The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“Why did you leave?”

“It wasn’t my scene.”

“It took you seven years to figure that out?” She took a sip of her tea and wrinkled her nose. She had left the bag in too long.

“We were successful. It seemed foolish to not want that success. But as the years passed, I just became more and more . . . I don’t know . . . discontented, maybe. I was a good close protection officer, but it could be mind-numbingly boring at times, not quite what most people imagine. No gunfights and chasing bad guys down dark alleys. In the end it wasn’t a career, it was a job, and it’s not what I want to be doing anymore.”

“And you’re still trying to figure out what you really want to do.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to use that MBA for anything?”

He stirred the pot for another second before holding the wooden spoon aloft, his free hand cupped beneath it to avoid spillage, and took the few short steps that brought him to the other side of the island.

“Taste,” he prompted, lifting the spoon to her lips. She blew on it for a second before taking hold of his wrist to keep his hand steady and closing her lips over the spoon. The spicy heat of the sauce burned her lips and left a trail of fire down the back of her throat as she swallowed, and she opened her mouth to fan her tongue frantically in an effort to ease the discomfort. Her eyes watered as she grinned up at him.

“Whoa! That is spicy,” she panted, and he frowned.

“Too spicy?”

“Just add a dash of yogurt to temper it a bit,” she suggested, and he nodded, stopping by the double-door refrigerator to grab a carton of yogurt on his way back to the stove. He stirred a spoonful of the stuff into his spicy stew before taking another taste test and nodding to himself.

“Better,” he muttered. “In answer to your question: I don’t think I’m cut out to be a businessman. I didn’t enjoy the tedious management aspect of the job at all. Hated the meetings, the haggling over prices and contracts, the legalities and bureaucracy . . . none of it appealed to me. I’m more of a get-your-hands-dirty kind of guy.”

“So what do you enjoy doing above all else?”

“There is something,” he said, the words seeming to be conceded with a great deal of reluctance.

“What?”

“I designed this house. It was the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I worked with an architect to get it all right, of course, but everything in here was my vision,” he said. “And that got me thinking about architecture. I’ve always enjoyed drawing houses and buildings; I’d look at a building and automatically ‘fix’ what I considered to be flaws in the design. Take Chris’s restaurant, for example; he had the location picked out years ago, but the original design for the place was just wrong. I was kind of horrified when he showed me the initial blueprints. It was all steel and glass and didn’t suit the setting at all. When he saw my reaction, he challenged me to do better. I picked up a napkin and started sketching, and what I drew is pretty much what you saw. I mean, I don’t have the technical know-how—he still had to go back to his architect to fine-tune the design—but I’m a fast learner.”

“You designed Chris’s place? Mason, it’s absolutely beautiful. You have genuine talent,” she enthused, and he averted his eyes. But if the slight flush along his cheekbones was any indication, he was flattered by her praise. “So why not go for it? If your past projects are any indication, you’d be brilliant at it.”

“I don’t know, it seems a little late to be making huge career decisions like that.” He shrugged.

“Nonsense, time will still pass, and ten years from now you could either be an architect or a guy filled with regret because he never took the chance.”

“Maybe,” he said noncommittally. He smiled and propped his elbows on the granite top of the island and leaned toward her. “But enough about me. How was work today?”

Daisy was frustrated by the change in subject. Mason could see that. Well, that was too bad, because he was done talking about himself. She had this easy way about her, a manner that lulled a guy into thinking he could confide in her and tell her anything. Next they’d be sitting around braiding each other’s hair and talking about their love lives. He shuddered at the thought and turned the focus back on to her. Right where it should be.

“It was okay, nothing too traumatic, just the usual stuff. Fifi needs to be spayed, Rover keeps scratching, Fido is limping. Bread-and-butter cases, my dad calls them.”

“Do you see a lot of traumatic stuff?”