The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

He was just starting to feel the burn when he crossed paths with the horse-riding party. A few hands raised in greeting, and he raised his own to acknowledge them—happy to let it go at that and continue on his run—but when someone angled their horse to intercept his path, he was forced to stop. He looked up to the rider and felt a surge of irritation when he saw it was the groom. He kept running in place to indicate his eagerness to get going again, but he tugged an earbud out to hear what the hell the asshole was saying.

“. . . want to join us?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I said while the bridesmaids are at the spa and having their brunch, we’re heading to the golf course to play a few holes. Want to join us?”

Mason hesitated, not at all in the mood to spend time with the man.

“You do know how to play golf, right? I know it probably wasn’t part of your lifestyle growing up. Or when you were soldiering. But it’s just swinging a club at a ball; it takes a bit of finesse, but you’ll get the hang of it.”

Right. Mason’s competitiveness sprang to the fore, but he kept his expression neutral.

“Don’t mind if I do. I don’t have any clubs, though.”

“You can borrow mine, Mason,” a familiar masculine voice offered, and he noticed, for the first time, that Dr. McGregor was also in the group. The man gave him an encouraging grin. “I’ve decided to spend the morning relaxing with a good book.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of them.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” the older man said. “You can pick the clubs up at ten, room twenty-six.”

“Uh, thanks.” Mason nodded, appalled to realize that Daisy’s parents were just a few doors away from where he had very thoroughly corrupted their youngest daughter last night. Jesus, what if they’d been right next door? He and Daisy hadn’t exactly been quiet. Who was next door? It would undoubtedly be someone they knew. Christ, what if it were one—or more—of the old ladies? The thought sent a shudder down his spine. He was so preoccupied by the horrific thought that he barely acknowledged the riders as they filed past him.

He absently started running again, but his peace of mind had been thoroughly shattered by the thought of one of Daisy’s naïve old aunties hearing the unmistakable and loud sounds of their lovemaking last night.

He tried to clear his thoughts and focus on his running, but the morning had been well and truly ruined.

Daisy was still sound asleep when Mason crept back into the room just after sunrise. The room was bathed in the warm dawn light, and she looked beautiful as it painted her skin with an unearthly glow. How could he ever have thought she was plain? He drank in the sight of her kiss-swollen lips, so plump and tender he longed to claim them again; those pretty freckles splashed over her nose and cheeks; her lashes long and thick against her pale skin, the perfect frame for those clear gray eyes. Every inch of her was stunning, and he wanted to spend the entire day just staring at her in wonder.

“Daisy.” The familiar, cajoling voice penetrated her sleep and brought a smile to her lips. “It’s time to wake up, angel.”

She sighed and stretched languidly, opening her eyes to stare up into Mason’s beautiful green gaze. His eyes dropped to where the sheet had fallen from her breasts, and instead of covering up, as was her first instinct, Daisy arched her back slightly and watched the fire ignite behind those eyes.

“Stop flashing those gorgeous things at me,” he admonished sternly, and she smiled sleepily, pulling the bedcovers up far enough to just cover her nipples.

“How was your run?” she asked, pushing herself into a sitting position.

“Shit. I couldn’t stop thinking about who was in the rooms on either side of ours.”

“That’s a random thing to be thinking about.”

“Daisy, what if it’s your aunts? Unless they’re stone deaf, there was no way they wouldn’t have heard our lovemaking last night. You’re quite the screamer.” Daisy battled a blush and tried not to read anything into the fact that this was the second time he’d referred to their sex as “lovemaking.”

“Daff is in twenty-four, and one of Clayton’s friends is in twenty-two.”

“Christ, not Daff. She’s not much better than your aunts,” he groaned, and she laughed.

“What’s the time? I have to get ready for this spa thing,” she said, unable to disguise the reluctance in her voice. “I don’t know how or when to tell Lia about Clayton. She’s going to be so hurt. What if she blames me? Or hates me? Or—worse—doesn’t believe me? It’ll do irreparable damage to our relationship. I wish I could talk to Daff about it first, but she’s so pissed off all the time lately. Half of it is because of what she knows about us, but the other half . . . I don’t know what that is.”