The Wingmen series continues with Better Love . . .
Maybe that old song got it right.
Maybe love can be better the second time around.
When one of my wingmen needs help, I’ll do anything for him, including calling in a favor with the one person I swore I’d never speak to again.
Not after I walked away from that life five years ago and ditched the trappings of my success. The keyword being trap.
I left it all behind.
Including her.
Now the ambitious, brilliant, talented, and undeniably beautiful Roslyn Porter is back in my life. I’m not the same person she knew. I’m trying to be a better man.
No man is an island, but Dan Ashland comes close. He’s content with his quiet life on Whidbey, a world away from the rat race on the other side of the ferry.
Dan has three great loves in his life: solitude, pizza, and Roslyn Porter.
Better Love is a standalone second chance romance featuring Dan Ashland and the fourth book in the interconnected Wingmen series.
Be sure to check out the other books in the Wingmen series:
Ready to Fall
Confessions of a Reformed Tom Cat
Anything but Love
Better Love
Daisy Prescott
Copyright © Daisy Prescott 2016, All rights reserved.
ebook edition
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Please do not feed the pirates.
ISBN: 978-0-9978161-1-2
First Digital Edition: November 1, 2016
Cover Design by ©RE Creatives
Cover photo by Guille Faingold/Stocksy Images
Editing: There for You Editing
Proofreading: Proofing Style
Tattooed quotes from Farewell by ©Pablo Neruda
Interior Design & Formatting by Perfectly Publishable
I love the love that is shared in kisses, bed, and bread.
Love that can be eternal can be fleeting.
-Pablo Neruda
Table of Contents
Better Love
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
A Note from Daisy
Acknowledgments
About Daisy
More Books by Daisy
To all the men who rock a little salt with their pepper.
FOR A FULL minute, I stared at my phone like I had no idea how to operate it.
My finger hovered over a number I hadn’t called in years. A number I should’ve deleted five years ago when I walked away from my so-called perfect life and everything I thought I wanted.
I told myself this was business—helping out a friend who found himself in a mess. The kind of nightmare only the best could handle, turning a shit-storm of negative attention into a shiny rainbow.
Even as the phone rang, I told myself I could hang up at any second. My finger hovered over the screen to end the call.
“Hello?” she answered.
The impulse to hang up grew stronger. I wondered if she could hear me breathing like some sort of creeper. I hadn’t made a prank call since I was in junior high . . . about thirty years ago. With smart phones, did anyone still make prank calls? I had no idea.
Surely she wouldn’t still have me saved in her contacts.
“Daniel? Daniel Ashland?”
She hadn’t deleted my number. Or she had it memorized. My pulse picked up its pace at the idea of either of those things being true.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded farther away. “Hello? Of all things, I get butt dialed by Asshat Ashland. Are you fucking kidding me with this day? Like I need more crap sprinkles on top of this shit cupcake of a day.”
Then she hung up on me.
I knew with certainty that the feeling settling over me was one hundred percent junior high boy anxiety. Out of nowhere, and without even speaking to her, she’d reduced me to an awkward, nervous boy calling a girl. Only I wasn’t asking her out on a date.
I ran my fingers through my hair. Silver streaked the thick dark mane I’d been so vain about in my twenties and thirties. No, I wasn’t a boy calling a girl he liked in social science.
This was impersonal business, something I used to excel at.
A former colleague calling in a favor.
She might enjoy working on cleaning up Erik Kelso’s image. Even if everything else had changed, I didn’t doubt Roslyn still loved a challenge.
Putting personal feelings aside was something I mastered years ago. I could do this.
I hit call again.
“Seriously, lock your phone—”
“Did you call me Asshat Ashland?” My voice rumbled in my chest, halfway between annoyance and amusement. “I haven’t heard my old nickname in years.”
A single soft, feminine gasp came through the speaker. My mind conjured up the image of her full lips forming an O to make the sound. I wondered if her pale skin still blushed or if time had jaded her too much.
“Hello, Roslyn.”
“I, I . . . no words. I have, no, wait, why, uh, I.” She fumbled through a random collection of sounds. The sharp PR shark I remembered was always perfectly composed and never flustered. “Nope, nothing.”
I chuckled at her inability to form a complete sentence.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Mr. You’ll Never Hear from Me Again. I’m in shock.”
She was right. With one phone call I’d broken a promise I’d made to myself. When I sold my house in Bellevue, I swore to leave the past behind me. All of it.
“I’m not a ghost. Despite rumors and wishes, I’m not dead.”
“I never wanted you dead. Except maybe for a week. Then I got over it.” Clearly not for my ears, she whispered the last words so softly I barely heard it. “And you.”
This was a perfect opportunity to apologize for a myriad of sins committed by a man who didn’t exist anymore, but how could I apologize for saving my own soul?
“I didn’t call to rouse the ghosts of the past.”
“I never figured you for Ebenezer Scrooge. You always hated your money.”
I barked out a laugh. “It might shock you to know that I didn’t give it all away to the most destitute in some desolate village somewhere.”
“Just most of it.” Her admission hung in the air between us.
“Now how would you know that?”
&nb
sp; Her heavy sigh confirmed her next words. “There’s something called Google.”
“Keeping tabs on me?”
“It’s my business. When one of Seattle’s most eligible bachelors goes off the grid, it’s a fascinating story. Everyone loves a good story.”
“My life is a gothic fairy tale that might frighten young children.”
“Only if the handsome prince turns into an ogre who lives in the woods.”
I chuckled. She couldn’t know how accurate that description was of the current me. Or maybe she’d kept better track of me than I’d ever let myself imagine.
In the background I could hear other voices and the rustling of her phone being muffled before she spoke again.
“Sorry. I have a conference call in three minutes.”
“I’ll cut to the chase. I have a potential client for you.”
“That’s nice of you to think of me, but I’m not taking on any new clients.” Her tone cooled, switching to all business mode.
“He needs the best.”
“Then you called the right person. Unfortunately, I’m completely booked.”
“I think you’ll like this guy and it’ll be a nice challenge for you.”
“Challenge? I represent two Seahawks, one of the most immature baseball players on the Mariners’ roster, a handful of Sounders players, and a certain tech playboy who really, really needs to find a wife and settle down before I kill him and make it look like an accident.”
“The guy who decided to stop his Tesla on the 520 bridge to play a video game? I saw him on the news.” I twirled a pen between my fingers, letting it roll in and over my knuckles while I tried to calm my nervous energy.
“That’s the one. These asshats make you look like a saint.”
Her blunt honesty made me bark out a short laugh. “You made me look like a saint.”
“Like you said, I’m the best.”
“Listen to his situation before you say no.” I briefly told her about Erik’s pictures going viral and the mess he made of his first on camera interview. “He’s a good kid from Whidbey Island who had a momentary lapse in judgment.”
“You sound like me. I taught you well, Grasshopper.” I could hear the amusement in her voice. “Does he have anyone helping him now? Has he hired representation?”
“A local woman is working with him, but she’s in over her head. He needs someone who is a pro at spin.”
“That’s me. Spinning shit into gold. I’m a freaking magician.”
“You are.” More like a beautiful sorceress, but I don’t tell her that. “So you’ll consider it?”
She hummed, something she used to do when she was thinking. “You wouldn’t have called if you weren’t in a bind. The fact that you reached out on behalf of someone else impresses me.”
“I’m not the self-centered asshat you knew.” I brushed my hand over my beard.
“Right. Now you’re a humble, local pizza man.” She exhaled. “Okay, give me his number and I’ll see what I can do.”
Relief over succeeding in my mission flooded my system as I gave her Erik’s information. “Thank you. I owe you one.”
“Let’s say we’re even. I know how much you hate to be beholden to anyone.”
Her words stung. I deserved them.
“Thank you, Roslyn.” Her name felt heavy and familiar on my tongue, a mix of inappropriate and regret.
PRIDE IS A curious beast.
Considered one of the seven deadly sins, yet we’re happy to indulge in it on behalf of others.
We crave others’ pride in us.
Hearing our parents tell us they’re proud of us fills us with joy, almost seems ingrained on our genes.
It feels good—hell, it feels amazing to be proud of someone else, to celebrate their accomplishments.
I told myself it was the human spirit at work as I smiled listening to Erik Kelso praise Roslyn. Sitting in one of my booths at Sal’s Pizza, he’d been listing her accomplishments to his brother Carter for ten minutes.
Five months ago I made a call I swore I’d never make. Now hearing Erik go on and on about the genius of Roslyn Porter, I felt pride and something bittersweet—emphasis on the bitter.
“She needs a cape. She’s a fucking superhero. Wait, maybe a magic lasso would be better.” Erik’s voice held awe as he continued speaking.
Damn straight he should be impressed by her.
“Imagine all the kinky shit you could get up to with a magic lasso,” his older brother, Carter, chimed in on the subject. “She’s probably into games. Those super powerful women always are. Probably loves being called ‘kitten’ or ‘baby’ when she’s in bed.”
Walking across the restaurant, I put a stop to his dirty fantasizing. “Enough.”
Both Kelsos stared at me.
“Roslyn’s not some bar cookie you met in a drunken haze. She’s a professional and a contract employee of Erik’s. Show her the respect you’d give to any of your employees or business associates.”
Two pair of eyes blinked back at me. My friend Tom was right about the brothers resembling overgrown golden retrievers. Carter practically panted over his dirty fantasies.
“What’s a bar cookie? Like a bar snack?” Erik sounded genuinely confused. “I’ve heard of bar kibble, but never a cookie. You might be onto something. That could be good with micro brews. Or even made with beer. Like a chocolate stout cookie. Probably excellent with coffee, too.”
He rambled on more, but I tuned him out. A good guy in general, and as passionate about coffee as I was about pizza, but he was a little odd. Most islanders could be called quirky and Erik fit the definition in spades. Like the majority of locals, he also had a good heart and would do anything for his friends and family.
“None of the guys at the golf course are hot. Present company excluded.” Carter puffed up his chest like he had something to prove. In many ways, he did. Mostly to himself.
“You both missed my point. She’s off limits for your weird nonsense.” I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. A piece fell forward into my eyes, reminding me I needed a haircut.
“Roslyn won’t get any weird nonsense from me,” Erik said. “Now I have Cari for all of my nonsense.”
“Guess that leaves you and me as the single guys.” Carter jerked his chin in my direction.
“Olaf and Jonah are single, too,” Erik mentioned. “I’m almost positive that Falcon guy isn’t spoken for either.”
“Anyone named Falcon should be excluded automatically. Great company. Thanks for making me feel better, bro.”
“Anytime.” Erik’s smug grin earned him an arm slap from his brother.
“Olaf and I play chess once a week.” I wasn’t sure why I had the urge to share this bit of information. Rarely did I volunteer any details about my life outside of Sal’s Pizza.
“Olaf plays chess?” Surprise filled Erik’s face. “Our Olaf? Cranky bartender at the Dog House?”
“No, the snowman from Frozen,” I deadpanned.
“Honestly, that seems more likely,” Erik said.
“He’s excellent and usually wins. Did you know he was a national junior champion?”
Carter’s jaw dropped open before he laughed. “Bullshit. You’re making stuff up.”
“Completely serious. You can learn a lot about people by talking with them.”
“Olaf usually snarls at us and barely tolerates taking our money,” Erik mumbled.
“He’s of a generation where you need to earn a man’s respect.”
“Like you?” Carter asked.
“Not quite that old, but thanks.” I rubbed my salt and pepper beard, which lately was more the former.
“Jeez, Carter. Dan’s not an old geezer. Olaf has to be pushing sixty. Or seventy.”
“It’s the gray hair,” Carter said unapologetically.
I interrupted their bickering. “I’m forty-three.”
“Mystery solved.” Carter grinned at his brother.
Erik at leas
t looked sheepish. “Told you he wasn’t that old.”
“Man, forty-three is still middle aged.”
I got it. For a couple of guys thirty and under, forty was old. I felt the same way at their age. A decade was a huge gap between teenagers and twenty-somethings. Hell, an eight year age difference felt huge and insurmountable in my thirties.
“Shut up, Carter. You want to get us banned?”
I chuckled. “He’s right. I’m not ashamed of my age. A lot of life went into giving me gray hair.” Most of it before I turned forty. “And I’m not going to ban you, unless you start writing bad checks.”
Erik exhaled in relief. “I can’t go back to eating bar pizza from the Smuggler’s Inn in Clinton again.”
“They make pizza?” This was news to me.
“Frozen mini pizzas that I think they get from Ken’s after they’re too freezer-burned to legally sell.”
“Huh.” Smuggler’s sat at the top of the hill from the ferry. Despite its crisp white awning, the place screamed townie bar. I’d only been in there a handful of times since moving here. Five years wasn’t enough time to qualify as being local enough to fit in at Smuggler’s. Plus, I had all my fingers and teeth.
“Don’t worry. No sane or sober person would ever eat one if yours are an option,” Carter reassured me
“Speaking of your pizza, are you bringing Rosie to Langley for the market on Friday?”
I nodded before replying, “Jeff and I’ll be there. You setting up the booth?”
“It’s the last one of the season. Jonah and I’ll both be there. Heard the glass studio is going to have a street dance in their driveway after the market.” Erik stole the crust off of Carter’s plate.
“You gonna dance barefoot with the hippies?” Carter asked oblivious to his brother’s thievery. “I’d pay money to see that.”
I silenced him with quick glance. “Hippies eat pizza.”
“Vegan, paleo pizza?” He made a face and stuck his tongue out.
“Gluten free, dairy free, extra meat, soy chorizo . . . I aim to please.”
Erik flipped his phone over. “Speak of the devil. Hey, Ros. Were your ears burning?”
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