The Wingman

by Natasha Anders

  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 t
he 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.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Someone was knocking on Mason’s front door at a seriously ungodly time of the morning, and it was setting Cooper off. His Lab mix was downstairs barking at whatever crazy bastard was trying to break down the door. The knocking, combined with the barking, made it impossible for Mason to ignore the unwelcome caller.

  “Yeah!” he yelled as he pushed himself out of his nice, warm bed and tugged on his sweatpants. He hissed when his feet hit the cold floor and let loose a stream of profanity that only grew more creative as he thumped his way downstairs.

  “Coop, quiet,” he growled, and the dog immediately obeyed and sat on his rump, keeping his eyes trained on the front door. Mason yanked the door open and glared at Spencer, who was standing with his shoulders hunched against the rain, holding two giant paper cups of fragrant coffee.

  His brother shoved one of the cups into Mason’s hands before pushing his way inside and heading straight for the kitchen. Mason glared at Spencer’s back, taking a sip of the coffee and slamming the front door pointedly before following the other man. Cooper was happily greeting Spencer, who had seated himself at the island in the center of the room. The guy was more than a little wet but didn’t seem to notice it.

  “What the hell do y
ou want, Spencer?” Mason asked impatiently, sitting down next to him. “It’s not even six yet. It’s freezing outside, and I’m hungover because you dragged me out last night.”

  “Did Tanya ever hit on you?”

  Whoa. Mason, who’d been about to say even more about his brother’s ill-timed visit, felt his mouth slam shut.

  “Why are you asking me that?” he asked, monitoring Spencer’s reaction carefully.

  “After you left last night, I ran into Graham Price, remember him?”

  Mason vaguely recalled a guy about Spencer’s age, good with cars or something.

  “Yeah?”

  “Graham was drunk and congratulated me on my breakup with that treacherous skank, said she hit on everything with a dick. I mean, it wasn’t news to me, I know that she cheated on me. Saw it with my own eyes. But suddenly every guy I know has a story about how she hit on him and how lucky I am to be rid of her. And it got me thinking . . . every guy I know has a story. But not you. You never once said anything—good or bad—about her, and I was just wondering, you know. Did she ever hit on you?”

  “What difference would it make if she did or didn’t?” Mason asked cautiously, hating that bitch for putting him in this position.

  “Well, you’re my brother, and I reckon you would have warned me about her if she’d ever put the moves on you, right? You wouldn’t have let me just go on seeing that cheating bitch?”

  Shit.

  “Yeah, she hit on me, Spence,” Mason admitted, taking a deep sip of his now-lukewarm coffee, and watched his brother’s shoulders tense as he absorbed the blow.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Mason?” Spencer asked, seething frustration in his voice.

  “I was going to, I was trying to figure out how, but then you caught her with those guys and everything went to hell. Telling you at that time would just have poured salt on the wound and telling you afterward seemed unnecessary. You’d already heard about her from other guys, hearing it from me wouldn’t have made any difference. It would only have hurt you more. You get that, don’t you? I didn’t want to make it worse for you.”