The Best Man

by Natasha Anders

  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 wo
uld 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?”

&n
bsp; “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.