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

by Daisy Prescott

  “No way! Not the married friend hook-up. My sisters have pulled that shit on me for years. Single or suddenly divorced and looking to play, but then complain when I won’t settle down. Been there and done that.”

  I lifted my hands up palms facing him. “Okay, okay.”

  We continued our game. Tom swept the table on his next turn while I nursed our pitcher of beer. Any time someone walked by or entered the tavern’s double doors, my head swung around to see if it was Diane. I glanced at the clock, realizing Diane would only be finishing with her client now. I resisted the temptation to jog over to the studio to meet her at the door.

  A few minutes later, the doors swung open and a familiar scent of raspberries wafted toward me. She pulled off her grey knitted hat and shook out her long hair. Even in her workout clothes, my woman was a vision.

  “Hi, Donnely.” She greeted Tom with a hug, and then waved to Olaf at the bar. “Hi, honey.” She stood on her tip toes and I leaned down to kiss her. There was something sweet on her lips. I licked my bottom lip to taste it.

  “Why do you taste so amazing?” I kissed her again before she could answer. I couldn’t figure out the flavor, but I was willing to keep kissing her to find out.

  “Ahem, you two can take that home if you keep at it. This is a family place,” Olaf scolded us from behind the bar.

  Diane stepped away from me to look around the room. Peter sat at the end of the bar with Lester, and both looked up at the mention of family before returning to their discussion of baseball.

  I scratched my beard and chuckled. “Okay, O, we get it.”

  Diane set down a white box on the thin bar that ran behind the stools near the pool table before taking off her coat.

  “What’s in the box?” I walked over to have a look.

  “Nothing.” She swatted my hand away and moved the box under her coat.

  “Diane? What’s in the box?”

  She blushed and poured herself a glass of beer. “It’s something a client brought me.”

  “Okay, that was vague.”

  “Can I look?” Donnely asked. He reached for the box, but Diane spun around and lunged in front of him to protect it. “Wow. It must be dirty with the way you’re blushing. Sex toys? Kinky stuff to keep things interesting?” He wiggled his eyebrows and gave her his best attempt at a seductive grin.

  “Shut it, D.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “So what is it? And why are your clients bringing you kinky shit?”

  “Stop it. It’s not kinky. At all. You two have the dirtiest minds.” With an exasperated sigh, she opened the box.

  Tom and I peered inside like two kids allowed to peek at their Christmas presents.

  “It’s cupcakes.” He sounded disappointed. “And not even chocolate.”

  Inside the box sat four cupcakes and a small container of raspberry sauce. That’s what I’d tasted on Diane’s lips—vanilla frosting. My body reacted like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Heat raced through my veins and blood headed south.

  Great.

  Any time I had dessert now, I’d be at risk of sporting.

  Diane leaned into me, bringing me back into the moment. “You need some help with that wood in your pants?” She teased.

  “You’re an evil minx.”

  “I told you not to open the box, but you didn’t listen. Had to open it, didn’t you?”

  “Let’s go,” I growled into her ear.

  “But I just got here and I haven’t even played a game, or finished my beer—”

  I cut her off by grabbing her hand and the cake box, tugging her toward the door.

  “Sorry to play and run, Donnely, but we need to go.”

  “But my coat—” Diane wiggled out of my grip and retrieved her stuff while I waited by the door.

  Donnely stood by the pool table and grinned. He mouthed “whipped” at me. I flipped him the bird.

  I heard him say “Lucky bastard” as I pulled Diane out into the night. I couldn’t get her home soon enough.

  “How are we going to have cake at the wedding if this is how you react now every time you see frosting?” She giggled as she jogged to keep up with me back to the truck.

  I swung her around so her back rested against the truck door and kissed her, tasting vanilla and pure Diane. “I’ve decided we should have pie.”

  For my readers, who asked me to reform Tom

  WHEN SHE WALKED toward me, I was ninety-percent certain she wanted to slap me. I spread my stance and tensed for the impact. Sadly, she wouldn’t be the first woman to smack me or attempt it. Good thing I was pretty fast at dodging and weaving.

  I held her gaze as she got closer. Part of me wanted to close my eyes and turn the other cheek . . . literally. Or back down the hall and hide in the men’s room. Ah, the men’s bathroom. A place no woman dared to go unless absolutely necessary. Urinals freaked them out.

  I took a big step backward and then another until the darkness of the hall to the back room enveloped me. I wasn’t running. Far from it. I moved slowly and kept my eyes on my assailant stalking toward me.

  I probably should have asked myself why she wanted to slap me. Had I stopped to think, I might have realized unlike most women with the same expression on their face, I hadn’t actually given her a reason to be mad at me. At least none I knew about.

  Her eyes narrowed and she cut the distance between us in half with two long strides. To my left was the door to the bathroom and potential salvation. Further behind me stood the backdoor and freedom. While I debated hiding or fleeing, she made the decision for me by grabbing the front of my shirt.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Always act innocent. In this case, I didn’t have to act.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you tonight.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You have?”

  She stared at my mouth and pressed her lips together. “I have. Why is a good man hard to find when you need him?”

  Her words rearranged themselves in my head after she’d spoken them. “Don’t you mean a hard man is good to find when you need him?”

  She snorted out a laugh. “Exactly. You read my mind.” Her hand not clutching my shirt touched the bared skin above my belt.

  “Hey, whoa, where you going with that hand?” I jerked my hips back to escape her wandering fingers.

  “I need a good man. And since I don’t know any good men, I decided I needed a hard man tonight.”

  “Okay.” I grabbed her hands in mine to protect myself from her assault. “Can I ask you one thing?”

  “Sssure.”

  The subtle slur answered my question, but I asked it anyway. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Tommm, don’t be mean. You sleep with everyone on the island. I need you to sleep with me. Now.” The slight rasp to her voice had strengthened into a sultry purr.

  Definitely not sober. “What happened to your own man? Have sex with him.”

  She pressed a finger to my lips. “No talking, more sex.”

  “More implies there’s some sex to begin with.” I couldn’t figure out why I bothered to argue. Sex without strings was my thing.

  But could I have stringless sex with her? I had rules.

  While I was lost in some sort of moral debate, she kissed me.

  Worse, my body responded, and I liked it. A lot.

  She was an amazing kisser—even buzzed and with grabby hands, her lips and tongue teased mine with a balance of aggression and skill.

  When she bit my bottom lip, I did the smart thing. I kissed her back.

  I HEADED TOWARD open water with the outbound current. Going with the flow, motor puttering a small wake as I steered the Master Baiter out of Langley Harbor in the late summer afternoon, nothing could have been easier. Saratoga Passage lay smooth and deep blue ahead of my bow. Not a care in the world. That was me.

  Summer was winding down. Labor Day meant the end to the official summer season. Tourists would dwindle to drabs, and that meant my pickings fo
r hook-ups were about to decline. I frowned at the thought of the summer fun ending. Now that I’d lost my wingman, John, to his better-looking better-half, more than summer was over. Not to be sentimental, but it felt like the end of an era.

  I glanced behind me at my best friend and his girlfriend sitting in the sun, the wind tangling through Diane’s long brown hair. She didn’t seem to notice. Her head was thrown back in laughter at something the big oaf had said. I’d known John since childhood and we’d been each other’s partners in crime ever since. Borrowing a truck at fourteen, stealing beers at seventeen, and breaking hearts along the way, he was the brother I never had and I was the family he needed when his fell apart. Despite myself, I smiled at their happiness. He would marry that girl someday.

  And what did that mean for me?

  Nothing.

  Tom Cats aren’t the marrying kind.

  The best I could hope for was one of Diane’s bridesmaids would be hot. And single. Or not.

  Tan arms draped across my shoulders and blonde hair blew in a sweet, girly cloud around my face.

  Right.

  Kiersti, the girl of the moment.

  Or was it Kristi?

  “Babe, I can’t see through all your hair.” Babe always seemed to work with the girls I hung around; calling it dating made it sound too formal.

  Female laughter rang in my ears. The hand moving into the waistband of my shorts didn’t solve the problem of blindness from blonde hair that wasn’t my own.

  “I can’t steer if I can’t see.”

  “I’ll help you steer. I’ll hold the throttle,” she purred into my ear.

  “That’s not the throttle,” I removed her hand from the front of my shorts, “and you steer with the wheel. Throttle makes us go fast.” Sometimes I pretended chicks were toddlers. Easier than explaining the big words.

  “Fine.” She flopped into the seat next to mine and extended her long, tan legs toward the front of my shorts. Amazing how nimble her toes could be.

  I stared over my shoulder, willing Diane to entertain my guest. This outing had been her idea. Being on my boat meant I’d be busy steering and getting us up the island to Coupeville in one piece. Not receiving hand-and-foot-jobs in the middle of open water.

  Wait.

  That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  Boats and sex went hand in hand—no pun intended—and had since I was a teenager, when my dad let me take his boat out with “friends” to go “fishing” or pull traps. As long as I showed up with a story about the one that got away or a few crabs, my parents believed me. Or ignored the hickeys peeking out from the collar of my T-shirts.

  However, there was no way I’d get off in front of an audience.

  Kiersti/Kristi’s foot moved dangerously close to my crotch. A few choppy waves from another wake, and I’d end up with bruised balls. Something needed to be done.

  “Hey, Diane,” I called over my shoulder. “You should tell the story about Dave’s mounted deer head.” It wasn’t even a great story, but my pointed look caught Diane’s attention. When she saw the location of K’s foot, she laughed and rolled her eyes at me. I stood up and the offending foot dropped.

  “Kiersti, come sit and I’ll tell you the fascinating story about a stuffed deer head in my old cabin.”

  Kiersti.

  John stood and gave up his spot, taking the recently abandoned seat near me. “Smooth move, Donnely. By the way, I’m not rubbing you with my foot.”

  I groaned.

  “She seems,” he paused, “nice. Where’d you find her?”

  “Over in Seattle. She’s not much of a talker.”

  “I can see that. Looks like she prefers to communicate with body language.” His sunglasses covered his eyes, but through his thick, dark beard I saw him fighting a smile.

  “It explains why we’re taking the boat up to Tobey’s. Trying to impress the town girl?”

  I shrugged. “It was your girlfriend’s idea, but it’s a gorgeous day, and I figured it’d be nice to be out on the water.”

  “And?”

  He knew me well. “It’s difficult to have a conversation going full speed on the water,” I shouted as I opened up the engine and pushed to cruising speed.

  The girls yelped when the spray wet the seats, causing them to move from the stern to the little table inside the cockpit, bringing with them the scent of salty water and sunscreen.

  I smirked at John.

  Who needed conversation anyway?

  Turned out, Kiersti was allergic to shellfish and didn’t like any seafood. She regaled us about her hives and swelling while she picked at a plate of grilled cheese and fries. How could you be from Washington and not eat any fish? Allergies I understood, but salmon was lifeblood. She wrinkled her nose at the idea of fried salmon and chips. I put her on the “nice knowing you list” after she stole both pieces of garlic bread that came with my mussels.

  Sipping my pint of beer, I stared out the window while she explained her goal of becoming a cupcake empire.

  “Oh, so you like baking?” Diane asked. Thank God for Diane. She appeared to be listening and asked questions at the right time. John kept coughing, but behind each cough was a laugh he tried to cover-up.

  This was why I didn’t date.

  “I don’t bake. Or cook,” Kiersti replied. “I really love cupcakes. They’re so small and pretty. Like little puffy hearts of cake.”

  Puffy hearts?

  No way.

  I tapped my knuckles on the table twice like a fighter tapping out from a match. John caught my meaning and offered to go up to the bar for another round of drinks. I went with him.

  While we waited, I stared at the moose head above the entrance to the bathrooms. Lucky bastard had glass eyes and stuffing between his ears. Didn’t have to put up with yammering about puffy hearts of cake. Then again, he was dead.

  “Hi, Tom.”

  I turned toward the familiar voice. Long red curls framed a pretty face.

  “Hi, Ashley.” I smiled down at her

  Ashley Curtis was a repeater. Someone I could hang out with, have occasional sex with, and she never clung or demanded . . . or refused to eat seafood.

  “You remember John, right?”

  She smiled at him and he nodded.

  “What’ve you been up to?” I asked, knowing it had been at least since April since I’d last seen her.

  “Oh, you know. Summer.”

  Ashley was easy. Not in a trashy way, not at all. Easy because she knew what she wanted and knew me enough to not ask for anything more than what she saw.

  “We should hang out soon.”

  She leaned around me to glance at the table. “Your date doesn’t appear too happy about you talking to me.”

  I glanced over my shoulder where Kiersti glowered at me. Sheesh. I was only talking to someone. Yeah, that someone was a hot redhead, but Ashley could be anyone. Like my sister or even worse, one of my sisters’ friends.

  “Don’t worry about her. Let’s hang out this weekend.”

  She scanned my face and I gave her a wink, then flashed my signature dimpled grin.

  “Sure. I’m around.”

  “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”

  John cleared his throat and held up our round of drinks. “Nice seeing you again, Ashley.”

  “You too.” She gave us a little wave.

  “Nicely played there,” he said on our way back to the table.

  “Always good to have a back-up plan.” I slid into the booth.

  “Back up plan for what?” Kiersti asked, peering over her shoulder at the bar.

  “Bad weather when you’re out on the water,” I lied.

  “I’d freak out if we got caught in a storm,” Diane said.

  “Don’t you have a rule about always being able to see land? How bad could it be if you did get caught in a squall?”

  “That’s true, but John wants to go up to the San Juans. It’s like eight hours in the boat.”

 
“Friday Harbor?” I asked John.

  “Roche.”

  “So romantic.” I fluttered my lashes at him. He was so whipped. Everyone knew Roche Harbor was romance central in the San Juans. I think they pumped subliminal romantic messages over speakers hidden all over the resort.

  “We should all go together!” Kiersti suggested, clearly oblivious to my sarcasm.

  Diane and John smiled at me from across the table and waited.

  “Yeah, sure.” I gave her a half-smile.

  After I dropped her off at the ferry, I’d probably never see her again. I wouldn’t leave her hanging. I’d text her and let her down easy. Tell her it was me, not her. Or something like that.

  I wasn’t an asshole.

  As we walked out of the tavern, I caught Ashley’s eye and gave her a wink.

  Kiersti was pretty cold on the walk to the boat slip.

  Okay, maybe I was a little bit of an asshole.

  Oh well.

  Cats don’t change their stripes.

  Or was that tigers?

  SATURDAYS WERE FOR working in my wood shop. Or if it was fall, watching college football. WSU was playing this weekend and a bunch of guys planned to get together to watch the game, drink beers, eat burgers, the usual.

  Sounded great.

  Unless you were me.

  My mother called me twice before noon to remind me of my youngest sister’s baby shower and how devastated Lori would be if I didn’t show up.

  Yeah, right.

  Why would she want her brother at her baby shower? My uncle duties didn’t begin until the kid would be able to speak and ride in a boat. Same rule as applied to Cara’s and Amy’s kids. No diapers, no vomit, no babysitting, and limited interaction until they were human. From what I could tell, that started around five, maybe six.

  Oh, and no dolls. I’d teach them how to gut a fish, kill a crab, and carve a tree branch when they could hold a knife. Fun uncle, that was me.

  I glanced at the clock. Three sisters meant three weddings, and now what felt like endless baby showers. Not to mention all of my cousins and their weddings and showers. Any recent population explosions on South Whidbey were the direct result of Donnelys marrying and breeding.