CHAPTER TWO
Mason couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so confused, amused, entertained, and just plain gobsmacked by someone. Daisy McGregor was not at all what he’d been expecting. He’d spent the last thirty minutes completely bemused by her. He glanced over at Spencer, who was trying—and failing—to chat with Daff. The woman appeared to acknowledge his presence with the occasional shimmy in his direction but didn’t seem to have much to say to him. Mason felt kind of sorry for his brother, but hell, he had tried to warn the guy.
Mason looked up at Daisy, who had jumped to her feet and grabbed her coat, and he wondered at the impulse that had driven him to ask her out to MJ’s. He wasn’t attracted to her, but he for damned sure wouldn’t mind talking with her a little longer. He was enjoying their exchange so much that he was almost resentful of the thumping music and loud background noise in the pub, which made it hard to hear her clearly. So he had suggested they go someplace quieter and had even used the dreaded date word. He shouldn’t have referred to it as such; it fostered expectations.
It would definitely give her the wrong idea. And while Mason had been forced to do a lot of shitty things in his life, he had never deliberately hurt a woman, and he feared that this path would only lead to pain for Daisy McGregor. She was too damned nice to be hanging out with a guy like him. He had tried the long-term relationship thing and decided it wasn’t for him. These days, he tended to fuck and flee, and maybe that made him an asshole, but the women he usually associated with knew what to expect from him. They were happy enough with the short-term arrangements he preferred. Somehow, he didn’t think Daisy McGregor was the kind of woman who indulged in that type of fleeting sexual encounter. Still, he was committed to this now and had to see it through, so he beckoned the waiter over and quietly requested the bill, asking the guy to include Daisy’s drinks on his tab.
“My drinks have been covered . . . Hen night,” she elaborated for the waiter, who nodded his understanding. “Anything in addition to that will be taken care of by my sister. The bombshell in purple over there.”
“No problem, ma’am,” the guy responded and then asked Mason to hold on for a couple of minutes while he retrieved the bill.
Mason and Daisy stood waiting without speaking, the ease of the last few minutes suddenly replaced by a weird tension and awkwardness that told him she was as uncertain about this so-called date thing as he was. Mason was thinking of ways to back out gracefully when Daisy, with the forthrightness that he was beginning to recognize was stock in trade for her, just came out and said exactly what he’d been thinking.
“This probably isn’t a good idea. I won’t hold you to it,” she said with a rueful smile, and he noticed her dimples for the first time. They were cute as hell.
“What do you mean?” he asked perversely, despite knowing exactly what she’d meant.
“I mean going to MJ’s with you is a dumb idea; we should both just head home.”
“I don’t think it’s a dumb idea, and you’re not getting out of it that easily.” Mason was aghast to hear the words cross his lips, and he wondered why the hell he had uttered them when he basically agreed with everything she had just said.
“I’m just saying that we’ve probably exhausted all topics of—” He interrupted her before she could finish her sentence.
“Nonsense. We’re going to MJ’s.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you’re incredibly bossy?” she asked, not doing anything to disguise the irritation in her voice, and he grinned.
“All the time.”
“Fine, but I’m calling it now, this is probably the worst idea in the history of the world.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you have a tendency to exaggerate?” he fired back at her, and she shoved her dark-rimmed glasses back up her nose and rolled her eyes.
“About a billion times a day.” He grinned at her response. The waiter returned with his bill, and Daisy excused herself to go to the powder room.
“Hey, Daisy,” he called as she turned away from him. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. “No ducking out the bathroom window.”
She snorted and waved her hand dismissively before walking away.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said as she headed toward the back of the pub. She held one thumb up to signal that she’d heard him but didn’t look at him again.
Mason settled his bill, leaving a hefty tip for the grateful waiter, and grabbed up his leather jacket before heading out the door. He stood just outside the pub, facing the empty street as he listened to the muffled sounds of laughter and music coming from inside. Riversend had a population of only about three thousand permanent residents. It was very much a summer tourist destination, and the quiet little town went into hibernation during winter. There was no nightlife to speak of, and most people commuted to the larger outlying towns for work every day. Mason appreciated the tranquility of the place so much more now than when he was a restless, borderline-delinquent kid. And even though the years away had defined his character and broadened his worldview considerably, it was good to be home. Back when he was a kid, he had felt trapped, but now—knowing that he could leave any time he wanted to—he felt a sense of belonging.
Aside from the bustling pub behind him and the bright light coming from the always-busy MJ’s farther down the street, the tiny town’s main road was quiet. Riversend was sleepy and peaceful and—after years of violence and craziness—exactly what Mason needed.
It was a brisk late May evening, and he could see his breath misting in front of his face. The cloud of steam was reminiscent of smoke and made him yearn for one of the cigarettes he had given up more than a year ago. He shoved his hands into his jean pockets and swayed back and forth on his heels as he continued to wait.
The music and chatter increased in volume as the doors swung open behind him, and he turned with an expectant smile on his face, which faded somewhat when he saw his brother’s large frame silhouetted in the doorway.
“Hey, where are you off to?” Spencer asked, stepping out on the sidewalk with Mason; the door didn’t swing all the way shut behind him, and the noise bled out into the peaceful night.
“Heading over to MJ’s with Daisy,” Mason replied.
“Seriously?” Spencer asked with a slightly incredulous laugh.
“I’m hungry.”
“Mase, I appreciate you coming out here tonight, but you don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?” Mason asked with a frown, confused.
“You know what.” Spencer grunted, closing the gap between them slightly as he stepped closer. “I know I asked you to keep the other one distracted . . .”
“Her name’s Daisy,” Mason corrected irritably.
“Yeah.” Spencer waved the correction aside impatiently. “Whatever. Look, I know I asked you to keep her distracted, but taking her out? That’s going above and beyond, Mase. I don’t think Daff’s that interested, so you don’t have to do this. Go home and catch that movie; I know that’s what you’d prefer doing anyway. You’re probably bored out of your skull by now. Sorry about this, man. But like I said, I had to try, you know? It’s just a shame you had to waste your time with the other one while I did so.”
It was a shitty thing to say, and Mason was about to tell Spencer exactly that when he noticed a pair of earnest eyes behind a pair of unflattering dark-framed glasses peeking up at him from behind his brother’s broad shoulder.
Fuck.
She was so damned short that she had actually managed to come up behind Spencer without Mason noticing. And—damn it—were those tears sparkling in her eyes? He felt like a total shit now and glared at his brother for a moment, before brushing by him and following the woman as she quickly turned away and walked up the road at a brisk pace. He heard Spencer swear behind him as his brother realized that Daisy had overheard him. Mason shot him a warning glare over his shoulder and held up a hand to prevent him from following.
He caught up with Daisy in a few short strides and took hold of her elbow to halt her movement. She went taut but stopped and glared up at him fiercely from behind those heavy frames. They were beneath a lamppost, and he could see every emotion in that expressive face. She looked equal parts angry and resigned.
“Look, you shouldn’t have heard that,” he began roughly as he agitatedly rubbed his hand back and forth over his scalp and wondered how the hell he had gotten into this situation.
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I’m the ugly one, remember?” she asked, without a trace of bitterness or self-pity in her voice. In fact, she sounded remarkably calm. “But that’s okay because being pretty isn’t everything, since ‘a brain is just as important as good looks.’ And ‘at least I’m clever.’”
She used air quotes to make it obvious that she was parroting someone, and he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and felt his brow lower as he considered the casual cruelty those supposedly well-meaning people had subjected her to. She wasn’t even that bad looking. She just needed to do something with her hair, maybe. Put on a little makeup . . . dress better . . . lose a few kilos.
He appraised her seriously. Her hair was crazy; he couldn’t tell if it was up in a bun or a ponytail, but whatever it was, most of the curly, mouse-brown strands seemed desperate to escape their confinement. She had a round face, a dab of a nose that her heavy-looking black-framed glasses kept sliding down, which meant that she was constantly peering at him from above the rims. Her deep-gray eyes were nice, big, and luminous and surrounded by thick, dark lashes and dark, arched eyebrows. She also had round cheeks, those adorable dimples he had noticed earlier, and a bit of a double chin when she laughed. He liked her lips; they looked soft and were naturally pink and lush. Surprisingly kissable lips set in a round, otherwise ordinary face.
The woman also appeared to have absolutely no dress sense; she was wearing a flannel shirt combined with a pair of snug faded jeans that clung to her shapely, if somewhat ample, butt rather sweetly. He couldn’t tell much else about her figure beneath the oversized shirt and boxy bomber jacket—who even owned bomber jackets anymore? He thought they’d all been left behind in the nineties, where they belonged.
She seemed to have bigger boobs than one would expect from a woman who was five foot three at most, but he couldn’t tell for certain.
Okay, he had to admit, she was a bit of a train wreck. Still, it had to suck to hear that the only thing you had going for you was your brain.
“Look, obviously the MJ’s thing isn’t going to happen now,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think I’ll just head straight home. I’m tired anyway.” Mason felt a pang of regret at the wariness he now saw in her. Gone were the humor and sharp wit of before, and in their place was an obvious reluctance to lower her guard any more than it had already been lowered.
“How are you getting home?” he asked.
“Walking, it’s not that far.”
“It’s a mile out of town,” he protested. “I can take you.”
“Nah, it’s really not that far, and I could use the exercise, right?” she asked, sending him a crooked, self-effacing grin that just about did him in. How often did she demean herself just to prevent others from doing so?
“I’ll take you,” he maintained.
She sighed. “Look, Mr. Carlisle—”
“Mason,” he interrupted.
“Right. Just because I overheard your conversation with Spencer doesn’t mean you have to try and make up for it. You were being his bro, right? His wingman or whatever. He’s always been interested in Daff; I remember him sending her really bad poetry in high school.”
“You’re shitting me! He did?” Mason asked, momentarily distracted. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d told him Spencer had donned a tutu and danced ballet.
“I memorized one,” Daisy said, that wicked grin making a welcome reappearance. “Want to hear it?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Okay, hold on, let me think . . .” She held her thumbs up to her temples and swayed slightly before lifting her head and meeting his eyes. “Daffodil. Tell me you will . . . be mine. Your smile is like gold and like diamonds your eyes do shine. I’ll love you forever and forget you never.”
Mason paused a beat before doubling over and clutching his middle as he went off into gales of laughter.
“Oh Christ,” he groaned after a couple of minutes of gut-busting laughter. “After that you have to let me repay you with a ride home.”
Daisy stared up at the painfully handsome man standing in front of her and considered his offer. He really epitomized masculine perfection, all six foot one of him. He had a gorgeous, lean body, combined with ruthlessly short golden-brown hair that she knew was wavy and thick when it was longer. He had a perfect square-cut, cleft jaw, which was currently bristling with stubble; high cheekbones; chiseled, bow-shaped lips; and straight brown eyebrows set above those gorgeous forest-green eyes she had admired earlier. The only thing that spoiled all that visible perfection was the thin, vicious scar that slashed through his left eyebrow—stopping just shy of the outer corner of his eye—and the slightly crooked nose. All this male gorgeousness was incredibly distracting and muddled her thinking.
Daisy knew she really had to get away from him and away from this stupid pub. If it hadn’t been for Lia’s hen party, she would never have ventured into town tonight. She hated having to deal with people socially.
And sure enough she’d had her stupid feelings trampled as usual. After all these years, one would expect her to have a thicker skin, yet people still managed to upset her with their snide little comments. But Mason Carlisle had hurt her in a brand-new way tonight. He had crept beneath her usually stalwart defenses and made her believe he was genuinely enjoying her company and honestly wanted to spend more time with her.
God, she was such an idiot!
She should have known when he approached her tonight that it was too good to be true, should have known he was getting her out of the way so that his brother could flirt with Daff. It was the story of her life, after all—she was fodder for wingmen. But she had allowed herself a brief moment of fantasy. Mason Carlisle had never been nasty to her, hadn’t really paid her much attention at all, to be honest. They had been years apart in school and moved in completely different social circles.
Naturally all the girls—including her sisters—had had a crush on the Carlisle brothers in high school. Who wouldn’t? They were blessed with an overabundance of good looks, were star athletes, and had the appeal of being just a little too rough and wild for the good girls, which had made them irresistible. It still did. And just once, Daisy wanted to see what it felt like to be the center of a beautiful Carlisle’s attention.
And it had been . . . wonderful, until she’d discovered his true objective. High school all over again.
“Come on, Daisy,” he prompted again. “Let me drive you home.”
“Okay,” she said, reluctantly. He clearly felt bad. He had obviously never meant for her to find out about his deception. Maybe he would leave her alone when he got the guilt out of his system.
“Great, I’m parked just around the corner.”
He had a wholly masculine vehicle; a very rugged Jeep Wrangler, which was caked with mud and looked like it had seen a lot of serious adventuring.
“How’d you get it into such a state?” she asked, struggling to keep the awe out of her voice.
“I’ve been doing a lot of camping and off-road traveling since my return. This baby has been up north to all the major national parks and over countless mountain passes . . . she’s a good car,” he said as he patted the square bonnet of the black Jeep appreciatively.
“So you haven’t really been in town a lot since returning to the country?” That would explain why people hadn’t seen him around much.
“Nope.” He tugged open the passenger door and gave her a hand up as she awkwardly climbed into the aggravatingly high car. She had grown up around similar vehicles but had never really mastered the art of climbing into one with dignity and grace.
“Sorry it’s nothing fancier,” he muttered apologetically as she gave a quick glance around the inside of his car. He shut the door and was in the driver’s seat seconds later. His delicious, clean, and crisp masculine fragrance enveloped her as he shut himself in with her. “And I apologize for the smell.”
She flushed, grateful for the dark. How had he known she was appreciating his scent, and why would he apologize for it?
“No need to apologize,” she said quickly.
“I took my dog, Cooper, for a run on the beach this morning, and he can never resist going in for a dip, even though it’s colder than a witch’s . . . uh . . . boob. That’s why it reeks of wet dog in here.”
Wet dog? All she could smell was Mason, but now that he had mentioned it, she did detect the underlying scent of eau de soaked pooch.
“I barely smell it,” she said honestly, clicking her seat belt into place. He followed suit and started the car without saying anything more.
“You’re going to have to refresh my memory,” he said as he started up the car. “I can’t quite remember how to get there.”
A little puzzled by that statement—why would he ever have known how to get to her house in the first place?—Daisy shrugged and proceeded to give him directions to her small home on the outskirts of town. There were no other words between them for the next five minutes until he pulled to a stop outside her place.
“This isn’t the farm,” he observed lamely as he sized up the neat little house, with its perfectly cut pocket-size front lawn behind a wrought-iron fence.
“God no,” she muttered, self-consciously playing with the zipper of her jacket. “I couldn’t continue living there with my sisters and their constant well-intentioned attempts to dress me ‘properly’ or paint makeup on me while I slept.”
“Wait, they actually did that? The makeup thing?”
“Yep, I once woke up with my left eye glued shut because my sisters had botched up the fake eyelash application.”
“You must sleep like the dead,” Mason observed in a wobbly voice, clearly struggling to conceal his amusement from her.
“I’ve been known to sleep through a plane crash or two.” She nodded.
“So why don’t you just let them get it out of their systems? Let them make you over or whatever?”
“What do you see when you look at me?” she huffed impatiently.
Mason considered her question as he peered at her in the scant illumination provided by the moonlight sifting in through the car windows. How the hell was he supposed to answer that question without getting into a shitload of trouble?
“A woman?” He ventured tentatively after a long pause, and even in the dim light he could see her rolling her eyes.
“A short, dumpy, and frumpy woman. No amount of makeup or clothing will change the first two, and as for the latter . . .” She paused, and Mason thought he caught a glimmer of yearning in her moonlit eyes. “Let me put it this way: I’m a bridesmaid at Lia’s wedding.”
“Yeah?”
“So are Daff, Sharlotte Bridges, Zinzi Khulani, and Nina Clark. Basically, most of the women you saw at that table tonight. Lia has found a bridesmaid dress that manages to flatter everybody. Everybody, that is, except me. I look completely ridiculous and—yes—frumpy in the stupid thing. So you see, it doesn’t matter what they put me in, I always look the same.” She said it so matter-of-factly and with such a lack of bitterness that Mason could only stare at her for a long moment; her gray eyes looked colorless in the moonlight, her crazy brown hair managed to catch the faint light, and the bits that were sticking up looked like they had tiny shards of moonbeams trapped in them.
“I’m sure you look . . .”
“Uh-uh.” She held up a stern finger. “Don’t! No empty platitudes between us, Mason Carlisle. I like that we now know where we stand with each other. No misunderstandings. You’re the wingman. I’m the ugly girl.”
“Come on, Daisy. Don’t call yourself that,” he chastised uncomfortably.
“Anyway,” she said, brushing aside his comment, “do you feel, like, super guilty about everything that’s happened tonight?”
“I do,” he said, a small frown indenting his brow as he wondered what would come next. He had felt seriously punch drunk and wrong-footed from the moment he’d met this woman, and it made him both uncomfortable and ridiculously lighthearted. He liked her unpredictability and her offbeat sense of humor, and truth be told, despite his expectations to the contrary, he hadn’t been bored once this evening.
“So I’ve given this some thought—well, okay, I’ve only just thought about it, but I think it’s a fabulous idea—and I was wondering if you would consider being my wingman?” The blunt question shocked him, and he stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment as he tried to process her words.
“What?”
“I was hoping you’d feel guilty enough to do me a favor and consider being my wingman,” she elaborated, which didn’t really clarify anything at all.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he admitted. How could he be her wingman? How would that even work? Like in the traditional sense. Did that mean . . . “Wait, are you . . . are you gay?”
He watched her lips crook up at the corners and her mischievous eyes lit with laughter, and he liked that he could make her smile again. It eased his guilt somewhat. Not much, but it was a start.
“No. I’m not gay. I don’t mean that kind of wingman. Lia’s getting married. Remember?”
“Yes?” God she was confusing. And interesting . . . very, very interesting.
“So I need a date. Someone who’ll deflect the inevitable well-meaning comments about how at least I have my brain and don’t need a man to support me or whatever else people have to say to me this time. Seeing me show up with a ripped, good-looking guy like you will confuse the hell out of them, and while they won’t believe for an instant that we’re seriously dating, at least it’ll shut them up while they regroup. Leaving me to enjoy my sister’s wedding in peace.”
“Uh . . .” Mason wasn’t sure what to say. On the one hand, he did feel terrible about the way things had gone down tonight and wanted to make it up to her. On the other hand, weddings and monkey suits and rich snobby people just weren’t his scene. Then again, it could be entertaining as hell to see how this sharp, witty woman dealt with those people at her sister’s wedding.
“Free food, drink, and lots of hot women for you to ogle,” she said in a wheedling tone of voice, and he felt himself grinning at her.
“I don’t ogle other women when I’m out with someone,” he corrected. “But free food and drink? I think that’s worth the price of admission.”
“Seriously?” she squeaked, looking genuinely shocked by his words, and his grin widened when he comprehended that the little fast-talker hadn’t been half as confident as she had let on.
“Sure, why the hell not?” It was only after the words had left his mouth that he realized that they were exactly what he had said to his brother before falling down this particular rabbit hole.
Daisy was stunned that he had agreed but even more surprised that she had asked him in the first place. She wasn’t sure where this idea had come from, but as she’d continued chatting with him, it had seemed like an ideal solution to a problem that had been looming in her immediate future. At least she knew exactly where she stood with this guy. He was good looking, seemed fairly personable, and he had already hurt her—more than she would ever have believed possible from someone who was a relative stranger to her.
She liked him a lot, and that’s probably why it was so painful. But she was angrier with herself for being hurt by something that—in retrospect—should have been completely obvious from the moment he’d approached her. She’d never give him the opportunity to hurt her again, and that’s why she would be perfectly safe with him as her wedding date. She had been inoculated against his charm thanks to tonight’s farce. Her heart was safe in his presence.
“When is this thing?” he asked, knocking her out of her reverie.
“Exactly two weeks away,” she said. “It’s a weekend thing, on the Wild Coast, so you’ll have to pack a bag.”
“We should be seen together before then,” he said. “To make our romance seem a little bit more realistic.”
“I didn’t say we would pretend to be romantically involved,” she said, alarmed. “No one would believe that.”
“They won’t if we just showed up together without warning, but if we appear to be dating for a couple of weeks beforehand, it would seem more plausible.”
“I don’t want it to seem plausible,” she protested irrationally. “I just want a date for the wedding.”
“Look, I feel shit about tonight, and this is the least I can do. But if I’m going to do it, I’ll for damned sure be doing it right. We’re having dinner at MJ’s tomorrow night.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” she said vehemently.
“I say it is. It won’t be of any benefit to you if I’m seen as some bastard who just carries on a one- or two-night stand with a woman and then dumps her immediately afterward.”
“I could be the one doing the dumping,” she pointed out, and he stared at her levelly for a long while, remaining insultingly silent in response to her statement. Okay, so nobody would believe Daisy had done the dumping after just one weekend together. Maybe his idea had merit. Appear to be dating for a bit—no matter how unlikely it seemed—and that way their inevitable “breakup” would appear a little less humiliating for her.
Mason didn’t know why he was pushing this. He should consider himself lucky that all she wanted from him was one weekend. But, despite all her protestations to the contrary, he knew that she had been hurt by the evening’s revelations. He figured this would help her salvage some pride and ease his conscience a bit in the process.
She mulled over his words for a long moment, before nodding to herself as she obviously made up her mind about something.
“Okay. MJ’s. Tomorrow night.”
“Great,” he said, flashing her a smile, before getting out of the car and rounding it to help her out of the passenger side. He walked her to the front door, and a dog started frenziedly barking on the other side of it.
“Thanks, Mason,” she said while she fumbled for her keys. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Right.”
They stood there awkwardly for a moment before Daisy turned away and unlocked the door.
“So . . . bye,” she said, but he didn’t respond, he just kept staring at her. He was freaking her out a little. Why was he just standing there? She cleared her throat, stepped into her house, and, with a quick apologetic smile, shut the door in his face.
“Hello, Peaches,” she greeted her excited toy Pomeranian. “Did you miss me?”
She bent to pat the affectionate white furball before straightening to peek out of the peephole, wondering if Mason had left yet. He was slowly making his way back toward his car, and she ignored her dog’s faint whines for attention as she watched him throw another lingering glance back at the front door before getting into his car.
Daisy heaved a sigh of relief and turned around to slump against the door. She listened to his car engine start up and then grow fainter as he drove away.
What a weird evening. She slid down the door and sank onto the floor, finally giving Peaches the welcome she deserved. The dog was in raptures as she wriggled into Daisy’s lap and laved her face enthusiastically.
“Ugh, enough, Peaches,” Daisy finally decreed after the dog’s tongue managed to squirm up one of her nostrils. She shuddered and set Peaches down before levering herself up from the wooden floor.
She shrugged out of her heavy coat and casually tossed it over the coatrack along with her shoulder bag.
“I’m not sure I made the right decision tonight, girl,” she informed Peaches conversationally as she moved through the tiny living room to the open-plan kitchen. Peaches trotted faithfully along behind her. “I mean, I’m not exactly sober, am I? It’s never wise to make big decisions when you’ve had one too many.”
She glanced over at Peaches; the little dog had jumped onto the sofa and was staring at Daisy with a tilted head, looking for all the world like she understood every word. Daisy sighed. She needed a few more dogs, a couple of cats, and possibly a hamster or two before she could be considered a true spinster, but having full-on conversations with her dog certainly was a step in that direction.
Still, it beat talking to herself. Which was exactly what she had found herself doing after moving into her own house and before getting Peaches. She preferred talking to the dog; it just seemed less . . . sad.
Her thoughts turned back to the situation with Mason Carlisle. Propositioning him the way she had tonight was so far from her usual behavior that she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that she’d done it. And that he’d agreed to it.
There was no way they were going to be able to maintain the dating façade. Nobody would believe it for a second. She would contact him in the morning and call the whole thing off. And she was confident that once he had time to think about it, he’d be relieved to get out of the obligation.
“So I’ll call him tomorrow,” she told Peaches as she turned to the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea. “And that’ll be the end of it.”