“I’m beginning to see that,” Daisy said with a smile, and her sister sat down heavily, staring up at her contemplatively.
“You look happy and confident and really goddamned sexy,” her sister mused, and Daisy’s smile widened as she sat down in the other chair.
“I feel all those things too.”
“So maybe Mason isn’t a total douche bag.”
“Not even a partial douche bag.”
“But, Daisy . . .”
“It’s nothing serious. We’re just having fun. I think I’m entitled to a bit of no-strings fun.”
“Are you sure?”
Was she? She had no option but to be sure. After this weekend with Mason, they would go back to normal. There would be no reason for them to inhabit each other’s worlds anymore. She felt a huge pang of regret at the thought. She didn’t want to lose him, but every time that rogue sentiment surfaced she quashed it by reminding herself that he wasn’t hers to lose.
“Daff, we need to talk about Lia,” she said, deliberately changing the subject. Her sister, alerted by the absolute seriousness in her voice, sat up straighter, her eyes sharp.
“What’s going on?”
It didn’t take very long to lay out the sordid little story in its entirety. Daff remained absolutely quiet while Daisy spoke of her discomfort around Clayton, about the innuendos, the subtle sexual harassment. And by the time she stuttered to a halt, Daff was pale and there were lines of strain on her forehead and around her lips. She didn’t speak for the longest time, while Daisy watched her anxiously, fearing repudiation, laughter, or anger. What she got was a shuddering sigh as her sister dropped her face into her hands.
“Daff?”
“Oh, Daisy,” Daff whispered, looking up to meet her gaze. Shockingly, her eyes were wet, and Daisy wasn’t sure what that meant, until Daff got up and knelt on the floor next to Daisy’s chair. Her sister reached out and pulled her into a hug, and Daisy exhaled the breath that she’d been holding on a relieved sob. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I thought I was imagining things. He’s really good at making you think you’re mistaken. I was so relieved when Mason asked me about it. I thought I was going crazy. I don’t know how to tell Lia. What if she hates me?”
“If she still wants to marry him after hearing this, then I’m sorry to say she’s an idiot who totally deserves to marry that . . . that . . .”
“Asshole?” Daisy supplied, using Mason’s go-to word.
“Motherfucker!”
“Right.”
“Come on, Deedee, let’s go talk some sense into our sister.”
Mason was soundly trouncing Edmonton and his toadying buddies on the golf course, and their earlier jovial mood was turning distinctly sour. They were on the seventeenth hole, and Mason was well below the course par, and Clayton was three shots behind. Most of the other guys were so far behind Mason’s score they had no chance of catching up.
Mason had managed to maintain a relatively pleasant fa?ade for the majority of the last two hours, but nothing he had learned about Clayton Edmonton had done anything to shift his opinion of the man. He was an arrogant prick who spoke down to people he thought were his lessers—a group that included caddies, a couple of his groomsmen, and, of course, Mason.
Mason watched critically as the man lined up his shot. He hated golf, but he had learned to play back when he and Sam had started up the business. Sam had told him it was a good way to impress potential clients. Later, when they’d had more than a few famous golf pros as clients, they’d been forced to attend charity golf functions, and sometimes the clients preferred they keep a low profile, which meant caddying or joining the game. Mason had gotten really good at the sport, even though he had never developed a fondness for it. Just another hazard of the job as far as he was concerned.
He was grateful for the experience now, though. It was satisfying to watch Edmonton lose his cool. The man was starting to miss easy shots and swearing like a trooper. Losing that urbane edge that he so carefully cultivated.
“So you’re here with the other sister, right?” Grier Wentworth Patterson—the best man—suddenly sneered. It was the first time the man had deigned to speak to him in over two hours, and considering the not-so-subtle nod Clayton had just given him, it was a ploy to distract Mason from the game.
“None of the guys wanted to partner with her for the wedding,” another bright spark added. Mason couldn’t remember this one’s name, but he had clearly been overindulging a bit on the beer because he was more merry and bright-eyed than the occasion warranted. “We drew straws.”
Mason cast an eye over the group; it was only Clayton and his six groomsmen. Despite what Mason had been led to believe, there were no other wedding guests present. He was the only outsider, which is why he had been quite content to just play his game and ignore them for the most part. But now his blood was starting to boil.
“Her name,” he said, going through Andrew McGregor’s very well-stocked golf bag and taking his time selecting the heaviest driver, “is Daisy. The next fucker who fails to use it will regret his memory lapse.” He kept his voice level as he withdrew the golf club and buffed the head meticulously. He looked up at them only after he’d finished polishing it to his liking and was pleased to note that several of the guys looked a little uncertain after his pleasantly voiced threat.
“Come on, man,” Clayton said heartily. “You can’t expect us to believe you’re serious about her? You’ve dated supermodels, actresses . . . a princess, for Christ’s sake. Daisy isn’t exactly your usual type.”
Don’t hit him! The voice was like an alarm inside Mason’s head, but he could feel his fists clench as the bastard continued to just vomit a ton of shit.
“I mean,” he was saying, “I can see the appeal, kind of. I’ve always wanted to fuck a fat chick.”