Fuck me! I’m in such deep shit here. Mason paused, his fork hovering halfway between the plate and his mouth. Did she have to look like she was having an orgasm? It was just a soufflé, damn it! It tasted eggy and cheesy and shouldn’t make anybody look like they were coming. He could damn well give her a real reason to look like that.
He shifted in his seat in an attempt to alleviate his discomfort. He and Spencer really had to go cruising for babes soon. This was getting tiresome.
“So, a few logistical issues to work out,” she said prosaically after a few more moany, breathy bites. “I’m driving to the Wild Coast; everybody else is heading there a day earlier, but I’ll be finishing up some last-minute stuff at the practice. It will be the first time the locum goes to Inkululeko, and I want to go over a few of the more serious ongoing cases with him. I’m not sure when you want to leave—”
“With you.” No question about that. She was the only reason he was going in the first place, and he for damned sure didn’t want to spend any more time with those bitches her sisters called friends than was absolutely necessary. “We can take turns driving. And just to be clear, we’re taking the BMW.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. I’m not going to be stuck in that little toy car of yours for nearly seven hours.” She seemed to think it over before shrugging and nodding. There was a lull in the conversation as she made love to a slice of fig, and he diverted his gaze and guzzled down his entire mimosa in a single gulp.
“Anyway, I think the hotel may be fully booked already, but I’m looking in to reserving a room for you at a nearby lodge.”
“We’ll share.” She looked scandalized by his words, and he pretty much felt the way she looked, not sure where the hell the suggestion had come from.
“We will not.”
“Are you sharing with one of your sisters? Or maybe one of those other bitches?”
“No.”
“Great. I’ll take the sofa.”
“Mason, absolutely not.”
“And just to be clear, I’ll be paying for my half of the room.”
“No, you don’t have to. I asked you to do this; I’ll pay. But for a separate room. In a different hotel.”
“And how will that look? Like we’re platonic friends. And not even close platonic friends since I’ll be in a completely different hotel.”
“It’ll look like I’m not easy.”
“Nobody will think you’re easy. Two weeks from now we’ll be well past our third date. Everybody will assume we’re sleeping together anyway. And I’m paying for my half of the room. End of story.”
“Mason . . .”
“I won’t lay a finger on you, promise.” He considered that for a moment before amending, “Well, not unless you want me to.”
“I won’t want you to.” She looked pissed off now, which was disappointing because it meant that she was done eating. Which meant no more sex show. He supposed he should be grateful for that, considering what a state it was putting him in, but he couldn’t help but feel a tiny pang of loss.
“Daisy, in all seriousness, it’s your best move. It’ll shut them up for years,” he said, trying to inject some earnestness into his voice, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he had her best interests at heart.
“I’ll think about it,” Daisy conceded, even though she couldn’t believe she was actually considering the idea. Sharing a room with him for two nights didn’t seem like the sanest course of action.
“Great.” He speared a fig from her plate, having demolished his own meal in record time, and bit it in half, before offering the other half back to her.
“No,” she refused, while he held the fork less than an inch away from her mouth.
“Are you sure?” he asked, brushing the fig along the closed seam of her lips. She sighed and opened up, tugging the sweet fruit from the tines of the fork. The guy really seemed to have no concept of personal space or inappropriate public displays of, well, if not affection, then familiarity.
“So what kind of things do you knit?” The mundane question surprised her, and the genuinely interested expression on his face absolutely floored her.
“Easy stuff. Scarves and hats.”
“Guy I knew, Kyle Quincy, used to knit to pass the time.”
“Model?”
He grinned, stealing another fig off her plate and once again offering her half. She took it without thinking twice, too interested in his story to make a big deal out of it. “Soldier.”
“Seriously?” She couldn’t even begin to imagine some macho soldier-type hulking over a pair of knitting needles.
“Yep. Big bastard. He used to sit around knitting these dainty little baby things for his sister and later for his wife.”
“I’m not going to lie, I find that both bizarre and awesome.”
“Quincy was an awesome kind of guy.”
“Was?” She watched the open grin fade from his face to be replaced by shadows and turmoil.
“Yeah. He was KIA.” He fiddled with his fork and kept his eyes downcast. “Left behind his wife and two-month-old baby girl. Linzi.” A fleeting smile graced that mobile mouth. “We gave him hell over that name. I mean, who names a kid Linzi Quincy?”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head and met her eyes, the distant look on his face replaced by something warmer. “It was years ago. Shit, Linzi is probably around eleven or twelve now. Hard to believe. I haven’t thought about Quincy in years.”
Daisy didn’t believe that for a second. Something told her that he thought about his fallen brothers-in-arms every single day. “Well, if Quincy was knitting baby clothes, then he was probably a lot more skilled than I. That’s next-level knitting for someone who can barely finish a scarf.”
“I’m sure your baking is pretty damned awesome,” he said, and she shrugged.
“Nothing compared to Chris’s bread.” She was surprised by the sudden snap of impatience in his eyes.
“Why do you do that? You’re constantly selling yourself short, and it’s annoying as hell. Chris is a trained chef; it’s his job to make excellent food. But I’m pretty sure your baking is a thousand times better than his amateur veterinary skills.”