She was so damned short that she had actually managed to come up behind Spencer without Mason noticing. And—damn it—were those tears sparkling in her eyes? He felt like a total shit now and glared at his brother for a moment, before brushing by him and following the woman as she quickly turned away and walked up the road at a brisk pace. He heard Spencer swear behind him as his brother realized that Daisy had overheard him. Mason shot him a warning glare over his shoulder and held up a hand to prevent him from following.
He caught up with Daisy in a few short strides and took hold of her elbow to halt her movement. She went taut but stopped and glared up at him fiercely from behind those heavy frames. They were beneath a lamppost, and he could see every emotion in that expressive face. She looked equal parts angry and resigned.
“Look, you shouldn’t have heard that,” he began roughly as he agitatedly rubbed his hand back and forth over his scalp and wondered how the hell he had gotten into this situation.
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I’m the ugly one, remember?” she asked, without a trace of bitterness or self-pity in her voice. In fact, she sounded remarkably calm. “But that’s okay because being pretty isn’t everything, since ‘a brain is just as important as good looks.’ And ‘at least I’m clever.’”
She used air quotes to make it obvious that she was parroting someone, and he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and felt his brow lower as he considered the casual cruelty those supposedly well-meaning people had subjected her to. She wasn’t even that bad looking. She just needed to do something with her hair, maybe. Put on a little makeup . . . dress better . . . lose a few kilos.
He appraised her seriously. Her hair was crazy; he couldn’t tell if it was up in a bun or a ponytail, but whatever it was, most of the curly, mouse-brown strands seemed desperate to escape their confinement. She had a round face, a dab of a nose that her heavy-looking black-framed glasses kept sliding down, which meant that she was constantly peering at him from above the rims. Her deep-gray eyes were nice, big, and luminous and surrounded by thick, dark lashes and dark, arched eyebrows. She also had round cheeks, those adorable dimples he had noticed earlier, and a bit of a double chin when she laughed. He liked her lips; they looked soft and were naturally pink and lush. Surprisingly kissable lips set in a round, otherwise ordinary face.
The woman also appeared to have absolutely no dress sense; she was wearing a flannel shirt combined with a pair of snug faded jeans that clung to her shapely, if somewhat ample, butt rather sweetly. He couldn’t tell much else about her figure beneath the oversized shirt and boxy bomber jacket—who even owned bomber jackets anymore? He thought they’d all been left behind in the nineties, where they belonged.
She seemed to have bigger boobs than one would expect from a woman who was five foot three at most, but he couldn’t tell for certain.
Okay, he had to admit, she was a bit of a train wreck. Still, it had to suck to hear that the only thing you had going for you was your brain.
“Look, obviously the MJ’s thing isn’t going to happen now,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think I’ll just head straight home. I’m tired anyway.” Mason felt a pang of regret at the wariness he now saw in her. Gone were the humor and sharp wit of before, and in their place was an obvious reluctance to lower her guard any more than it had already been lowered.
“How are you getting home?” he asked.
“Walking, it’s not that far.”
“It’s a mile out of town,” he protested. “I can take you.”
“Nah, it’s really not that far, and I could use the exercise, right?” she asked, sending him a crooked, self-effacing grin that just about did him in. How often did she demean herself just to prevent others from doing so?
“I’ll take you,” he maintained.
She sighed. “Look, Mr. Carlisle—”
“Mason,” he interrupted.
“Right. Just because I overheard your conversation with Spencer doesn’t mean you have to try and make up for it. You were being his bro, right? His wingman or whatever. He’s always been interested in Daff; I remember him sending her really bad poetry in high school.”
“You’re shitting me! He did?” Mason asked, momentarily distracted. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d told him Spencer had donned a tutu and danced ballet.
“I memorized one,” Daisy said, that wicked grin making a welcome reappearance. “Want to hear it?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Okay, hold on, let me think . . .” She held her thumbs up to her temples and swayed slightly before lifting her head and meeting his eyes. “Daffodil. Tell me you will . . . be mine. Your smile is like gold and like diamonds your eyes do shine. I’ll love you forever and forget you never.”
Mason paused a beat before doubling over and clutching his middle as he went off into gales of laughter.
“Oh Christ,” he groaned after a couple of minutes of gut-busting laughter. “After that you have to let me repay you with a ride home.”
Daisy stared up at the painfully handsome man standing in front of her and considered his offer. He really epitomized masculine perfection, all six foot one of him. He had a gorgeous, lean body, combined with ruthlessly short golden-brown hair that she knew was wavy and thick when it was longer. He had a perfect square-cut, cleft jaw, which was currently bristling with stubble; high cheekbones; chiseled, bow-shaped lips; and straight brown eyebrows set above those gorgeous forest-green eyes she had admired earlier. The only thing that spoiled all that visible perfection was the thin, vicious scar that slashed through his left eyebrow—stopping just shy of the outer corner of his eye—and the slightly crooked nose. All this male gorgeousness was incredibly distracting and muddled her thinking.