The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked, taking an appreciative sip of the fabulous coffee. Why couldn’t she ever seem to get her coffee to taste like this? She very carefully sat down on the edge of the couch, putting as much space between them as possible, while desperately trying to figure out how to remove her bra from his line of sight.

Mason could tell how much Daisy longed to snatch up her pretty pink bra, but to her credit she was doing an admirable job of restraining herself. She was trying very hard to be casual about it, but her fiery blush betrayed her, as well as the constant shift of her eyes back to the fetchingly draped undergarment. She would be horrified to know that he had picked it up from the seat, catching a whiff of her sensual fragrance as he did so, and arranged it over the back of the sofa, fully intending to unsettle her. She was charmingly easy to embarrass. Most women wouldn’t be at all perturbed by something as innocuous as a bra on display, but Daisy McGregor had enchanting old-world sensibilities, and Mason was enjoying them to the fullest.

“Before I answer that,” he murmured, “I want to know what those are.” He nodded toward a small display cabinet in the corner. It was filled with the oddest collection of ornaments. Weird little caterpillars: glass, ceramic, porcelain, wood, and plastic worms. Most were dressed like people, tiny wormy people smoking pipes, reading books, even dancing. It was more than a little strange.

“My caterpillars,” she supplied awkwardly.

“What are they for?”

“I collect them.”

“Why?”

“Because I like caterpillars. I started collecting when I was thirteen, and honestly . . . I think I actually bought only twenty of them myself.” Twenty too many, if you asked Mason. “The rest are gifts from family and friends.” Jesus, there were well over a hundred creepy little people caterpillars in that cabinet. Talk about enabling someone, her family took the cake.

“So where are we going?” she asked, deliberately shifting the topic back to what it was before, and recognizing the stubborn glint in her eyes, Mason allowed it. The caterpillars were a bit out there for him, and he was happy to let it go.

“You don’t want to be surprised?” he asked, answering her question with one of his own, and if her narrowing eyes were any indication, she didn’t appreciate his evasiveness.

“I don’t really care for surprises.”

“You don’t? That’s too bad. What if I told you I had a surprise for you in my pocket?” Her eyes widened, and she made an incredulous half-laughing, half-snorting sound as her gaze drifted south. Mason burst into laughter as she projected her thoughts as clear as a bell. His laughter startled her eyes back to his, and he grinned at her.

“Not the pocket I meant, but I like the way you think,” he teased and watched as her face did that slow burn thing again. He patted his chest, and her eyes were drawn to the breast pocket of his plaid flannel shirt. “This pocket.”

She seemed to forget her embarrassment as her eyes flared with interest.

“What kind of surprise?” she asked, her voice steeped in skepticism.

“The good kind.” Her teeth worried her succulent-looking lower lip while she eyed his pocket with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. God, that lip . . . the more she nibbled at it the fuller, pinker, and more moist it became. He longed for another taste of those plump lips but viciously tamped down the urge to drag her into his arms and kiss the holy hell out of her.

“Show me,” she said, after a great deal of deliberation. He leaned toward her, close enough to smell the fresh fragrance of her shampoo.

“Come and get it.” He expected her to retreat at the challenge, but she surprised him when—after one last nervous nibble at her lips—she reached out toward his pocket. His breath snagged and his heart stuttered in his chest when he felt her questing fingers hesitantly dip into his pocket. The first tentative foray didn’t yield any results, and she dug in a little deeper, creating friction on his hypersensitive nipple. He unsuccessfully bit back a groan, and her eyes snapped up to his, her face so close he could count each individual freckle on her nose and see the pale-blue striations in her gray eyes. He shifted his coffee mug a little to the left in an effort to conceal the growing bulge in the crotch of his jeans and fought to keep his face impassive and his breathing even. Her eyes dropped from his, back to where her small hand was fumbling around in his pocket, and the tip of her tongue crept out as she focused on what she was doing. There was an adorable little wrinkle of concentration between her eyes as she managed to snag what was in his pocket, only to drop it again. She finally managed to get a proper grip on it and dragged it out with a triumphant whoop.