He’d already parked his truck behind her car outside the boutique and was watching her gravely while she spoke.
“I don’t want you to pity me,” he growled.
“Oh, I don’t pity you, Spencer. I admire you.” He looked completely baffled by her words, and she smiled. This guy definitely wasn’t used to compliments.
“Uh . . . lunch?” he asked, changing the subject quickly, because he was clearly embarrassed by her words.
“It’s getting late; I think I’ll just grab something at home while I get ready for tonight.”
“Eat something decent,” he reminded her.
“Will do.” On sheer impulse, she breached the gap between them and dropped a quick, completely chaste kiss on his beautiful mouth.
“What was that for?” he asked after she moved away, his voice husky.
“I just wanted to thank you for today. It means a lot that you value my input.”
“You’re the smartest woman I know, Daff,” he said, and she laughed dismissively.
“Come on, you’ve met my baby sister, haven’t you? You know, the vet?”
“Daisy’s book-smart. You’re intuitive, witty, and street-smart. Exactly what I needed today.” Daff had had so many men compliment her on her looks, commenting on how cute she was, how pretty her eyes or how lovely her hair. None had ever shown any interest in her mind. Her opinion was neither sought after nor welcome. Spencer’s words meant the world to her, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or simply wrap herself around him and take comfort and shelter in his arms for days. In the end she did neither, but the warmth blossoming in her chest felt life altering.
“You don’t look too bad for someone who was at death’s door this morning,” Spencer observed when Daisy let him into the cabin later that evening. She looked cute in a short, flirty dress and with her brown curls allowed to riot around her head. She wrinkled her freckled nose at him before showing off the famous McGregor sister grin. She pushed her heavy, dark-framed glasses up the short bridge of her pert nose and inspected him carefully.
“You don’t look half bad yourself. Mason told me you were pretty wasted as well last night. I don’t imagine you had an easy time of it this morning.”
“Hmm,” he agreed, trying not to shudder as he remembered how perfectly awful he’d felt that morning.
“Not an experience I’d be keen to repeat any time soon,” he said as she led him into the dining and living area.
“Believe me, I can relate.” She laughed, then waved a hand at the assembled group of people who were milling around and chatting. “Well, as you can see, everybody else is here already. This is Chris.”
“Yes, of course, nice to finally meet you,” Spencer said, taking the man’s hand in a firm handshake. Even Spencer could appreciate the guy’s charisma and good looks. He was tall and lean, with a muscular physique and angular, dramatic features. Spencer could see how he would have been a sensation in the modeling world, where he’d been quite a big deal. Spencer was more interested in the guy’s cooking abilities. Apparently he was a brilliant chef, and Spencer had been meaning to visit his restaurant.
“Oui, I am happy to meet you, too. Mason speaks of you often,” Chris said. Congolese, he spoke with a thick French accent, which caused every woman in the room to sigh. Spencer could practically feel the breeze on his back from all the sighs and barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He looked at Daff, who was standing with Tilda; both of them were staring at Chris, practically with their tongues hanging out and then whispering to each other like giddy schoolgirls.
Seeing Daff moon over the guy made Spencer feel a little less charitable toward him, but Chris continued to talk and was so damned likable that it was hard to harbor ill feelings toward the man. After all, the guy couldn’t help it if he was a chick magnet.
Daff practically swooned when Chris smiled at her, and Spencer gave her another piercing look while reminding himself that he had no right to feel jealous. They were just friends. She could gush over whomever the hell she wanted to. Still, it was hard to convince himself of that when she’d come on his tongue only two nights ago.
“Hey, how’d it go this afternoon?” Mason asked, handing him a beer. Spencer took it without thinking—having no intention of drinking tonight—and tore his eyes from Daff with difficulty to focus on his brother. It brought his other immediate concern to the forefront.
“We have a problem.”
“That bad, huh?”
“What? Yeah, the house is a write-off, but that’s not the problem. That kid . . . the girl from the other night? She’s squatting there.”
“Shit.” Mason rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck and scowled into his beer. “You sure?”