The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“And how will that look? Like we’re platonic friends. And not even close platonic friends since I’ll be in a completely different hotel.”

“It’ll look like I’m not easy.”

“Nobody will think you’re easy. Two weeks from now we’ll be well past our third date. Everybody will assume we’re sleeping together anyway. And I’m paying for my half of the room. End of story.”

“Mason . . .”

“I won’t lay a finger on you, promise.” He considered that for a moment before amending, “Well, not unless you want me to.”

“I won’t want you to.” She looked pissed off now, which was disappointing because it meant that she was done eating. Which meant no more sex show. He supposed he should be grateful for that, considering what a state it was putting him in, but he couldn’t help but feel a tiny pang of loss.

“Daisy, in all seriousness, it’s your best move. It’ll shut them up for years,” he said, trying to inject some earnestness into his voice, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he had her best interests at heart.

“I’ll think about it,” Daisy conceded, even though she couldn’t believe she was actually considering the idea. Sharing a room with him for two nights didn’t seem like the sanest course of action.

“Great.” He speared a fig from her plate, having demolished his own meal in record time, and bit it in half, before offering the other half back to her.

“No,” she refused, while he held the fork less than an inch away from her mouth.

“Are you sure?” he asked, brushing the fig along the closed seam of her lips. She sighed and opened up, tugging the sweet fruit from the tines of the fork. The guy really seemed to have no concept of personal space or inappropriate public displays of, well, if not affection, then familiarity.

“So what kind of things do you knit?” The mundane question surprised her, and the genuinely interested expression on his face absolutely floored her.

“Easy stuff. Scarves and hats.”

“Guy I knew, Kyle Quincy, used to knit to pass the time.”

“Model?”

He grinned, stealing another fig off her plate and once again offering her half. She took it without thinking twice, too interested in his story to make a big deal out of it. “Soldier.”

“Seriously?” She couldn’t even begin to imagine some macho soldier-type hulking over a pair of knitting needles.

“Yep. Big bastard. He used to sit around knitting these dainty little baby things for his sister and later for his wife.”

“I’m not going to lie, I find that both bizarre and awesome.”

“Quincy was an awesome kind of guy.”

“Was?” She watched the open grin fade from his face to be replaced by shadows and turmoil.

“Yeah. He was KIA.” He fiddled with his fork and kept his eyes downcast. “Left behind his wife and two-month-old baby girl. Linzi.” A fleeting smile graced that mobile mouth. “We gave him hell over that name. I mean, who names a kid Linzi Quincy?”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head and met her eyes, the distant look on his face replaced by something warmer. “It was years ago. Shit, Linzi is probably around eleven or twelve now. Hard to believe. I haven’t thought about Quincy in years.”

Daisy didn’t believe that for a second. Something told her that he thought about his fallen brothers-in-arms every single day. “Well, if Quincy was knitting baby clothes, then he was probably a lot more skilled than I. That’s next-level knitting for someone who can barely finish a scarf.”

“I’m sure your baking is pretty damned awesome,” he said, and she shrugged.

“Nothing compared to Chris’s bread.” She was surprised by the sudden snap of impatience in his eyes.

“Why do you do that? You’re constantly selling yourself short, and it’s annoying as hell. Chris is a trained chef; it’s his job to make excellent food. But I’m pretty sure your baking is a thousand times better than his amateur veterinary skills.”

Mason was heartened by the shy smile that bloomed on Daisy’s lips and the slight glow of warmth in her cheeks.

“I’m sure it is too. His mediocre attempts at a routine vaccination would most likely pale in comparison to my zucchini-and-bacon bread.”

“Dear God,” he whispered in awe. “That’s an actual thing?”

“Yep.”

“How soon can you make one for me?”

“I’ll call you the next time I bake one,” she reassured.

“No, you’re baking one for me. You’re not giving me a slice from a bread that you just happened to bake.”

“I’ll consider it,” she teased. He enjoyed it when she felt comfortable enough to tease him; it gave her eyes a saucy, naughty glint that was about 20 percent charming and 80 percent cute.

“Consider this; I’ll be annoying and persistent as hell until I get my bread.”

“And that’s different from the usual you, how?”

“Bake that bread and you’ll never have to find out.”

She laughed, and he relished the way her face lit up and her eyes crinkled at the corners, those gorgeous plump lips opening to reveal her straight white teeth. She had a piece of arugula caught in her teeth, and Mason found even that adorable as hell, though he knew that she would be mortified to learn about it.