“So this party.” Spencer figured he’d better get the ball rolling.
“What about it?”
“Any ideas?”
“Not a clue. You?”
“Not really. I’m not into planning parties. You may have noticed that I’m not the most social guy around.”
“No,” she gasped, and he narrowed his eyes at her sarcasm.
“So you agree we should do an out-of-town thing? Plett or farther afield?”
“I think Plett is good,” she said. “People can carpool and get there quickly. And we can rent a few hotel rooms and confiscate keys at the beginning of the evening to prevent the more stubborn drunken assholes from trying to drive back.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose the first order of business is to figure out the guest list.”
“Mason doesn’t have a lot of local buddies. And most of the guys will be flying in a few days before the wedding.”
“So we’ll have to figure out when exactly they’re all arriving so that nobody gets left out of the plans.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” He watched her reach down for her purse and drag out a tiny notebook and pen.
“Can you guesstimate how many guys, approximately?”
“I’ve barely spoken with Mason about this. I mean, we have like three months left to plan. I didn’t think it was that urgent.”
She made a tsking sound and set the notebook aside.
“No, it’s two months, three weeks, and it’s nowhere near enough time to plan an event like this, Spencer,” she admonished. “Your first order of business after tonight is to sit your brother down and ask him how many guys will be coming to his stag. Does he even have groomsmen picked out?”
“I’m his best man,” he reminded her, feeling a little defensive and not entirely sure why.
“Yes, I know. But Daisy will have at least two bridesmaids—that’s not including any random cousins she may want to include. Mason will need a matching number of groomsmen.”
“I thought this was going to be a no-fuss wedding.”
“There’s no such thing as a no-fuss wedding.”
“God, if I ever get married, I think I’ll elope to fuckin’ Bali or something,” he muttered beneath his breath.
“Screw that, I’m never getting married,” she snorted, and that snagged his attention. He was about to question her about it when Liam returned with something tiny and decorative on a plate.
What the fuck? It didn’t even look like food.
“An amuse-bouche. With Chef’s compliments,” he announced with a smile and flourish as he placed the tiny black plates with cubes of perfectly pink meat and splotches of unidentifiable sauce and purple bits of something sprinkled artfully about. “Duck and honey jus, served with lightly toasted lavender sprigs.”
Right.
Daff looked genuinely delighted.
“How pretty,” she gasped, and the gorgeous smile that followed made the trip out here entirely worthwhile.
“Enjoy,” Liam urged them before beating a hasty retreat.
Daff lifted one of the smaller forks and Spencer quickly took her cue, finding the same fork before looking at his plate again. He cautiously stabbed a tiny cube of pink along with a miniscule sprig of purple and swiped it through a dab of golden sauce. Feeling braver than a man ought to when having dinner, he put it into his mouth.
His eyes widened as the flavors burst over his tongue. He didn’t do much fine dining—the fanciest he ever went was a good steak at a brasserie. This was . . . something else entirely. He polished off the small plate before Daff had even finished her first bite.
He was immediately happy he’d finished first, because he discovered that he really liked watching her enjoy every aspect of those couple of mouthfuls. The way her gorgeous lips closed over the fork, the tiniest bit of suction as she drew it back out. The suckling motion of her lips just before she chewed and then again that beautiful throat working as she swallowed it down.
Fuck, it was hot, and he was transfixed. He shifted slightly, his breathing jagged, his cock hard, his heart thudding heavily in his chest as he pictured those lips closing over his length and suckling in the same delicate motion. His eyelids grew heavy and he could practically feel those full lips engulfing the head of his dick, hot, moist . . .
Pull yourself together, asshole!
He jerked his eyes away, fighting for control over his crazy hormones. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was worse than a randy teenager. He was used to wanting Daff. Used to yearning for her. But this visceral reaction was new. Maybe because it was the first time he’d actually spent real time in her company. Having a civil conversation instead of just stuttering his way through yet another attempted flirtation. Turned out that spending time with the real, live Daffodil McGregor was a much bigger turn-on than worshipping Fantasy Daff from afar.
Who knew?
“Yum.” Her voice startled him, and he raised his eyes to meet hers. She was grinning from ear to ear, and it struck him that she was smiling a lot easier around him tonight.