The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“I thought I was imagining things. He’s really good at making you think you’re mistaken. I was so relieved when Mason asked me about it. I thought I was going crazy. I don’t know how to tell Lia. What if she hates me?”

“If she still wants to marry him after hearing this, then I’m sorry to say she’s an idiot who totally deserves to marry that . . . that . . .”

“Asshole?” Daisy supplied, using Mason’s go-to word.

“Motherfucker!”

“Right.”

“Come on, Deedee, let’s go talk some sense into our sister.”

Mason was soundly trouncing Edmonton and his toadying buddies on the golf course, and their earlier jovial mood was turning distinctly sour. They were on the seventeenth hole, and Mason was well below the course par, and Clayton was three shots behind. Most of the other guys were so far behind Mason’s score they had no chance of catching up.

Mason had managed to maintain a relatively pleasant façade for the majority of the last two hours, but nothing he had learned about Clayton Edmonton had done anything to shift his opinion of the man. He was an arrogant prick who spoke down to people he thought were his lessers—a group that included caddies, a couple of his groomsmen, and, of course, Mason.

Mason watched critically as the man lined up his shot. He hated golf, but he had learned to play back when he and Sam had started up the business. Sam had told him it was a good way to impress potential clients. Later, when they’d had more than a few famous golf pros as clients, they’d been forced to attend charity golf functions, and sometimes the clients preferred they keep a low profile, which meant caddying or joining the game. Mason had gotten really good at the sport, even though he had never developed a fondness for it. Just another hazard of the job as far as he was concerned.

He was grateful for the experience now, though. It was satisfying to watch Edmonton lose his cool. The man was starting to miss easy shots and swearing like a trooper. Losing that urbane edge that he so carefully cultivated.

“So you’re here with the other sister, right?” Grier Wentworth Patterson—the best man—suddenly sneered. It was the first time the man had deigned to speak to him in over two hours, and considering the not-so-subtle nod Clayton had just given him, it was a ploy to distract Mason from the game.

“None of the guys wanted to partner with her for the wedding,” another bright spark added. Mason couldn’t remember this one’s name, but he had clearly been overindulging a bit on the beer because he was more merry and bright-eyed than the occasion warranted. “We drew straws.”

Mason cast an eye over the group; it was only Clayton and his six groomsmen. Despite what Mason had been led to believe, there were no other wedding guests present. He was the only outsider, which is why he had been quite content to just play his game and ignore them for the most part. But now his blood was starting to boil.

“Her name,” he said, going through Andrew McGregor’s very well-stocked golf bag and taking his time selecting the heaviest driver, “is Daisy. The next fucker who fails to use it will regret his memory lapse.” He kept his voice level as he withdrew the golf club and buffed the head meticulously. He looked up at them only after he’d finished polishing it to his liking and was pleased to note that several of the guys looked a little uncertain after his pleasantly voiced threat.

“Come on, man,” Clayton said heartily. “You can’t expect us to believe you’re serious about her? You’ve dated supermodels, actresses . . . a princess, for Christ’s sake. Daisy isn’t exactly your usual type.”

Don’t hit him! The voice was like an alarm inside Mason’s head, but he could feel his fists clench as the bastard continued to just vomit a ton of shit.

“I mean,” he was saying, “I can see the appeal, kind of. I’ve always wanted to fuck a fat chick.”

Don’t HIT HIM!

“I mean, I wouldn’t want to be seen with her in public. But I figure it’d be a novelty to fuck a fattie. More cushion for the pushin’, as the saying goes.”

DON’T HIT HIM! It was becoming a mantra. A strident, unwelcome mantra.

“Right?” Edmonton continued to spew. “I suppose you’re an adventurer, willing to try anything at least once. I’ve always wondered about that one. The repressed ones are dynamite in the sack, right? Am I right, bro?”

Seriously? Fuck this guy. The rage inside Mason went quiet as his visual range narrowed until all he saw was his target: the braying ass in front of him. He inhaled slowly, feeling as lethal as he ever had on the battlefield.

He exhaled, hauled back, and slammed his fist into the bastard’s midriff, reaching out to grab the front of his preppy polo shirt in his other hand. Edmonton was bent over and wheezing for breath, and Mason leaned in, ignoring the man’s flinch, to speak close to his ear, his voice pitched low enough for only him to hear. “I know what you’ve been doing to Daisy, Edmonton. If you ever touch her again, I swear to God you’ll be shitting your own teeth for a week. Got it?” He thumped the still-gasping man on his back with his free hand before shoving him toward his groomsmen.