The Best Man (Alpha Men 2)

“Is that from MJ’s?” she asked faintly, unable to resist asking.

“Made them myself.”

She didn’t know why, but somehow that made it seem even more irresistible.

“Are your lunch plans really that urgent?” he asked, unwrapping the tasty-looking sandwich and holding a perfectly cut triangle up in front of her nose. Gosh, it looked good. Her stomach rumbled eagerly, and she blushed when he chuckled at the sound.

“I suppose I could postpone them till tomorrow or something,” she conceded, reaching for the sandwich with both hands. He handed it over and rummaged around in a separate bag that she hadn’t previously noticed before placing two clear bottles of orange juice and a large bag of salted potato chips on the counter between them. He nudged one of the bottles toward her.

“To wash it down,” he said before taking a hearty bite from his sandwich.

They didn’t exchange another word until they had both polished off their sandwiches and started on the salty deliciousness of the potato chips.

“So,” she began, reaching for a chip and crunching down on half of it before continuing, “I really am sorry about the things I said.”

“Pissed me off a little,” he confessed placidly, and she leveled a surprised look at him. For all that he looked brutish, Spencer always seemed personable and mild mannered. She couldn’t imagine him angry at all. What did that even look like? Her breath hitched in her chest as she imagined a furious Spencer. Would he go all quiet and deadly or would he be loud and blustery? Somehow she couldn’t picture the latter at all and decided that he would be cold and aloof, like Duke Sexy in her romance novel.

Ugh, and what was she doing, romanticizing Spencer Carlisle?

Get a grip, Daff! she warned herself sternly, but she still couldn’t help feeling a bit hot and flustered at the thought of Spencer Carlisle getting his mad on.

“It did?” she asked stupidly, and he frowned at her.

“Well, of course it did. Nobody wants to be compared to a fucking mushroom.”

She twirled the other half of her chip for a few seconds before popping it into her mouth.

“The mushroom thing really bothered you, didn’t it?” she said in dawning realization, but he didn’t reply—just glowered at her. “I said I was sorry.”

“You did.”

“So can we drop it now?”

His jaw clenched for a moment before he shrugged. “I don’t bear grudges,” he said between gritted teeth, the words so strained that she had a hard time believing them.

“Well, that’s good, since we’re going to be forced to do a lot of stuff together over the next few months.”

“Will it really be that bad? Just a couple of dances at the wedding and that’s that, right?”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t want to do separate hen and stag nights. So we’re going to have to collaborate on that.”

He looked so horrified by the notion that Daff was bordering on seriously offended until he spoke.

“A mixed stag and hen? What the hell is that about? It goes against the laws of nature,” he exclaimed, and, a little relieved that the look of horror hadn’t been at the thought of them working together, Daff laughed.

“I know, right? I don’t even know how to go about planning something like that.”

“I suppose we could start off with separate events and have them mix halfway through the evening?” he ventured and Daff nodded, thoughtfully crunching away on another chip. She washed it down with some juice.

“That would be . . . not entirely horrible. We could get the strippers out of the way before the parties mingle,” she acknowledged and then grinned when he snorted in amusement. She was starting to differentiate between his grunts and sniffs and snorts. Go her. “Look at us collaborating like pros.”

“It might not be too bad,” he agreed.

“We should probably double-check if they want a mixed event, but Daisy did say something to that effect.”

“Mason never mentioned it.”

“He’s a guy, of course he never mentioned it.”

“Watch it. Guys are people, too.”

“Ooh, witty.”

“Yeah, I’m not quite the Neanderthal you think I am,” he said, crumpling up the empty chip bag and shoving it—along with their sandwich wrappers and empty juice bottles—into one of the empty paper bags.

“I don’t think you’re a Neanderthal,” she hedged, and he slanted her a blatantly disbelieving look from beneath his heavy brows. He leaned over the counter, his face uncomfortably close to hers before responding.

“Liar.” The word was barely a whisper, a breath of warm air fanning across her cheek, and she flinched slightly in reaction to both his closeness and the shivery blaze of awareness that skirted down her spine. He withdrew and got up, gracefully easing his large frame out of the tiny chair, which had surpassed all expectations by bearing his weight admirably.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said abruptly. She was still trying to process his words when he left. He’d see her tomorrow? Did he mean like in passing? On his way to work? She was still trying to work it out when the bell tinkled again and his head popped back in.