The Best Man (Alpha Men 2)

“So has Charlie loosened up about moving?” Daff asked, changing the subject, and Spencer winced. It was a bit of a sore subject. Charlie was still living with the McGregors and, after a rocky start—she’d attempted to run away twice—seemed to be settling in nicely. Mason and Spencer had contacted an attorney, and because Charlie had no other living relatives, there was no disputing their claim to dual guardianship. They’d had social workers in for interviews, undergone rigorous evaluations, and had both been deemed fit guardians for the girl. It was a lengthy process, but the ball was rolling.

The only hitch was Charlie. She refused to accept that she required any form of care and barely gave Spencer the time of day. She was getting along well with Mason now, thanks to Daisy, and had even spent a weekend with them, sleeping on the new sofa bed Mason had acquired especially for her.

Daff knew that the girl’s rejection troubled Spencer. It was clear that he desperately wanted to find a way to communicate with her, but every word he said to her sounded like a command, and Charlie didn’t respond well to orders. It was painful to watch. Daff had attended a couple of his youth outreach sessions, and it wasn’t like the man didn’t know how to speak to teens. He just sucked at talking to Charlie.

And Daff was beginning to understand that when someone meant more to him, his attempts at communication became even clumsier. It made her view all those past aborted attempts at flirtation in a whole new light.

“I asked her if she wanted to choose the decor for her room. She told me she didn’t care, since she wouldn’t be staying there anyway.” His dark brows furrowed at the recollection.

“Did you ask her? Or tell her?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Spencer, when you speak with Charlie, you have this tendency to”—how to put this tactfully?—“bark orders at her. She doesn’t seem to respond well to that.”

“She doesn’t seem to respond well to me,” he said somewhat morosely. “She hates me. Leaves the room every time I enter it. But of course, she and Mason get on like a house on fire.”

And he felt excluded.

Her stupid heart just about broke at that revelation. And she wasn’t sentimental. Except, where Spencer was concerned, she found she had a sentimental and emotional streak a mile wide.

“You just have to be patient, Spencer,” she said. “She doesn’t hate you, she just doesn’t know you very well yet. And you have to use a different approach when speaking with her. Suggest instead of command. Request, don’t order.”

“She’s a kid. What good are suggestions and requests when she has no idea what’s good for her?”

“She’s a teenage girl. A confused one. She went from being an only child to a youngest sister, with just about everyone telling her what she can or can’t do. She undoubtedly feels powerless. You and she are more similar than you know. And I’m not just talking about those matching glares . . . think about it. From the bits and pieces she’s revealed over the last few weeks, it’s safe to assume that she ran the house, took care of her dying parent, and kept things from falling apart. That was your job growing up. Of course you’re going to butt heads now. You’re both used to steering the ship . . . oh my God, I sound like my father.” She raised a horrified hand to her mouth. Her father—unhappy that she would be unemployed soon—had been giving her his seafaring-themed pep talks/lectures, pretty much like Lia had predicted he would. Apparently Daff had absorbed more of his words than she knew.

Still, Spencer looked thoughtful. Something she’d said clearly resonated with him.

“Think about what approach would work on you and go with that,” she suggested.

He rested his elbow on the desk and his chin on his thumb and absently stroked his index finger over his lower lip. Back and forth, back and forth . . . Daff was mesmerized by the movement and longed to run her own finger and then definitely her tongue over the firm softness of that lip as well. He was staring up at Nelly while he considered her words. He started plucking at the lip with thumb and index finger, and Daff bit back a groan.

The more time she spent with him, the more she wanted him. She couldn’t recall ever really desiring a man this much, and she couldn’t be sure if it was because he was now off-limits or because every moment spent with him was quite wonderful, really.

He was so easy to be with. She never had to put up a pretense with him. In his own gruff way, he always had something kind to say. Just last week when she had sprouted a zit, he had grinned and told her she looked cute, even though Daff had known she looked downright hideous. She didn’t feel the need to dress up; he always had a gleam of appreciation in his eyes no matter what she wore. It was nice. He was nice.