It was entirely against Daisy’s nature to speak out against her sisters and mother. It was easier to just let them have their way and then quietly go back to doing things her own way . . . This—whatever this was—felt liberating and terrifying.
Her sisters and mother hadn’t deliberately set out to make her feel inadequate, and their advice and criticism over the years had always been well intended. But none of them ever considered how hurtful they were being, and Daisy had simply allowed them to treat her that way, to make her feel that way, and she knew that was on her. But she was twenty-seven years old, a partner in her father’s veterinary practice, independent, and self-sufficient, and it was time she stood up for herself.
But her sisters and mother all looked so shocked and distressed by her uncharacteristic outburst that Daisy immediately forgot her resolve to stand up for herself and fled to the en suite. She locked herself in like the little coward she was and sank down on the commode while she listened to the other three women quietly murmur among themselves.
“Daisy, we’re leaving,” she finally heard her mother say through the closed door. “I hope you have an enjoyable evening . . .” There was a long pause, and she heard her mother sigh through the thin wood of the door. “I—I love you sweetheart. I’ll see you soon.”
Daisy screwed her eyes shut and swallowed back a sob. She felt awful and was about to call out when she heard her bedroom door click shut. Peaches’s mournful little howl a few moments later confirmed that they had left the house. Daisy crept out of the bathroom slowly, half expecting Daff or Lia to be waiting for her in the bedroom. But they weren’t, and Daisy had never felt lonelier.
She unbuttoned the stupid shirt and tore it off before sinking to the edge of the bed and dropping her face into her hands as she considered the repercussions of her little meltdown.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was still raining when Mason rolled to a stop in front of Daisy McGregor’s small house. He sat there for a long moment, feeling strangely nervous about the evening ahead. He wasn’t sure exactly what to make of this woman. She was oddly compelling. He knew she was going to back out of last night’s drunken proposition and figured it would be for the best, but at the same time the little ruse would be a welcome diversion for him, and God knows, Mason needed to get out of his own head for a while.
He rubbed a hand vigorously over his buzz cut, a nervous habit that he’d developed after joining the army, before inhaling deeply and dashing out of the car to the front door.
He shook his head as the dog started up a cacophony just inside the door. He heard Daisy frantically try to shush the animal, but the little puffball only barked louder.
Daisy looked flustered when she opened the door, and he grinned down into her flushed face.
“Hi. I’m sorry. She gets a little carried away . . . Peaches!” The last word emerged as the dog actually made a dash for his ankle.
“Stop that!” Mason made sure his bark was louder and more authoritative than the dog’s, and she backed up in confusion, hiding behind Daisy’s legs when Mason stepped over the threshold and into the small lobby.
“Nice place,” he said after giving the cozy living room a look around. She had a way with colors that made the place seem warm and inviting.
“Thanks.” She hovered awkwardly at the front door, obviously not having expected Mason to come inside. “Would you like a drink or something?”
The question lacked some serious conviction, and he knew that having him in her home, sipping a beverage like some proper fucking gentleman caller, was the last thing she wanted. Perversely it made him feel suddenly very thirsty.
“Yeah. What you got?”
“Coffee, tea, some soda.”
“Coffee, thanks.”
“I only have instant,” she said, and he shrugged, sidestepping her to peruse the wall of framed photos behind her.
“I’m not fussy,” he said absently as he studied a photograph of Daisy and her sisters. They all had the same pretty eyes, the same clear skin, and the exact same smile. Daffodil and Dahlia had sleek brown hair a shade darker than Daisy’s crazy curls, and they were both slender and tall, while their baby sister was significantly shorter with less-fashionable, lush curves. The photograph was at least five years old, and Daisy’s figure had ripened a bit since then, her hair was longer—she looked less like a brown-haired Little Orphan Annie.
He sensed her hovering behind him before she headed to the open-plan kitchen, Peaches trailing anxiously in her wake. Mason kept his eyes on the photos. They told the tale of a happy family, lots of smiles, laughter, family pets, and outings. A life without hardship, a life of privilege and upper-middle-class wealth, a stark contrast to Mason and Spencer’s upbringing.