“Yes. Sorry. I was trying to remember if I had my wallet or not.” The words sounded lame and unconvincing to her, but it was all she had.
“Doesn’t matter. You won’t need it.”
Rolling her eyes at that bit of macho nonsense, she chose not to respond. She’d fight that battle when she had to. She waved him ahead, and when he gave her that truculent look she was becoming so familiar with, she fought against rolling her eyes again.
“I know you’re a gentleman and ladies first and all that, but I have to lock up, so move your ass.” He stood there for another second before, with obvious reluctance, moving ahead and exiting the house. He stopped on the tiny front porch, opening the umbrella and waiting for her to lock up.
When she turned to join him, he hooked his—much too familiar—arm around her waist and dragged her to his side to shelter her beneath the umbrella before leading her out into the rain. She was in his car before she even had time to protest, watching him run around the front, not bothering with the umbrella this time.
She had been expecting the pickup truck, but this sleek, masculine automobile was a lot more elegant and beautiful than the truck he normally drove. She’d seen him drive by in it a couple of times, of course, but not often enough for her to begin associating this sexy ride with the Spencer Carlisle she’d known all her life.
Because of his humility, the fact that he drove around in an old pickup truck, and dressed in sweats most of the time, it was easy to forget how successful he was. This car was tangible evidence of that success and wealth. A gorgeous, metallic-blue panther of a machine.
“Nice car,” she said drily when he climbed into the driver’s seat, and he glanced at her for a second before starting the engine.
“I like it,” he said without inflection after he had himself belted in.
“What is it? Maybe I’ll add this one to my Christmas wish list or something.”
“Audi R8, and you should stick to your VW. You’d be a menace on the road in one of these.” He eased the car onto the road, and she gasped at the slur.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked indignantly.
“I’ve seen you drive. I’ve had the bad luck to be stuck behind you on occasion. You never use your turn signals and God, woman, you’re a road hog. You tailgate, speed, weave in and out of lanes like you’re doing some kind of crazy dance. And that’s just in an ancient, shitty little hatchback. Can’t imagine you in one of these.”
It was the most she’d ever heard him speak at one time, and every word was an insult. What an asshole.
She’d be a lot more pissed off by his words if they weren’t also true—she had a few (dozen) traffic violations to her name to corroborate what he was saying. Both of her sisters would rather walk than get into a car with her behind the wheel.
“I’m an awesome dri—” she started to say, but a rude sound from him, this one unmistakably scathing, shut her up.
“You don’t even believe that,” he said, and she glared at him before crossing her arms over her chest and diverting her attention out of the window. She sat up a moment later, her mien alert as she watched the scenery slide by.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Dinner.”
“We’re heading in the wrong direction,” she stated. “Town’s the other way.”
“We’re not having dinner in town.”
“But . . .” Panic flared in her chest. This wasn’t the plan. She wasn’t comfortable with the thought of seeing him outside the usual familiar settings.
“I’m bored with MJ’s and Ralphie’s.” He shrugged and she chewed on her bottom lip, wondering if she should insist they head back to town. It seemed like an unreasonable response to a casual dinner, and she bit back the words.
“So Knysna?” It wasn’t a long drive, twenty minutes to half an hour at most. Maybe faster when the roads were this empty.
“Yeah, I read about this great place.”
“I see.” She nervously folded and unfolded her hands in her lap, a habit she had developed in an attempt to stop chewing her nails but that had just devolved into a different nervous tic. Still, it was preferable to ruining a perfectly good manicure.
She continued to fidget until he reached over and engulfed both of her hands with his free one. He gave them a brief squeeze before lifting his hand back to the steering wheel. The gesture made her breath catch, as did the lingering warmth of his touch, and she found herself striving to appear casual after the fleeting contact.
“Relax,” he growled. “I’m not driving you to some remote location to murder you or anything.”
“Wow. That thought hadn’t occurred to me . . . till now.” Her voice was tart and—despite the dimly lit interior of the car—she could see his lips tilt just enough to reveal one of those masculine dimples to her. It took everything in her not to reach up and trace her thumb over the indentation in his stubbled cheek.
“So what kind of place is this? Am I overdressed?” Considering the rough and ready guy he was, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he’d simply take her to a pub much like Ralphie’s.
“You look perfect.” His gravelly voice sounded intense, and Daff felt her face heat at his words.
“Thank you. You look quite nice, too.” And he did. He was dressed in a pair of faded jeans that fit him perfectly; her eyes drifted over thickly muscled thighs and the snug pull of fabric over his crotch before she hastily diverted her attention upward. The view was no less unsettling—a pale-blue dress shirt, slightly damp in spots from where it had caught the rain, lovingly draping and dipping over his broad chest. The top two buttons were undone, leaving her with a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, tanned skin. She couldn’t see much because of the dim car interior, but it put her imagination into overdrive and made her breath quicken.
God, Spencer Carlisle was seriously good-looking. Not conventionally handsome, but so damned sexy it made her skin feel tight and uncomfortable. Like she had an itch that was just out of reach.
He had slipped into one of those contemplative silences he seemed to enjoy so much, and not feeling the need to break the silence, Daff fumbled for her phone and pretended to check her messages and Facebook. He left her to it and only when she saw the lights of Knysna rapidly approaching about ten minutes later did she put her phone away again.
“I’m starving,” she said, and he grunted in agreement.
“Nearly there,” he informed her, and she stretched luxuriously, curling her toes in her shoes.
“Awesome.” She sighed, paying closer attention to their surroundings. “We’re headed toward Leisure Isle.” She didn’t know why that surprised her. Leisure Isle was a residential suburb surrounded on all sides by the tidal estuary and only accessible by a narrow causeway. Daff had never visited the tiny lagoon island before and was both flustered and impressed with his choice of destination. It was touristy and upmarket. Maybe he wasn’t taking her to a pub after all.
“I’ve been meaning to try this restaurant for a while—this is as good an excuse as any to give it a go.”
“This isn’t a special occasion,” she hastened to remind, and she could hear his sigh even over the engine noise.
“Never said it was.”
“Just saying.”
“Hmm.”
Frustrating man.
“This is a hotel,” she pointed out suspiciously when he finally drew the car to a standstill, and he slanted her an exasperated look.
“It’s a lodge,” he corrected before continuing, “with a great restaurant. Don’t worry, Daff . . . I didn’t bring you here to seduce you. I know better.”
What was that supposed to mean? She nearly asked before thinking better of it and keeping her mouth shut. Instead she perused the exterior of the whitewashed building. It looked sublimely luxurious and was situated right on the lagoon’s edge, promising fantastic views. A shame they wouldn’t be able to enjoy it on a dark, rainy night like this.
“Fancy,” s
he observed when he held the passenger door open for her. She was suddenly grateful for the little black dress she was wearing and then instantly peeved with Spencer for not warning her that he’d be bringing her to a place like this. What if she’d dressed for Ralphie’s or MJ’s? She’d have looked distinctly out of place in jeans and a T-shirt.
He led her to the restaurant’s separate entrance, where they were greeted by a smiling maître d’.
“Carlisle,” Spencer said succinctly, and the officious little man’s smile broadened.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Carlisle.” He picked up a couple of leather-bound menus and tucked them into the crook of his arm. “Right this way, please.”
He led them through a maze of white-clothed round tables—some empty, some filled with smiling, relaxed people—toward the back of the restaurant.
“Here you go. Your server will be right with you,” he said. The table was in a great location, right beside one of the huge picture windows, with a fantastic view of the night-black lagoon. There were a few blinking lights from boats and reflected lights from homes and buildings, but it was eerily dark out there. Especially with the cloud cover. Still, the view was amazing, and Daff would have loved to see it on a sunny day, when it would probably be brilliantly blue and ethereally beautiful. She turned her avid scrutiny back to her immediate surroundings and was impressed by the gorgeous decor of the place. Everything was white and cream and airy. The austere color palette worked in this setting.
“This is a little much, don’t you think? We could just as easily have discussed the party plans over a beer and some pretzels,” she said, her eyes meeting Spencer’s.
“No skin off my nose,” he said with a shrug before lifting his hand to summon a waiter. “Ralphie’s it is.”
The waiter was there in seconds.
“Ready to order your drinks, sir?” he inquired.
“We’ve changed our—”
“Not yet,” Daff interrupted hastily, sending a glare Spencer’s way. He merely lifted a brow and folded his arms over his chest before leaning back in his chair and watching her with something like a smirk on his brutally handsome face. “Give us a few more minutes, please.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the young man said with a polite little bow before retreating.
“Thought you wanted to leave.”
“I’m starving,” she complained. “And I can’t stand the thought of another long drive on an empty stomach. We’re here, we might as well eat something.”
“Hmm.” He turned his attention to the wine list, his overly long hair sliding forward as he bent his head.
“Use your words, for God’s sake,” she groused beneath her breath, and he tilted his jaw just enough to look at her from beneath the long flop of hair. Daff grinned before reaching for her purse and digging around a bit until she found what she was looking for.
“Need a hairclip?” she offered, holding the tiny sparkly butterfly clip out to him. He ran a sheepish hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face in the process.
“No time to get to the barber. Been meaning to hack it off myself.” He sounded charmingly embarrassed, and Daff’s grin widened even while she was appalled at the thought of Spencer doing a hack job on that gorgeous mane. She acted without thought, reaching across the table to slide her fingers through the silky hair that kept falling over his eyes and used the ridiculously feminine clip to pin it back. She snatched her hands back almost immediately and hid them in her lap beneath the table. Spencer reached up and touched the clip with the tip of his long index finger. He surprised her by leaving it in place and thanking her gruffly before bending his head to contemplate the wine list again.
Daff, in the meantime, kept rubbing her palms against the material of her skirt, trying—and failing—to rid herself of the feel of his luxurious hair on her skin.
CHAPTER FIVE
Spencer very slowly and very carefully released the breath that had caught in his chest when Daff had so unexpectedly reached out to touch him. His grip on the wine list tightened in an effort not to betray his trembling hands to her, and he immediately lowered his unseeing gaze back to the stark black-on-white letters in front of him, even though none of the words currently made an iota of sense.
Shit.
Was that really all it took to turn him on these days? One whisper of a touch? The answer to those burning questions had to be a resounding yes, if the straining bulge of his crotch was any indication. He sneaked a peek at her. A tiny little furrow between her perfectly arched brows marred the smoothness of her skin. She looked pensive, her attention directed out at the dark lagoon instead of her menu.
“Ready to order?” he asked, happy to hear that his voice sounded relatively normal. Her startled eyes flew back to his and she blinked slowly, looking like she was coming out of a deep sleep.
“Uh. You order. Whatever you choose will be fi—” She stopped, the frown deepening, before she reached for the wine list determinedly. “On second thought, give me a minute. I haven’t really looked at the menu.”
“I’ll be happy to choose.” He shrugged.
“Yeah? Well, you don’t know what I like. And I doubt we like the same things. So . . . I’ll pick my own wine. And food. And dessert.”
“Of course.” He wouldn’t have chosen her whole meal, damn it. He’d just meant the wine. Although he’d definitely feel more comfortable if she chose that.
Bringing her here had to be one of the worst decisions he’d ever made. He’d taken one look at the place and known that it was way too romantic for a casual dinner, and he’d been more than willing to call it quits earlier when she kept on nagging about it. But then she’d changed her mind again.
Confusing woman. It was hard to keep track of her lightning-fast mood changes. He contemplated her shiny down-bent head, marveling slightly at how soft and silky her dark-brown hair was. He recalled the texture of it beneath his roughened palm. He shouldn’t have touched her, but it had been an instinctive move—he’d seen the hair trapped in the collar of her coat and had tugged it free without much thought.
Stupid.
The move had been too intimate and had made the situation awkward. Then again, Spencer was a pro at being awkward. The eternal loner, his best friend had always been his brother, and after going to college, he’d bonded with his rugby teammates but hadn’t really forged deep and lasting friendships with any of them. He could barely function in civil society and preferred to keep his mouth shut in social situations. The second he opened it, he always seemed to shove his foot right down his throat.
Still, he couldn’t sit here tongue-tied all evening. The woman already thought he had the personality of a mushroom.
“It’s rainy,” he observed inanely. Yeah, way to state the fuckin’ obvious, Spence!
“The forecast says it’ll be this way for the rest of the week,” she said, barely looking up from the menu.
“We need it, but it’s getting a bit problematic.” Christ, still with the weather.
“How so?” she asked, looking up, her eyes frank and assessing. All the McGregor girls had the prettiest gray eyes, but Daff’s was the only gaze Spencer ever found himself lost in. And the shittiest part of it was that he knew she didn’t find herself in the same predicament with him. Ever.
“Uh. With the kids and the center.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She looked away—without any fucking hesitation—and went back to perusing the wine list. “I think I’ll have a glass of this 2013 cabernet sauvignon.”
“Why don’t we just get a bottle of that?” Spencer shrugged and tossed aside his menu.
“You’ll have the same thing?” Daff looked surprised by that, and Spencer lifted his shoulders again.
“Sure. I trust your taste.” He did. A hell of a lot more than he did his own. When it came to choosing wine, he always felt like a complete philistine. He lacked the knowledge to make an informed choice and usually only went with the house red or white. He never knew if he
should sniff or swirl the stuff before sipping it and took his cues from those around him. He always felt exceptionally awkward when he was around people he perceived as more learned on the subject. He supposed it was one of the hazards of being nouveau riche, so to speak.
Daff looked a little taken aback by his words and fiddled with the ends of her hair for a moment. Thankfully the waiter returned before another awkward silence could descend.
Daff watched Spencer expectantly after the young man asked if they were ready to order and, belatedly recognizing what they were waiting for, he self-consciously asked the guy for the wine she’d mentioned. From the way the waiter jumped and Daff rolled her eyes, Spencer knew he’d probably barked the words. It was something he did when he was nervous and he was aware that it came across as rude or bossy, but he’d take that over people knowing what he was really feeling.
After the waiter scurried away like a frightened mouse, Spencer heaved a sigh and shook his head. He put aside the wine list and focused his attention on the menu. He was aware of Daff’s scrutiny and ignored it for a moment while he gathered his thoughts.
But Daffodil McGregor wasn’t a woman to be ignored.
“You didn’t have to snarl at the poor guy,” she chastised, and Spencer stared levelly back at her. It was a look meant to intimidate, one that had gotten him out of a few uncomfortable situations before. But she didn’t react the way other people did. No lowered eyes or hastily mumbled apology—she just returned his look unflinchingly.
“Didn’t mean to,” he finally admitted. “Sometimes it just comes out like that.”
She pursed her lips as she considered his words.
“I see,” she said thoughtfully, and the words drove Spencer a little crazy. What did she see? He was on the verge of asking when the waiter rushed back with their wine. Gracing them with a nervous smile, his eyes darted to Spencer for a second before he focused all his attention on Daff. Clearly he was too intimidated by Spencer to hold his stare for long.
Fuck, how badly had he snapped at the poor guy earlier?
He made an effort to loosen up when the waiter—Liam, as his name tag helpfully informed—popped open the bottle and poured a sample into Spencer’s glass. Daff and Liam both gawked at him expectantly, and Spencer sucked in an irritated breath before lifting the glass and—without bothering to do any of the swirling, sniffing crap—downed the entire portion in a gulp. Sometimes, brazening it out crassly was the only way to go. Putting up a front of impatience and arrogance was an excellent—if obnoxious—way of hiding any feelings of uncertainty.
The Best Man Page 8
