Wingmen (Modern Love Story #2, 4, & bonus)

by Daisy Prescott

  A big thank you to Mr. Purvis, who went above and beyond with information related to all things fishing.

  For all the friends and readers I've met along the publishing path, thank you for your encouragement, love, and support.

  To my husband, thank you for everything. Including overlooking the Pekingese size dust bunnies when I'm writing or editing. Or any other time.

  To my extended family, for their cheerleading and unwavering support, especially my parents for always championing my dreams.

  And to all the bloggers, readers, fans, and fellow authors who are the very best part of this publishing adventure, the biggest thanks of all.

  Take the Cake and Run

  “YOU MAKE THE next shot, and I’ll do it.”

  There was no way Diane would be able to get her last stripe around the eight ball and into the corner pocket.

  Donnely scoffed from his perch on a nearby bar stool. “Diane, you’ve got this. I’d be happy to steady your hips while you take your shot, you know if you have to lean over the table or anything.”

  “Back off, D,” I growled at him.

  “We have a deal?” Diane asked, raising her eyebrow as she slowly bent from the waist over the pool table.

  From my vantage point, I could see straight down her top to her pink bra. Donnely slowly strolled over to my side of the table, chalking up the end of his cue. Knowing full well what he was doing, I blocked his view with my body and gave him a dirty look. He tried to look innocent, but his swallowed-the-canary smile revealed his true thoughts. His dimple didn’t work on me the way it worked with women. I scowled at him.

  “Take the shot, love.” I crossed my arms and tightened my biceps, hoping to distract her. I knew she had a thing for my arms after the push-ups incident last year. This bet required playing dirty.

  She winked at me and struck the cue ball, sending it into the far side of the table where it softly banked, slipped by the eight ball, and nudged her ball into the pocket before coming to rest on the edge of the green felt. If I were a cheating man, I would’ve blown on the ball to tip it into the pocket—it was that close to scratching.

  “Damn.” Donnely exhaled a long breath in a whistle and slapped my shoulder. “You need to learn not to bet against your woman, Day.”

  My shoulder hit his and he dropped the blue cube of chalk on the floor.

  “Hey—” he said as he bent to find the cube.

  I took the opportunity to saunter over to Diane. Slow, steady, with my gaze never wavering, my pace resembled a lion stalking its prey. Or maybe a panther. Diane’s smile faltered and a glimmer of fear creased her brow before she dashed around the table.

  “John Day! A bet is a bet. You’re not going back on your word, are you?”

  When I caught up with her, my height towered over her smaller frame as I attempted to appear intimidating.

  She stepped back and poked me in the chest with her index finger. “Stop with your big, bad lumberjack act.”

  Moving closer, I grabbed her finger and raised it to my lips to kiss the tip. Her lashes fluttered. I knew I had her. “Now, when have I ever given you reason to doubt me?” I gave her my crooked grin and then bit the corner of my mouth. I wanted to bite something else and she knew it.

  With a quick tug, she pulled her finger from my grasp and crossed her arms. Wrong move if she wanted me to focus on what she was saying. Pink bra was my favorite and not because of the color. Her full boobs looked amazing peeking out from her plaid shirt. I wondered how strong those buttons were and how hard I’d have to bite to rip them off with my teeth. Thoughts of bending her over the pool table flickered through my mind. If only Donnely and Olaf weren’t here. Maybe O would let me lock up the bar tonight.

  Donnely’s cough snapped me out of my thoughts about thread strength and pool table height. My eyes focused and I realized I was staring at Diane’s chest while the two of them stared at me. Well, Donnely kept sneaking glances at the same spot that held my attention.

  “Dude, show your fiancé some respect. Eyes above the collar, Day.”

  I wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. “Don’t you have a date or some other place else to be right now?” I asked him.

  He tilted his head and glanced at the clock above the bar. “Nah. It’s Thursday. We always play pool on Thursdays at the Dog House.”

  Something about his answer and the way he frowned at the clock told me there was more to his night, but there was no way I would push him. Tom and I were friends, not sisters. One awkward conversation about dating and women outside this very bar last year was enough to last us for a while. Or forever.

  The object of that conversation stepped closer to me and wrapped her arms around my hips. I tugged her in close with one arm and placed my pool cue on the table.

  Softly, so only she could hear, I whispered near the top of her head, “You know I’ll do anything you want, but don’t ruin my manly man image in front of the guys.”

  Her arms tightened around me and she leaned back. “I think it was Donnely who first proclaimed you whipped. Not news to him.”

  “Yeah, but Olaf still thinks I’m a real ladies man.” I nodded my head in the direction of the bartender, who was carefully counting out the cash drawer. The old salt was going deaf so I didn’t bother lowering my voice.

  “No, I don’t. You’re about as smitten as a man can be and still pee standing up,” Olaf scoffed without turning around.

  D snorted into the dregs of his pint glass.

  “Laugh all you want Donnely. You’ll be next.” I glowered at him and he stopped. Confirmed bachelor and nicknamed Tom Cat, Donnely falling in love was as about as likely as a King salmon jumping on your line, but not as improbable as a lumberjack wearing women’s underwear. Tom’s definition of dating meant breakfast the morning after and maybe a repeat or two if he really enjoyed himself. Not that long ago I was his wingman, the dark to his light. Being the better looking of the two of us, I probably made his life easier after I fell for this beautiful, brown-eyed girl. Whipped, smitten, whatever they wanted to tease me with, I didn’t care. I nearly lost this woman once due to idiocy, I wasn’t going to let a few insults bug me.

  She laughed and kissed my neck between my beard and the collar of my T-shirt. “Let’s get you home before you punch your best friend. If you do that, who will be your best man?”

  Right. The wedding.

  I, John Day, was getting married. Thirty-three years as a bachelor and then Diane stumbled into my life. After turning down my offer of a trip to the Hitching Post in Idaho back when I proposed in February, Diane agreed to a small island wedding in May. Neither of us wanted anything fancy, and to be honest, I was still hoping to convince her to elope. So far no luck.

  Instead, my lackluster pool skills and inability to turn down a bet meant I was going to some fancy bakery over in Seattle to taste wedding cake.

  It had better not be one of those over-the-top places all in pink.

  ***

  The following weekend, I parked my truck in front of Sweet Endings Cakes in Bellevue. Pink and white striped awnings did not bode well for this going anything but awkward.

  “Stop grumbling and acting like you’re being tortured,” Diane said as she hopped down from the truck. “You get to eat cake. Lots of cake. You like cake.”

  I grumbled some more. “I like my aunt’s chocolate cake. Can’t we just have that?” I stared through the window. “If there’s lace and tiny plates, I’m out of here. Nothing froufy.”

  “Focus on the cake, and you’ll be fine.” She gave my arm a gentle shove.

  Taking the hint, I opened the door. A wave of butter and sugar scented air hit me squarely in the face. Okay, maybe this wouldn’t be terrible. As I inhaled, my attention caught on a wall covered in pink flowers and row after row of frilly, frou-frou girly cupcakes and little miniature cakes in pinks and purples sitting on lace circles inside glass cases. I coughed and gave Diane a pointed look.

  “Buttercream” she whi
spered.

  We weren’t the only people in the bakery. A few pairs of women, mostly resembling mothers and daughters, sat at tiny tables in tiny, delicate chairs that looked like they were made of pipe-cleaners.

  Feeling like a bull in a bakery, I attempted to make my six foot four frame smaller by slouching and stepping closer to the door. I tugged at my beard and scratched the back of my neck. Without meaning to, my ass hit a small bookcase and sent it wobbling.

  “Oh shit.” I settled the shelves and the books on the top. I felt several pairs of female eyes focus on me. “Shit, sorry for swearing.”

  All heads turned and I felt the weight of a thousand staring eyes on me. Okay, so it was more like six, but they were judgmental looks.

  Diane grabbed my hand and laced her fingers with mine. “What is wrong with you?”

  I was about to say my balls were shrinking from all the pink in the room, when a woman resembling Mrs. Doubtfire came through a pair of swinging doors at the back of the space. She smiled at the other ladies, checking in and chatting with them as she walked through the bakery.

  “You must be Diane and John. I’m Cassandra.” She shook Diane’s hand. Her scent of sugar and spice enveloped us a few seconds later. I wondered if this was how the witch smelled in Hansel and Gretel. Probably.

  After she seated us and promised to return with the samples, Diane stroked my thigh. “Quit grinding your teeth. I can see your jaw ticking and it’s beginning to look painful.”

  I unlocked my jaw, rolled my shoulders, and placed my hand over hers. Normally her hand on my thigh would get the blood flowing, but sitting on a delicate white chair in Barbie’s Dream Bakery had destroyed my libido. Diane’s hand swept higher and she let her nails scrape along the denim covering my thigh.

  Okay, maybe my libido wasn’t completely DOA. Her hand moved toward my fly and I didn’t stop her. Less blood in my brain would make this experience easier.

  A burst of cinnamon and sugar announced the return of our hostess-baker-lady-witch. She set a huge tray on the table. Rows of small bites of cakes, frostings, sauces, a few cupcakes, and cookies filled every inch of the surface. I eyed the chocolate frosting as Diane and Cassandra chatted about foundations, tiers, shape, and layers. For all I knew, they were building a house together.

  “John?”

  I broke off my staring contest with the cakes and met Diane’s warm brown eyes.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  I blinked at her.

  “You weren’t listening, were you?”

  “Nope.” I shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed, but not really caring, because, cake.

  “We probably should have discussed all this before you put the cake samples out.” Diane apologized, laughing.

  “Most men don’t care about the cake. They’re more focused on the honeymoon.” Cassandra’s face hid nothing. Sex. Men were more focused on sex, her eyes said.

  True.

  At least we agreed about that.

  “John has a sweet tooth about a mile long. I thought it would be fun to decide together. Plus, my mother is on the other side of the country.”

  “Isn’t that sweet. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Cassandra’s eyes settled briefly on the spot where Diane’s hand rested on my thigh before she walked away.

  “Shall we?” Diane’s hand squeezed my thigh.

  I swallowed thickly, partly due to the thought of desecrating the pink palace by having my way with her under her skirt and partly due to the huge platter of cake in front of us. When I didn’t respond, Diane pinched my skin through the denim.

  “Ouch!” I swatted her hand away. Pain near that part of my body was not a good thing.

  “Let’s start.” She pointed at the cakes and other stuff. Grabbing a fork, she gestured to the cakes first. “Pick a cake, frosting and sauce, put them all on your fork and taste. That’s how we’ll decide what combination we like best.”

  “I like chocolate with chocolate frosting.”

  She stuck out her tongue at me, but loaded a fork with chocolate cake, chocolate sauce and chocolate frosting.

  “Here.” She held the fork near my mouth.

  “Are you going to feed me?”

  “If you’re going to continue to act like a giant bearded toddler about being here, yes.”

  “Make the airplane noises.” I gave her my best clothing incinerating smile, and chuckled.

  She shoved the forkful of food into my mouth.

  Holy, fucking… damn.

  “This is mmamazing,” I said through a mouthful of the best thing I’d ever had in my mouth.

  I licked my lips to remove any extra frosting.

  “You have it in your beard.” Diane’s eyes focused on my mouth.

  I used the pad of my thumb to rub a spot near my mouth and then sucked off the chocolate I found there. “Good?”

  Her eyes glazed over. I knew that look. It took me a while to recognize it when we first met, but now there was no mistaking the lust that shone in her eyes. “Diane?”

  She inhaled and met my gaze. “What?”

  “Cake?” I put some white cake, red glaze and chocolate frosting on my fork.

  Her full lips opened and her pink tongue peeked out to lick a drop of sauce before it fell. Her stare never left my face.

  I gulped when she wrapped her lips around the soft cake and pulled back, wiping the fork clean. Her moan was loud and not at all appropriate for the situation.

  Shit.

  I needed Divine intervention to make it out of this pink nightmare alive, so I said a little prayer.

  Lord, please keep me from getting a boner and tipping over this doll table with my dick. Appreciate it, thanks.

  Closing my eyes, I inhaled and thought about soccer.

  “You have to try this one.” She held a forkful of the same combination near my face.

  No doubt about it, it was incredible. The red sauce tasted like raspberries.

  Sometimes Diane smelled and tasted like raspberries, especially in the summer right between her breasts.

  Damn. Not helping.

  “Can we get this to go?”

  “You want to leave already? But we haven’t tried everything yet.” Her lips turned down in a frown.

  “I’ll create a distraction and you run out to the truck. Or I’ll walk out first and meet you out back with the engine running,” I said, licking raspberry flavored sauce from the corner of my lip. I suspected she had intentionally missed my open mouth again.

  She shook her head at me. “Stop doing that,” she whispered. “Those women are staring at you.”

  “What?” I turned in my seat and caught both women at the next table staring.

  “You know what. The thing with the tongue and the frosting. You’re putting on a floor show.” Diane’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes held a familiar sparkle.

  “This?” I asked, lifting a blob of frosting with my forefinger and bringing it to her lips. She sucked on the tip like I knew she would. “Yeah, I’m not the only one torturing someone at this table.”

  “Truce?” She brushed the toe of her shoe across my shin.

  “Truce.” I licked my bottom lip. “For now.”

  She exhaled an unsteady breath. “Let’s try the red velvet.”

  We tasted the rest of the cakes and frostings, and only once did I reach over to lick frosting from her cheek. I sucked at following truces when it came to her. Why should I deny myself something I wanted?

  Everything tasted delicious except the weird mango puree the color of boxed mac and cheese. Cassandra and her sweet fragrance returned. She clucked and cooed over us while talking about a cake per guest ratio.

  While studying the bakery and other patrons, I zoned out only to realize one of the mothers in a pink fuzzy sweat suit was staring back at me. She winked at me, lifted her fork, and licked the underside of it.

  What the hell?

  I quickly glanced somewhere else, anywhere else. Salvation: bathroom sign.
>
  “I’ll be right back.” I stood and my full height felt even more ridiculous in this space.

  The bathroom was not meant for men. No urinal. Although if there was one, I bet the urinal cake would have been pink. Flowers, cupcakes, and pink decorated every surface, including the toilet. Tiny donuts and cupcakes danced around the seat. I closed my eyes and thought about fishing and football. Hell, I was comfortable living with a woman and all of the girl shit that came with it, but this was man-hell. Pink man-hell.

  My hands even smelled like cupcakes when I finished up. Cassandra must bathe in the hand soap.

  Diane and I were going to need to stop at Ivar’s for a beer before taking the ferry back to the island. Maybe some college basketball would be on TV in the bar.

  “Ready?” I asked when I returned.

  “Cassandra’s just boxing up a few things for us.”

  “You’re the best.” I leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

  Back in the truck, I inhaled the scent of work: pine, gasoline and yeah, maybe some sweat. I scratched my beard on my chin and smiled. “You owe me.”

  “I totally do. I had no idea it would be so prissy.” She reached over and squeezed my arm. “However can I make it up to you?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw her batting her lashes at me. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” My hand rested on top of two small boxes sitting between us on the bench seat.

  The boxes were pink.

  Of course.

  ***

  A dark moon created an inky night outside and the only light in the house came from the fridge. I stood in front of it in my boxers, trying to figure out something to eat. I poked through several foil wrapped leftovers inside: salmon steaks, crab cakes, some noodle casserole, and a half-eaten pork chop. I stuck the bone of the chop in my mouth and grabbed the bowl of noodles, and added a hunk of cheese on top. Not bad for a snack. Before closing the door, a pair of pink boxes on the counter caught my eye.

  Gnawing on the chop, I opened the top box and peered inside.

  Cupcakes.

  I glanced over my shoulder and listened for sounds upstairs to make sure I wouldn’t get caught.