The Best Man (Alpha Men 2)

“That sucks, man.”

“Hey, I said you can have the win,” he emphasized, knowing it would drive his brother nuts.

“You can’t give it to me! I’ve earned it.”

“Of course you have. No arguments from me. That’s why I said you could have it.”

“Stop giving me the win, asshole! It’s already mine.” Mason was going slightly red in frustration.

“Sure it is,” Spencer said agreeably.

“Just hang on a second, I’m about to sink the eight ball,” Mason said desperately.

“Ooh, sorry. No can do. I’m running late.” He deliberately turned away and grinned when Mason swore behind him.

“Running late for fucking what? Bedtime?”

“I like to stay on schedule, you know that. See ya.”

“Spencer, wait. Look . . .”

He left before Mason could finish the sentence and chuckled to himself as he walked to his 4×4. His brother would never forgive him, and even though he’d eventually get over it, he’d still be bitching about it years from now.

It was nearly midnight when his doorbell rang. Spencer heaved a sigh of relief and pushed himself to his feet to get the door.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted the apprehensive-looking woman at his door warmly. “How’d the wedding planning go?”

“Ugh. Can we please talk about something other than freaking wedding plans? I feel like this wedding is starting to take over my life.”

“How was work?”

“Boring,” she complained, peeling her coat off. He took it and hung it on the coatrack beside the front door. “You’re in your pj’s already. Nice.”

He grinned, not sure what her fascination with his pajamas was about, but he’d take the admiring looks she was giving him over her usual animosity anytime.

“Oh my God, and what’s this?” Her eyes widened as she looked him over and he almost made a self-conscious move to cover his erection with both hands. But she wasn’t focused on his groin—instead she was staring up at his face, and he wondered if he had food on his cheek or . . .

“You wear glasses?” He lifted a hand to touch one of the arms of his heavy, square, black-framed glasses.

“Yeah, to watch TV.”

“It’s so sexy,” she breathed. “Nerdy hot, like Clark Kent.”

“Uh . . . thanks?”

“I want to change out of these clothes. I went straight to Daisy’s after work and came directly here after that. I didn’t bring anything to wear. Can I borrow your pajama top?” She didn’t wait for his answer; she was too busy unbuttoning his top. The thought of her in it was unbearably sexy, and he helped her by slipping the thing over his head before she even had it half-undone and handing it over without any fuss or complaint.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower, ’kay?”

“You eat?” he asked, bemused by how very at home she seemed.

“Yep.” She hooked a finger into the collar of the top and tossed it over her shoulder before sauntering to the downstairs bathroom, her hips swaying gently as she walked. His mouth went dry and he couldn’t take his eyes off her sweet, round ass in the formfitting pants she was wearing.

She threw him a sexy little grin over her shoulder, telling him with just a cheekily raised eyebrow that she knew exactly how she was affecting him.

“Be right back.”

“Hmm.” The sound came out more feral than he’d intended, and she laughed huskily as she closed the bathroom door behind her.

He watched the closed door for a second, tempted to join her, but joining her in that shower—even if it was what she expected him to do—was not an option. He had the feeling that Daff was playing by a very specific set of rules known only to her, and he refused to play her game. No matter how fucking titillating it was. This was more than just a game to him.

He groaned and forced himself to return to the living room. He stoked the fire he had going, sat down on the sofa, and tried to shift his focus back to his movie. Even though his concentration was shot to hell and all he could think about was the very naked and very beautiful woman in his shower.

He didn’t join her. Daff didn’t quite know what to make of that. She’d made all the right moves, the expected moves, and he hadn’t responded in the predictable way. Her brain was working overtime by the time she’d soaped and rinsed herself. Delaying any longer was pointless. He wouldn’t be joining her, and it confused her. She wasn’t sure what to do next.

She dried herself and dragged on his top, inhaling deeply and relishing the scent of him. This was a green-and-black version of the one he’d worn last night. Same old-timey design, with lapels and a breast pocket, so perfectly suited to Spencer. She towel dried her hair and held a hand to her chest for a moment to still the frantic fluttering of her heart before throwing back her shoulders and leaving the bathroom.