Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 104458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“So you do know who she is?”
“Of course I do, but do you think I’d give her the satisfaction of knowing that? I never liked her.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“So’s a blue-ringed octopus, but it can still kill the hell out of you.”
“A blue-ringed octopus?” She couldn’t quite contain her giggle. “I don’t think she’d appreciate being compared to an octopus.”
“Daisy,” he said, his voice serious and his eyes level, and she put her elbows on the table and leaned forward in interest. She was shaken when his eyes dipped to her cleavage for a long—wholly appreciative—moment. When his gaze came back up to meet hers, it had a smolder in it that made Daisy feel hot all over. His voice had roughened slightly, and it made his next words sound way sexier than he probably intended. “I’m not allowing you to uninvite me from that wedding. We’re going. Together. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Great.” An awkward silence descended over the table, and she could hear Shar’s voice from across the room. Horrible words like “human trash” and “ignorant, uneducated jocks” drifted over the general hum of conversation clearly meant for them to hear, and Daisy winced in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry about Shar. The things she said were . . .”
“Why?” he interrupted. “Why be sorry? You’re not the one who said them. I’ve met loads of chicks like her in my lifetime. Spoilt bitches who want to ‘slum’ it with the soldier or the bodyguard but would never been caught dead with them in public. Hell, I’ve even fucked—sorry—my fair share of them. I know exactly what they’re all about.”
“Still—”
“Don’t ever apologize for other people, Daisy. Unless”—a fleeting expression of doubt crossed his face before it settled into handsome impassivity—“unless that’s why you changed your mind about the wedding. Because you think I’m not good enough.”
“What?” Daisy laughed outright at that. “Seriously? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’re a great guy, Mason. A nice man. Attractive and interesting. You—”
“Let me stop you right there.” He held up a hand and shook his head. “I’m not nice, Daisy. If I was nice, if I was halfway decent, I’d let you back out of this wingman scheme.”
“So . . . so why don’t you?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer to that question but couldn’t prevent the halting question from slipping out.
“Because I’m a selfish asshole.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re the nice one, Daisy. Sweet, kind, fun, entertaining. I like hanging out with you. But after the newness wears off, you won’t like hanging out with me, and that’s why I should have let you call this thing off. But that’s not going to happen, because I’m enjoying myself, and regardless of whether this is the best thing for you, it’s what I want. And when I want something, very little can stop me from getting it.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You will.” The words were said in such a grim voice that they sent a shudder down her spine. “Now eat up and then tell me everything I need to know to make Operation Wingman succeed.”
Mason watched as Daisy nibbled her lower lip while she considered his words. She sighed softly—her lovely chest rising and falling gently in the process—and removed her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. He had tried his utmost to keep his eyes above chest level this evening, but he knew she had caught him looking a couple of times. He was trying to maintain a calm and friendly demeanor, but the truth was, his body had been on a low simmer for most of dinner, and he was finding it hard to focus on what she was saying when all he wanted to do was taste those full, soft-looking lips and slip his hand inside the low V of that top.
She replaced her glasses and lifted those gorgeous gray eyes to meet his.
“There’s not much to know except that people are going to have a hard time believing this charade,” she grumbled, and he hit her with the sweetest smile in his arsenal—the “panty dropper” as his army mates called it—and reached across the table to lay one of his hands over one of hers.
“Trust me,” he crooned, lifting her surprisingly delicate hand and turning it palm up to trace the lines with his index finger. Her breath caught, and his smile widened even further as he slathered on the charm. “They’ll believe it.”
He dropped a kiss into the center of her palm and folded her fingers down until they were curled over the spot he had marked with his lips. Her skin was incredibly soft, and damned if his lips weren’t actually tingling after the brief brush against her soft, fragrant flesh. Tingling, for God’s sake. What kind of bloke would ever confess to feeling tingly? And yet here he sat, with tiny starbursts of sensation popping and fizzing all over his lips.