The Wingman(3)

By: Natasha Anders

“I like her, and I just want a chance to prove that to her,” Spencer said. “I won’t go all crazy stalker on her, Mase. Come on.”

Mason held his hands up and shrugged.

“So which one is Daisy McGregor?” he asked, changing the subject as he glanced discreetly over at the women.

“You serious?” Spencer gaped at him, and Mason lifted his shoulders again.

“It’s been years since I’ve even thought of the McGregor girls. And I don’t think I’ve exchanged a single word with the youngest one. Refresh my memory.”

“In the corner, next to Dahlia.”

Mason subtly scrutinized the woman he hadn’t noticed before. She seemed to be hiding in that corner, completely overshadowed by the beauties sitting at the table with her. She didn’t appear to be interacting with them much and kept looking down at her phone. Mason wondered if she were chatting with someone or keeping an eye on the time.

She seemed as interested in being here as Mason was, which was not at all. It piqued his interest, and he diverted his attention back to his beer.

“You’re in, right?” Spencer asked, and Mason hesitated, directing another quick look over at the woman in the corner.

“Sure, why the hell not?”

Daisy McGregor sat in her corner, quietly sipping her drink while listening to the avid gossip of the other women around the table. She really wished she was at home, cuddled under a blanket in front of the TV with her sweetie, but her sister was getting married. Daisy loved her sisters and would do anything for them, even if she sometimes felt like she had nothing in common with them.

“Mason apparently sold his stake in the security business last year. For millions.” Sharlotte Bridges, one of her sisters’ friends, said in a stage whisper, referring to the younger Carlisle brother. The women had been all abuzz since spotting the two men at the bar. Mason Carlisle was something of a unicorn around these parts: a mythical, wondrous, and beautiful creature.

“Can you believe how well the Carlisle brothers have done?” Zinzi—another friend—hissed.

“Look at them.” Shar sighed, dropping her chin into her palm and making googly eyes at the two huge, gorgeous guys seated at the bar. “They’re so freaking hot.”

“You’ve always liked the bad boys, Shar,” Daisy’s sister, Daffodil, said, giggling.

“Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t? They can be so . . . imaginative in bed.” Shar grinned.

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever dated a real bad boy,” Zinzi pointed out skeptically. “And that Mason—from soldier, to model, to bodyguard of the rich and famous—he might be a little too much for you to handle.”

“I bet I could get one of those two in bed,” Shar said, and Daisy sank farther back into the recesses of the booth. She really disliked Zinzi and Shar, and she couldn’t understand why her sisters were friends with them. They were totally superficial and materialistic. Shar, the gorgeous blonde who was taking bets on whether she could seduce a Carlisle brother, was married, for cripes’ sake. Granted, her husband was three times older than her and rumored to have mistresses on four different continents, but he was still her husband. They could both practice a little bit of discretion, at the very least.

Zinzi, the daughter of a phenomenally wealthy philanthropist, had dated princes and politicians but routinely slept with her drivers, bodyguards, and fitness instructors. But God forbid she ever openly date one of them. Now Lia seemed to be following them down that same path. She was marrying Clayton Edmondton III, heir to the Edmonton Diamond Company and pretentious asshole of note. Daisy couldn’t stand him, and she knew Daff didn’t care for him either. But Lia firmly believed that she was in love, and nothing her sisters said—or Clayton did—would change her mind. It was painful to sit back and watch Lia make such a huge mistake with her life, but to protest too much would be to alienate her completely.

The other women were still oohing and aahing over the Carlisle brothers, and Daisy couldn’t help but slide a glance over at the two men. They were definitely good-looking guys, both tall, dark, strapping specimens of hotness. Spencer had the heavy build of a rugby player, not an ounce of fat on him, just big and brutish and entirely savage looking.

But while Spencer merely looked savage, Mason Carlisle exuded menace and danger from every single pore. He was more sparely built than his older brother and a couple of inches shorter than Spencer’s six foot three, but while Spencer was thick with muscle and seemed to possess brute strength, Mason’s power and strength had a lethal grace. He was perfect, absolutely perfect. And even if Daisy weren’t already familiar with his eight-pack, his beautifully strong shoulders, tight butt, and perfectly sculpted legs—thanks to those revealing underwear ads—she would still have known that utter perfection lay beneath that gray formfitting Henley and those faded blue jeans.

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