The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“It’ll probably ease off soon.”

“Mason, this rain is so epic it won’t be stopping for another forty days and forty nights.”

He laughed. “I’ll be over at seven, see you then.”

“No, Mason . . . wait.” The absolute silence that greeted her frantic exclamation told her that he’d hung up and she tossed the phone aside and lay back down with a groan. She dragged the warm covers over her head and cuddled Peaches closer. The man was crazy. Days like these were made for lazing in bed with a good book, or getting comfy in front of the TV and binge-watching The Walking Dead.

Well, she had no intention of getting up until the last possible moment. By her estimation she could lay around for another twenty minutes before getting up and getting dressed.

The doorbell woke her, and she blinked in confusion before swearing when she realized that she’d fallen asleep again. Peaches was up and heading for the front door, yapping all the way, and Daisy leapt up and yelped when her feet hit the cold tiles. Jeez, she should really get some underfloor heating installed. She slid her feet into her comfy slippers and shuffled toward the front door where Peaches was putting up a tremendous fuss. She hissed at the dog to be quiet, but Peaches ignored her and continued to do her best watchdog impersonation.

A quick glance out of the front window confirmed the identity of her visitor, and she dragged open the door, only in that instant recognizing that she wasn’t looking at her best.

“Seriously?” he commented drily when he saw her. Peaches appeared to recognize him and stopped barking immediately. Mason stepped into the house, smelling of wind and rain and bringing a gust of seriously cold air in with him.

“I’m sorry. I fell asleep again,” she muttered defensively.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an adult in a onesie.” She flushed bright red. She should really have dragged on a robe before answering the door.

“It’s warm,” she retorted.

“It certainly looks warm,” he agreed. He prowled—it was the only word she could think of to describe that predatory walk of his—toward her, and she backed up defensively, but he dodged to the left and circled around her.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, turning to face him.

“Getting the full three-sixty effect. Love the bunny tail and the matching slippers. Very avant-garde.” She covered the tail with her hand, seriously embarrassed. She should have gotten up and dressed after his call; she had only herself to blame for this humiliation.

“I’ll get dressed,” she muttered, and he grinned.

“You do that. Peaches and I will make some coffee.”

“Uh, do you mind letting her out into the yard; she needs to do her business.”

“No worries.” He stooped to pick Peaches up and ambled into the kitchen, looking way too at home for a man who had only visited once before. He made her small house feel even smaller, and she hurried into her bedroom, feeling awkward and unsure of herself.

She brushed her teeth and dressed as quickly as she could, not comfortable with the idea of him roaming around freely in her home, and when she rejoined him less than ten minutes later she scanned her living room and kitchen anxiously. Sure enough, there was a balled-up pair of socks in the corner of her sofa and—worse, so much worse—a bra draped over the back of the same sofa. The very piece of furniture on which Mason had chosen to make himself comfortable, and if his self-satisfied grin was any indication, he had placed himself there deliberately.

He had one arm stretched out on the back of the sofa—his long, elegant fingers inches away from her lacy pink bra—with an ankle crossed over his knee and a mug of steaming hot, deliciously fragrant coffee resting on one hard, denim-clad thigh. God, he was absolutely gorgeous as he sat sprawled on her couch looking way too confident and way too sexy.

She watched as his fingers began to tap rhythmically against the upholstered fabric of the sofa, and her eyes darted up to meet his. His grin widened. He seemed to know that her gut reaction was to snatch up her underwear, and his eyes were challenging her.

“The coffee smells good,” she said, striving for insouciance and failing.

“Plenty more where this came from,” he said, nodding toward her kitchen, and she headed for the coffeemaker and poured a mug of the rich brew while she told herself that it was just a bra. Mason had surely seen more than his fair share over the years. Still, she was sure he was used to dainty little A cups. Hers were C heading into D territory, embarrassingly big for someone of her height. At times she looked and felt like an overstuffed pigeon.