The Best Man (Alpha Men 2)

Daff, in the meantime, kept rubbing her palms against the material of her skirt, trying—and failing—to rid herself of the feel of his luxurious hair on her skin.

CHAPTER FIVE

Spencer very slowly and very carefully released the breath that had caught in his chest when Daff had so unexpectedly reached out to touch him. His grip on the wine list tightened in an effort not to betray his trembling hands to her, and he immediately lowered his unseeing gaze back to the stark black-on-white letters in front of him, even though none of the words currently made an iota of sense.

Shit.

Was that really all it took to turn him on these days? One whisper of a touch? The answer to those burning questions had to be a resounding yes, if the straining bulge of his crotch was any indication. He sneaked a peek at her. A tiny little furrow between her perfectly arched brows marred the smoothness of her skin. She looked pensive, her attention directed out at the dark lagoon instead of her menu.

“Ready to order?” he asked, happy to hear that his voice sounded relatively normal. Her startled eyes flew back to his and she blinked slowly, looking like she was coming out of a deep sleep.

“Uh. You order. Whatever you choose will be fi—” She stopped, the frown deepening, before she reached for the wine list determinedly. “On second thought, give me a minute. I haven’t really looked at the menu.”

“I’ll be happy to choose.” He shrugged.

“Yeah? Well, you don’t know what I like. And I doubt we like the same things. So . . . I’ll pick my own wine. And food. And dessert.”

“Of course.” He wouldn’t have chosen her whole meal, damn it. He’d just meant the wine. Although he’d definitely feel more comfortable if she chose that.

Bringing her here had to be one of the worst decisions he’d ever made. He’d taken one look at the place and known that it was way too romantic for a casual dinner, and he’d been more than willing to call it quits earlier when she kept on nagging about it. But then she’d changed her mind again.

Confusing woman. It was hard to keep track of her lightning-fast mood changes. He contemplated her shiny down-bent head, marveling slightly at how soft and silky her dark-brown hair was. He recalled the texture of it beneath his roughened palm. He shouldn’t have touched her, but it had been an instinctive move—he’d seen the hair trapped in the collar of her coat and had tugged it free without much thought.

Stupid.

The move had been too intimate and had made the situation awkward. Then again, Spencer was a pro at being awkward. The eternal loner, his best friend had always been his brother, and after going to college, he’d bonded with his rugby teammates but hadn’t really forged deep and lasting friendships with any of them. He could barely function in civil society and preferred to keep his mouth shut in social situations. The second he opened it, he always seemed to shove his foot right down his throat.

Still, he couldn’t sit here tongue-tied all evening. The woman already thought he had the personality of a mushroom.

“It’s rainy,” he observed inanely. Yeah, way to state the fuckin’ obvious, Spence!

“The forecast says it’ll be this way for the rest of the week,” she said, barely looking up from the menu.

“We need it, but it’s getting a bit problematic.” Christ, still with the weather.

“How so?” she asked, looking up, her eyes frank and assessing. All the McGregor girls had the prettiest gray eyes, but Daff’s was the only gaze Spencer ever found himself lost in. And the shittiest part of it was that he knew she didn’t find herself in the same predicament with him. Ever.

“Uh. With the kids and the center.”

“Oh yes, of course.” She looked away—without any fucking hesitation—and went back to perusing the wine list. “I think I’ll have a glass of this 2013 cabernet sauvignon.”

“Why don’t we just get a bottle of that?” Spencer shrugged and tossed aside his menu.

“You’ll have the same thing?” Daff looked surprised by that, and Spencer lifted his shoulders again.

“Sure. I trust your taste.” He did. A hell of a lot more than he did his own. When it came to choosing wine, he always felt like a complete philistine. He lacked the knowledge to make an informed choice and usually only went with the house red or white. He never knew if he should sniff or swirl the stuff before sipping it and took his cues from those around him. He always felt exceptionally awkward when he was around people he perceived as more learned on the subject. He supposed it was one of the hazards of being nouveau riche, so to speak.

Daff looked a little taken aback by his words and fiddled with the ends of her hair for a moment. Thankfully the waiter returned before another awkward silence could descend.