.” Daisy smiled.
“And we want to know what’s up with you.”
“Just distracted,” she said dismissively.
“You had dinner with Spencer last night,” Daisy recalled gleefully. “Does this have anything to do with that?”
“Oh my goodness, she’s blushing,” Lia said, sounding completely shocked. Daff raised her hands to her hot cheeks.
“I’m not.”
“Oh, but you are,” their mother confirmed. “You always were my best blusher. Couldn’t tell a lie without going the color of a ripe tomato.”
“What’s going on between you and Spencer, Daff?” Lia asked.
“Nothing. He’s just a lot nicer than I ever gave him credit for.”
“That he is,” Millicent McGregor agreed. “A lovely young man. Very shy, though.”
“Shy?” Was he?
“Of course he is. He never has a word to say in company, always kind of tries to hide in a corner and blend in with the furniture. But so sweet. Even when he was a boy and everybody else thought he and Mason were troublemakers, he always had a friendly greeting, helped carry my groceries—and never accepted a tip, mind you, no matter how dire their situation was at home. He was a little gentleman in the making. But never had much to say for himself. Then or now.”
“Why didn’t the town help them when their mother died?” Daisy asked, her voice sharp and a little resentful. “Did you know the police picked them up after they’d spent all night in the hospital with their dying mother and detained them for a day, thinking they were the ones who wrecked Mr. Richards’s store?”
Daff’s heart seized in her chest at the thought of what an ordeal that must have been for both boys. How cruel.
“I had no idea the boys had been suspected of that.” Their mother sounded appalled. “I heard about the vandalism a couple of days after the fact. At that point they had no suspects. It must have been after they questioned and cleared the Carlisle boys.”
“So are you and Spencer finally hooking up, Daffy?” Lia asked.
“Don’t call me that,” Daff said irritably. “And what do you mean, finally?”
“Just that the guy’s been trying for years.”
“And years,” Daisy added with a nod.
“He has?” Their mother looked startled by the information.
“Yep, he’s had a crush on her since high school.”
“He used to send her poems,” Daisy added, and Lia giggled.
“Oh my gosh, I forgot about that,” Lia said. “‘Daffodil. Tell me you will . . .’”
“‘Be mine. Your smile is like gold and like diamonds your eyes do shine,’” Daisy continued. She grabbed Lia’s hand and they went in for the big finish together.
“‘I’ll love you forever and forget you never.’”
They collapsed against each other and screamed with laughter while Daff glared at them and their mother smiled in delight.
“Oh my, how sweet,” Millicent said once the cackles had died down. Daff was less than impressed with her sisters for bringing up the poetry. They’d teased her relentlessly about it at the time, and she couldn’t believe that they’d actually gotten their hands on one long enough to memorize it.
“Do you remember that, Daff? All those poems?” Lia asked.
“Of course I remember it,” she grumbled. “It wasn’t that long ago. And there’s nothing going on between Spencer and me, so can we please focus on the task at hand? We have under three months to plan this thing and the clock is ticking, ladies.”
That got them all refocused immediately, and Daff heaved a silent sigh of relief when they all started looking at color and fabric samples again.
“That’s the fourth easy shot you’ve missed tonight. What’s going on with you?” Mason asked as he lined up his own shot and sank yet another ball. At this point, Spencer might as well stand back and enjoy the show, because Mason wasn’t going to let him in with another chance. Spencer rarely lost at pool and he’d known—with his atrocious lack of form—that it would be only a matter of time before Mason figured out something was up.
He watched as his brother lined up yet another perfect shot and allowed his thoughts to drift back to Daff. He had a raging case of blue balls and had barely been able to focus at work today. Even an intense wank session in the shower just before coming out tonight hadn’t done much to take the edge off his horniness.
He thought back to the prim thank-you text she’d sent him earlier, accompanied by a selfie of her licking the hot sauce from the homemade burrito off her fingers. Like she didn’t know exactly the effect that picture would have on him.
He barely swallowed back a groan now.
“I’ve been instructed to ask you how many groomsmen you think you’ll have.”
“Instructed, is it? Daff running the show?”
“Only as much as I’ll let her.” He thought back to how he had kept her hovering on the brink of orgasm for nearly half an hour, then flushed—grateful for the low light in Ralphie’s pub that disguised both flush and instant hard-on—at the entirely inappropriate memory.
“And it’s a valid question. I need to know how many people to plan for.” He willed his dick to go down and was happy when he managed to wrangle some control over the unruly boner.
“What’s the rush? It’s three months away.”
“Apparently that’s nowhere near enough time to plan a wedding and all the flash and fuckery that goes along with it.”
“Hah? I’m beginning to get that.”
“So? Any idea?”
“Yeah. You’re my best man, with Chris and Sam as groomsmen.” Christién was one of Mason’s modeling friends—now a trained chef with a restaurant in the area—and Sam Brand was one of his army buddies, as well as his former business partner. Spencer hadn’t met either man yet, but he’d heard that Sam had saved his brother’s life—and vice versa—more than a few times.
“You can’t have just three guys at your stag party, Mase.”
“I have three more ex-army buddies flying in, and there’s also my future father-in-law.”
“You’re inviting Dr. McGregor? Man, what if I wanted to hire a stripper?”
“Fuck, Spence. No strippers . . . Daisy would kill me.”
“She would?”
“Okay, maybe not,” he confessed sheepishly. “She’s curious. She’d want to know what the strippers’ go-to moves were and then she’d—” He stopped talking abruptly and cleared his throat. “Anyway, no strippers.”
Fascinated by the way his brother refused to meet his eyes, Spencer grinned. Well, then, wasn’t Daisy McGregor the little dark horse? He was tempted to hire a stripper just to give his brother a fun night of role-playing, but he didn’t think Mason and Daisy needed any help in that department.
“Okay, so the good doctor will be joining us. Anyone else?”
“Daff and Lia aren’t seeing anybody right now, are they?”
“You’re about to become their brother-in-law, wouldn’t you be more qualified to answer that question? And why do you want to know, anyway?” He sounded cagey, even to himself.
“Well, they may want their boyfriends included, and it’ll pad the numbers.”
“You need more friends.”
“I have a shit ton of friends, just not in this country. If you had more friends, we could invite them.”
“Not my wedding.”
“What about old school friends? We may have a few of those in common.”
“We didn’t have school friends,” Spencer reminded.
“Who needs friends when I have you?” Mason quipped, but there was a note of sincerity in his voice and Spencer smiled.
“Ditto, bro. Okay, so seven guys? We can make that work.”
“It’ll be awesome, man.”
“I just hope Daisy’s lady friends don’t outnumber us when it comes time to merge the parties.”
“She doesn’t have too many friends, either. Her sisters, her mom, that chick Tilda, and a few others. It doesn’t matter if the numbers are uneven—it’s not a hookup party.”
“Yeah.”
Mason focused on his game and sank two more balls. He sized up the table while dusting the tip of his cue with some chalk.
“So Daisy tells me you and Daff had dinner last night.” Spencer, who’d been in the process of taking a sip of beer, nearly choked and quickly lowered the bottle, clearing his throat vigorously in the process.
“Hmm.” He grunted for lack of anything better to say.
“That go okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where did you go? Daisy and I were at MJ’s last night and didn’t see you there.”
“Why’d you go to MJ’s? Spying on us?” Spencer asked suspiciously and then instantly regretted the question when Mason gaped at him.
“Why the fuck would we do that, man? Daisy burned dinner last night, and instead of starting from scratch, we decided to eat out. We thought we’d run into you guys.”
“Sorry.” Spencer scrubbed a hand across the nape of his neck. “I don’t even know why I said that. I took her to Leisure Isle.”
“In Knysna?”
“Figured it’d be a nice change and right up her alley.”
“Like a date?”
Spencer winced at the incredulous note in Mason’s voice. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Spence, c’mon, you know she treats you like dirt most of the time. Why put yourself in the position to get rejected yet again?”
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t like a date. She made sure to point that out a few dozen times.” Mason grimaced. “Sorry, buddy.”
“Nothing I wasn’t expecting.” Spencer shrugged. “We managed to have a pretty pleasant evening for the most part.” Followed by unpleasantness . . . followed by the most confusing and intense sexual encounter of his life.
Speaking of which, it was time he wrapped this up and got home, just in case Daff decided to grace him with her presence tonight.
“Daisy still with her sisters?” he asked casually, and Mason checked his phone.
“Looks that way. She said she’d text me after they left.”
“Can’t believe they kicked you out of your own home.”
“Apparently a lot of this wedding stuff is super-secret, in addition to being a crap ton of work.”
“I always figured it was a party, and how hard can planning a party be?”
“Right?”
“This stag party, I thought you, me, a bunch of guys, some alcohol, and music. Sorted, right? But now it’s become an ‘event’ with ‘activities’ and ‘speeches.’”
“You’re using air quotes,” Mason scoffed, and Spencer snorted.
“That’s because I’m quoting Daff.” These were some of the things they’d discussed over dinner last night.
“Wait, why would there have to be speeches at a stag party?”
“I don’t know.” Spencer threw up his hands in frustration. “Man, I don’t fucking know. It makes no sense to me. But Daff . . . she seems to know what she’s talking about.”
“She did help plan Lia’s wedding,” Mason said dubiously. “So she has some experience.”
“That wedding was a failure.”
“But it was flawlessly planned.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Spencer grinned, reaching into his front jeans pocket and dragging out a bill. “This should cover my beers. I’m headed home.”
“Hey, hold on a second, I was winning,” Mason protested. “You can’t just leave in the middle of the game.”
“Sure, I’ll give you this win,” Spencer said magnanimously. Mason had never beaten him at pool, and he knew this was going to seriously piss his brother off. Which was exactly why he was doing it.
“That sucks, man.”
“Hey, I said you can have the win,” he emphasized, knowing it would drive his brother nuts.
“You can’t give it to me! I’ve earned it.”
“Of course you have. No arguments from me. That’s why I said you could have it.”
“Stop giving me the win, asshole! It’s already mine.” Mason was going slightly red in frustration.
“Sure it is,” Spencer said agreeably.
“Just hang on a second, I’m about to sink the eight ball,” Mason said desperately.
“Ooh, sorry. No can do. I’m running late.” He deliberately turned away and grinned when Mason swore behind him.
“Running late for fucking what? Bedtime?”
“I like to stay on schedule, you know that. See ya.”
“Spencer, wait. Look . . .”
He left before Mason could finish the sentence and chuckled to himself as he walked to his 4x4. His brother would never forgive him, and even though he’d eventually get over it, he’d still be bitching about it years from now.
It was nearly midnight when his doorbell rang. Spencer heaved a sigh of relief and pushed himself to his feet to get the door.
“Hello, darling,” he greeted the apprehensive-looking woman at his door warmly. “How’d the wedding planning go?”
“Ugh. Can we please talk about something other than freaking wedding plans? I feel like this wedding is starting to take over my life.”
“How was work?”
“Boring,” she complained, peeling her coat off. He took it and hung it on the coatrack beside the front door. “You’re in your pj’s already. Nice.”
He grinned, not sure what her fascination with his pajamas was about, but he’d take the admiring looks she was giving him over her usual animosity anytime.
“Oh my God, and what’s this?” Her eyes widened as she looked him over and he almost made a self-conscious move to cover his erection with both hands. But she wasn’t focused on his groin—instead she was staring up at his face, and he wondered if he had food on his cheek or . . .
“You wear glasses?” He lifted a hand to touch one of the arms of his heavy, square, black-framed glasses.
“Yeah, to watch TV.”
“It’s so sexy,” she breathed. “Nerdy hot, like Clark Kent.”
“Uh . . . thanks?”
“I want to change out of these clothes. I went straight to Daisy’s after work and came directly here after that. I didn’t bring anything to wear. Can I borrow your pajama top?” She didn’t wait for his answer; she was too busy unbuttoning his top. The thought of her in it was unbearably sexy, and he helped her by slipping the thing over his head before she even had it half-undone and handing it over without any fuss or complaint.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower, ’kay?”
“You eat?” he asked, bemused by how very at home she seemed.
“Yep.” She hooked a finger into the collar of the top and tossed it over her shoulder before sauntering to the downstairs bathroom, her hips swaying gently as she walked. His mouth went dry and he couldn’t take his eyes off her sweet, round ass in the formfitting pants she was wearing.
She threw him a sexy little grin over her shoulder, telling him with just a cheekily raised eyebrow that she knew exactly how she was affecting him.
“Be right back.”
“Hmm.” The sound came out more feral than he’d intended, and she laughed huskily as she closed the bathroom door behind her.
He watched the closed door for a second, tempted to join her, but joining her in that shower—even if it was what she expected him to do—was not an option. He had the feeling that Daff was playing by a very specific set of rules known only to her, and he refused to play her game. No matter how fucking titillating it was. This was more than just a game to him.
He groaned and forced himself to return to the living room. He stoked the fire he had going, sat down on the sofa, and tried to shift his focus back to his movie. Even though his concentration was shot to hell and all he could think about was the very naked and very beautiful woman in his shower.
He didn’t join her. Daff didn’t quite know what to make of that. She’d made all the right moves, the expected moves, and he hadn’t responded in the predictable way. Her brain was working overtime by the time she’d soaped and rinsed herself. Delaying any longer was pointless. He wouldn’t be joining her, and it confused her. She wasn’t sure what to do next.
She dried herself and dragged on his top, inhaling deeply and relishing the scent of him. This was a green-and-black version of the one he’d worn last night. Same old-timey design, with lapels and a breast pocket, so perfectly suited to Spencer. She towel dried her hair and held a hand to her chest for a moment to still the frantic fluttering of her heart before throwing back her shoulders and leaving the bathroom.
The kitchen and living area were lit only by the cozy, flickering fire and the television set. Spencer seemed to be watching something loud and full of shouting and explosions. He looked up when she stepped out of the bathroom, his glasses gleaming from the light of the television screen.
“Hey, the movie’s just started, you haven’t missed much.” He held out a hand, motioning her to join him, and she hesitated. He wanted to watch a movie? Seriously? That was . . . that was truly flippin’ weird. Did she have to wear a sign saying “easy lay” for him to understand that he didn’t have to go through the usual tedious motions to get lucky with her?
Not sure what to do, she took a couple of tentative steps toward the man-size, comfy-looking sofa. When she got close enough, he grabbed her hand and tugged her down next to him. He lifted the little lap blanket—seriously, a lap blanket, this guy was adorable—and dragged her legs over his lap, cupping the soles of her feet in one large hand and hooking his free arm around her shoulders to tuck her snugly beneath his armpit.
This wasn’t half bad. She snuggled close to his seriously ripped bare chest—ah, the perks of stealing his pajama top—one cheek resting on a firm, smooth pec, his tight nipple just an inch away from her mouth. She tucked one hand into the dip of his taut waist and rested the other in the small of his lower back, just where the curve of his butt began.
Beneath her calves, she could feel the swell of his penis, and it was hard, which gave her hope that she wasn’t a complete failure at the seduction thing. Still, he did nothing about it, just gently kneaded the balls of her feet with one hand and toyed with her hair with the other.
“What are we watching?” she asked. Feeling so safe and warm and comfortable that she could barely form the words.
“Captain America.”
“First one?”
“Second.”
“Oh, I’ve seen that one.”
“Me too, but it’s a fun one to rewatch.” His voice rumbled beneath her ear. She traced little patterns on his chest, and his breath hitched. She smiled at the reaction, but he lifted his hand from her feet and plastered it over her wandering fingers. Pressing her hand flat against his chest.
“Behave. We’re watching a movie.”
“But I’ve seen it.” She could hear the pout in her voice and was appalled by how girlish she sounded. What on earth was this man doing to her?
“Nevertheless, we’re watching it.”
“Spoilsport,” she grumbled, but she decided to go with this for the moment and see where it led . . .
Where it led was to the end of the movie. He did nothing for nearly two hours, just watched the movie while stroking her hair, then her back, her feet and occasionally her calves. His erection waxed and waned . . . mostly waxed. The thing had been an almost constant companion throughout the movie. And occasionally she’d rub her legs against it to get some kind of reaction from him, but he’d just still her movements with his quelling hand. He had some serious Jedi mind tricks when it came to controlling his hard-on, because any other man would have had her pinned and staked hours ago. Spencer had phenomenal willpower.
The credits started rolling, and he made a satisfied sound.
“Great movie,” he said, letting go of her toes to stretch luxuriously. He turned his attention on her, his eyes heavy lidded and intent.
“Nobody’s ever thrown me over for Steve Rogers before,” she complained, and his lips quirked.
“You haven’t been thrown over, just put on hold for a moment.”
“Still, I’m a little irked.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” It was hard to get a mad going when you were snuggled up to the hardest, hottest, and sexiest chest in town, but Daff was for damned sure going to give it the old college try.
“I didn’t mean to irk you,” he said and quickly shifted his hands to her waist and dragged her into his lap. “C’m’ere, darling.”
Before she knew it, she was straddling his lap, her naked mound coming into immediate contact with the hard, thick ridge beneath the crotch of his flannel pants.
“Hmm,” he purred, the long, drawn-out sound brimming with satisfaction. “You’re so fuckin’ wet.”
She was, embarrassingly so, and had been for most of the movie. A result of all his petting and cuddling and the feel of that constantly hard penis beneath her legs. Her moisture immediately dampened the crotch of his pants, leaving absolutely nothing of what lay beneath to the imagination.
“And you’re so hard,” she replied, her voice sultry. He lifted his hands to her hair and tugged her down for a kiss. She crossed her forearms around the back of his head, her elbows digging into his shoulders as she clung to him while his mouth ravaged hers. His tongue was hot and demanding, and she was very willing to acquiesce to his every demand right now. He dragged his mouth away and, with shaky hands, fumbled with the buttons on the pajama top before losing patience and ripping it open. The plastic buttons went flying, landing on the wooden floor with little pings.
He peered at her breasts for a long moment before going to work. Oh, but the man knew how to play. Daff had never even known how sensitive her nipples were before Spencer. He sucked, he licked, he grazed with his teeth and with his stubble and drove her crazy. She still had her arms crossed behind his head, and she arched her back, writhing wildly in his lap as she bordered on orgasm just from having her nipples sucked. It wasn’t anything that had ever happened to her before, and she was almost mindless with passion.
Without moving his mouth from her breast, his hands slid from her waist to her hips. He stilled her frenzied movements and then led her, showing her the rhythm he wanted from her.
“Oh,” she whispered when she slid up against his massive hard-on and the rigid shaft aligned perfectly with her naked furrow. As her clitoris rode up and then down the heavy erection, she realized that her movements had dragged his pants down enough to uncover the plump glans. Her clit bumped against the underside of the broad head with every upward slide, and that, combined with his continued lavish attention at her breasts, felt absolutely incredible. His hands steered her to move faster and she happily obliged, sensing that they were both nearly there.
“Spencer,” she gasped. “Don’t stop. Please. I’m nearly . . . Oh! Oh! My! GOD!”
Spencer grunted and his arms wrapped around her back in an almost bone-crunching hug; his mouth went slack at her breast as he gasped and then jerked. Daff was too focused on her own orgasm in that moment to recognize Spencer’s. She could not stop coming, her body remaining clenched and spasming for what seemed like hours, before she finally came down from her intense climax.
Spencer was panting against her chest, and she could feel his penis throbbing beneath her still gently thrusting pussy. Judging from the sticky wetness on her abdomen, he had climaxed, too. Hard, if the still-frantic jerking was any indication.
Her blurry eyes focused on the television, and she laughed, her voice sounding hoarse.
“What?” He sounded completely spent, as if just formulating the single-syllable word had taken all the energy he currently possessed.
“The credits are still running,” she said with a chuckle, and he opened his eyes with effort to focus on the television. Where the end credits of the movie they had just watched were rolling to a close. The after-credits bonus scene popped up, and he chuckled.
“Just a little something,” he managed to huff. “A little something to . . . take the edge off.”
She laughed weakly and collapsed onto his chest, content to just stay there for now. A very happy, very sticky, and very replete mess.
They sat there for a while, Daff still straddling his lap. Her knees were drawn up on either side of his chest, and his arms were wrapped around her narrow back. They were both in dire need of another shower, but Spencer didn’t want to move right now. He was so content to just hold her.
Her perfect little breasts were flattened against his chest, and he relished the memory of how responsive they’d been to his every touch.
She was getting heavier as her body went slack with sleep, and he grinned. She had to be exhausted. They’d both had only three hours of sleep the night before. He checked the clock above the mantelpiece. It was late. Time for bed.
He hated to disturb her, but there was no way he could pick her up without waking her, not from this position.
“Daff? Daff, darling,” he whispered into her ear, and she groaned. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
“Just a little longer,” she pleaded.
“We’ll both be more comfortable in bed.” He shifted her until she was lying sideways on his lap and picked her up in the same way as the night before. Her eyes opened, and she looked at him with a dreamy smile.
“You can’t keep carrying me everywhere, I’ll get spoiled.”
“You deserve to be spoiled,” he replied, and her smile widened.
“Silly man.” She rested her head on his shoulder while he carried her upstairs. Once there he deposited her on his bed—he could get used to seeing her there—and unfastened the one remaining button on the pajama top. He went to the en suite, returned with a warm, damp cloth, and gently wiped the stickiness off her belly. She smiled gratefully, her eyelids heavy with sleep.
“Thank you,” she said in a slurred voice.
“We could both do with a shower, but I’m too fucking tired to bother right now.”
“Me too.”
“Sorry about the mess.”
“It’s your mess,” she said hazily. “I didn’t mind it.”
And wasn’t that just fucking mind-blowing as hell? Not sure what to make of her words, he cleared his throat and climbed into bed next to her.
“We’re not doing the sex bit of the no-strings sex thing properly, Spencer,” she said, her voice thick with sleep when he tugged her into his arms, spooning her in front of him.
“Says who?” he asked, planting a kiss on her temple.
“We haven’t even had sex yet.”
“You in some kind of rush?” he asked, turning off the light. “You got a sex deadline or something? An intercourse record you need to break?”
She giggled and then yawned.
“It’s just this is the second night without sex.”
“You came, I came, everybody came. That’s a win for Team . . . Spaff? Dense? Both of those are terrible, let’s never do that again.” His improvised couple names just made her laugh even harder, while he kept a perfectly straight face. “Now get some sleep, darling. Maybe we’ll get the sex thing right tomorrow.”
For the second day in a row, Daff found herself waking up—alone—in Spencer’s bed. She crawled out of the warm bed and winced when she heard the thundering downpour outside. Fabulous. More late-winter rain.
For the first time—yesterday morning she’d been too freaked out and last night and the night before she’d been way too exhausted—she looked around Spencer’s bedroom. It was lovely. That was the only word that came to mind. It was light and airy and just incredibly welcoming. Decorated in creams and browns, it suited Spencer’s old-fashioned sensibilities to a T. The king-size sleigh bed appeared to be handcrafted, with intricate carvings in the head and footboards. The rest of the furniture had been made to match the bed, all carved from multigrained walnut. She ran her hand over the curved footboard of the bed, marveling at how warm and silky the wood felt beneath her hand. She looked out the window, to Mason’s house just a few yards away. Spencer’s house was very new, having just gone up in the last year, after Mason had designed it. The Carlisles now shared the town’s overlook hill. The houses were far enough away to allow the brothers their privacy, but also easily within walking distance of each other. The lights were on, and she imagined Daisy was getting ready for work. Her sister’s fantastically wealthy fiancé lazed about the house all day, but Mason would soon realize his dream of becoming an architect, of course. Taking her sister away for five years in the process.
Daff sighed at the thought, wishing Daisy could stay, even while knowing it wasn’t that far and the couple would visit often. Still, it would be a huge adjustment, and Daff hated change.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee was starting to seep into the room, and Daff groaned as it coiled around her then sinuously wound its way up to her nose. Feeling like a character in a cartoon, she followed her nose and was halfway down the stairs by the time she comprehended that the pajama top was held together by just the one button between her breasts. The rest of her very naked body was on display. She dragged the two ends of the shirt together and used one hand to secure it.
Spencer, already fully dressed, was fussing around in the kitchen.
“You’re having breakfast this morning,” he said by way of greeting, not bothering to look around. His tone brooked no arguments.
“Fine. I’m starving.”
“No eggs, right?” She shuddered at the thought.
“If you’re making it, I suppose I’ll have some, too.” The words left her mouth before she could stop them, and she froze.
Shit.
This was exactly what she had feared, getting involved with Spencer, that she would start compromising again. Start pretending and putting up an act. Being who he wanted her to be and not who she really was. Even if she didn’t truly know who she was.
His shoulders tensed, and he turned around to pin her with a stare.
“You don’t like eggs, right?”
She opened her mouth to answer in the affirmative, but what came out was, “I mean, I don’t mind them.”
His dark, heavy brows slammed together, making him look formidable.
“Yeah, but do you like them?”
“What are you having?”
“What does that matter? What I’m having has no bearing on what you’re having.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.” His eyes widened, and he folded his arms over his huge chest while he continued to look at her like she was some kind of lab experiment.
“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before. You seem to have difficulty answering yes or no questions, Daff,” he pointed out gently. “Tell me, very quickly, without thinking about it, do you like eggs?”
“No.” She paused, then shut her eyes miserably. “I don’t know.”
“Oh darling.” He sighed. “Come over here and give me a good-morning kiss.”
She padded over to him, her head downcast, feeling miserable and stupid and spineless. He fisted the lapels of the top and dragged her to him for a very thorough, very enjoyable kiss. He lifted his head and smiled sweetly at her.
“You like that?” he asked, his voice a sexy rumble, and she sighed contentedly, wanting to rub herself all over him like a cat.
“Yes.” Another, longer kiss. But this time when he lifted his head, she went up on her toes and followed his mouth hungrily. He kept his lips just out of reach.
“And that?”
“Oh yes.” Her eyes were fixed on that gorgeous mouth of his. She needed more.
“Now tell me,” he began, bending his head to nuzzle her neck. “Do you like eggs?”
“No,” she admitted.
“What about as an ingredient? Like in pancakes or waffles?” His lips were so close they brushed against hers when he spoke, and Daff was so desperate for his kiss that she was grateful for even that small touch and finding it hard to concentrate on his words.
“I like pancakes,” she said softly. “Eggs are okay if I can’t really taste them.”
He lifted his head and smiled at her. Daff smiled back, feeling more lighthearted than she had in years.
“Grab a shower and get dressed while I fix your breakfast,” he instructed, and, still dazed from the kisses, she nodded and walked to the bathroom where she had left her clothes last night.
She thought about the exchange while she luxuriated beneath the gloriously hot shower. A silly, seemingly inane conversation about eggs that meant everything to her. She was so used to pretending with men and lying to herself, and that trite little chat had been the most honest talk she’d ever had with a man. The recognition was both frightening and wonderful. She was terrified that he was rapidly becoming . . . essential to her. And while part of her wanted to keep him at arm’s length in case he hurt her, another—braver—part of her was certain he could and would keep her heart safe.