The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“So what happened after the party?” she asked, and he frowned, confused.

“What?”

“After you saw Sam Brand with the old lady?”

“Oh.” Shit, that conversation felt like forever ago. He’d forgotten that her fantasy was supposedly constructed around Sam Brand, and suddenly he fucking hated the thought of her fantasizing about taking off her clothes for Sam.

Logically he knew the whole thing had been made up on the spot, but the fact that Sam was the leading man in that little scenario made Mason feel downright murderous. He picked up his mug, viciously controlling the slight shake in his hand, and took a measured sip of the rapidly cooling drink, desperate to get his thoughts in order before replying to her question.

“Sam called me the next day, gave me some shtick about prancing around in my underwear, before telling me that he was working for a personal protection company. He didn’t agree with some of the company policies and was thinking of branching out on his own. Wanted to know if I would consider giving up my pretty-boy gig for some real men’s work.”

He snorted at that last thought. Men’s work. The four badass women they employed would happily—and efficiently—kick Sam’s ass if he ever said anything like that in their presence.

“I said yes so fast I nearly sprained my tongue. We went into the business as full partners. Luckily, both Sam and I had connections—Sam from his previous jobs and me from the modeling industry—and built a client base from there. We had a staff of twenty elite close protection officers in a year and became a recognized and trusted brand within eighteen months.”

He shifted his shoulders; he wasn’t comfortable talking about himself, but Daisy had once again dropped her chin into her palms and was staring up at him over the tops of her glasses. She looked like a curious little owl, with her hair haloing wildly around her face, and despite the distinct lack of anything seductive in the pose or in her expression, Mason crazily wanted to kiss her again.

Maybe it was because she looked so damned interested in everything he had to say. It was flattering. Intelligent women like her tended to put him into one of two categories: dumb jock only good for a fuck, or arm candy . . . only good for a fuck. He was accustomed to being overlooked and underestimated. He was often dismissed as nothing more than a good-looking, brainless slab of muscle, a henchman to keep the bad guys at bay. Clients appreciated his appearance because the wealthy liked to surround themselves with beautiful things, and that was all he’d been to them: a functional ornament, there to look pretty but be scary. He sure as hell hadn’t minded the no-strings sex that came along with the territory. Clients were strictly off limits, of course, but their friends most definitely were not.

Still, it had rankled to be dismissed as nothing more than a moron with big muscles and a low IQ.

“Gorgeous, isn’t he? Poor dear is frightfully good looking but unfortunately quite dull-witted. Then again, it doesn’t take much brainpower to jump in front of a bullet, does it?” That comment, from an aging pop diva, still stung, and it hadn’t even been close to the worst he’d heard. But he’d been starstruck when he met her and disillusioned very soon afterward.

“Why do you want to know all of this anyway?” Irritated by his lapse into melancholia, the question came out a bit more abruptly than he intended. “We’re supposed to be focusing on you and the wedding stuff.”

“Isn’t it better if we each know something about the other? More believable?”

Yeah, that made sense. And kind of disappointed him a little. He wanted her interest to be genuine, and wasn’t that just perverse as hell?

Get it together, douche bag! the general in his head commanded.

“I suppose you’re right. But seriously, enough about me. Tell me more about you.”

“We covered that last night.”

“Surely there’s a lot more to know about you?”

“I’m pretty boring,” she said with a self-deprecating grin. “I knit in front of the TV on Friday nights. Nothing earth-shattering there. You’re the one who has partied with princesses and politicians.”

“Hardly partied. That was all work.”

“Even the modeling parties?”

“Especially those.” He grimaced as he recalled that scene. Sex, drugs, alcohol . . . and a shitload more drama than a frickin’ telenovela. While he was modeling he might as well have spent his Friday night knitting in front of the TV, he had been that far removed from the party scene. The only reason he had been at that party, the night he’d reconnected with Sam, was because Chris had needed . . . He nearly choked back a laugh as he remembered. Chris had needed a wingman.

Because, of course he had.