The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)
“Glad you’re finally developing an appreciation for my genius,” he said with a self-satisfied grin, and she rolled her eyes.
“Wipe the smug off your face, mister. It doesn’t become you.” He laughed outright at that, and as they reached the end of Main Street, he revved the engine a bit before picking up speed and leaving Riversend behind.
CHAPTER SIX
Mason snuck a few glances at Daisy’s profile as she stared out at the scenery. She was surprisingly familiar with a lot of the older songs on his playlist. She occasionally hummed along and seemed to have a preference for the Queen ballads. Mason had a hard time keeping a straight face when she unexpectedly belted out a hilariously off-key accompaniment to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” complete with screeching guitar solos and all. He didn’t even know if she was aware of it—but it was fucking adorable. When Prince’s “Purple Rain” came up, she bounced excitedly in her seat and looked at him.
“I love this song!” And once again with the off-key lyrics. This time, Mason joined in, leaving his inhibitions on the side of the road and enjoying himself thoroughly in the process. He never sang along with his tunes, preferring to just listen and enjoy . . . but as he sang, his voice sounding rustier than a two-hundred-year-old nail, he found a freedom of spirit that he couldn’t recall ever having before.
“This is so wonderful. I never knew it was here.” Daisy stared out at the rustic log cabin tucked away in the forest like a perfect little fairy-tale cottage. It even had smoke curling from a fieldstone chimney. If not for the discreet sign above the door—“Le Café de la Forêt”—she would have thought it was a private residence instead of a restaurant.
“It’s a bit out of the way, usually only frequented by hikers and campers.”
“Is that how you know about it?”
“Nah, an old buddy of mine owns it.”
“Army buddy?”
“No.” Daisy was fascinated by the tinge of red suddenly highlighting his sharp cheekbones. “Modeling buddy.”
“I didn’t know one made buddies in the modeling industry. I always imagined it being quite cutthroat.”
“Nah, the male modeling industry is just one happy family of outstandingly good-looking guys. All getting along, bromancing or romancing—depending on one’s proclivities—having sing-alongs and danceathons. It’s awesome, nothing cutthroat about it at all.” He unbuckled his seat belt as he spoke, ignoring Daisy’s helpless giggles, and reached over to unbuckle hers as well.
“Come on, you’re going to love Chris, he’s an awesome guy and a freaking great chef.”
“He’s a chef?”
“He was modeling to pay for culinary school.” He exited the car and rounded the front to open the door for her. She still couldn’t get used to that, and when he held out his hand, she couldn’t do anything but place hers in it. She tried—unsuccessfully—to gracefully swing her legs out of the car, and he assisted her with the gentlest of tugs.
He didn’t let go of her hand once she was out and instead tucked it into his elbow as he led her to the front door of the picturesque cabin. The rain had let up a great deal since that morning, and it was drizzling slightly, creating havoc with her curly hair by frizzing it uncontrollably.
Her glasses steamed up when they stepped into the warm, rustic interior of the restaurant, and Daisy inhaled appreciatively. The place smelled of baked bread. It was warm and homey, and she immediately loved it.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” a deep male voice boomed dramatically, and they turned to face the most amazing-looking man Daisy had ever seen in her life.
“Close your mouth, Daisy,” Mason instructed mildly. He reached out, gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and gently shut her gaping mouth.
“Mason Carlisle, mon ami! What a pleasure this is,” the tall, well-built, beautiful man with absolutely perfect facial bone structure said. Straight nose, sharp cheekbones, luscious mouth, chiseled jaw, and intense eyes, combined with absolutely flawless ebony skin. His shaved head just made him look even more classically beautiful. For a man like this to be hidden away in such an isolated place seemed a total waste.
“You’re . . .” Her voice failed her, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “You’re Christién.” Of course she recognized him. He had been the male equivalent of a supermodel, and to find him here, practically in her backyard, was just surreal.
“Ah oui. I am. And who are you, ma petite?” His French accent was so sexy. He was Congolese, she remembered reading that somewhere. She wondered how he had wound up in this tiny corner of Africa. She would have expected him to live in Paris or Milan or somewhere equally cosmopolitan.
“I’m, uh . . . I . . .”
“This is Daisy McGregor.”
“You’re as pretty and fresh as the flower you are named after, ma belle.” Daisy giggled like a giddy teen. The sound was so bubbly and adolescent it completely threw her, and a self-conscious hand flew up to her mouth as if to force the foolish sound back in. Mason’s face was completely unreadable. Nothing there, not even the constant little amused smirk that he usually wore around her. He always looked like he found her endlessly entertaining. She hadn’t really known that until she now noticed its absence.