The Best Man (Alpha Men Book 2)(20)

Somehow.

The house was dark and quiet. A modest two-floor white building with gingerbread trim and a peaked roof. It looked almost too feminine for a man like Spencer, but rumor had it Mason had designed it to Spencer’s exact specifications. This beautiful family home with the white picket fence and the huge front and back yards was the home of a man who longed for a settled life with a wife and kids. The home of a man who didn’t have room in his life for a woman like Daff. But here she was anyway, knocking, at nearly two thirty in the morning. And when that didn’t get a response, she leaned on the doorbell.

A few short minutes later, an upstairs light switched on, then another, and she could hear, even above the thundering rain, the sound of him cursing roundly at the interruption of his sleep. The door unbolted, and her breath hitched in her throat as she grasped that he probably hadn’t even had a chance to drag on a robe to cover his nudity. Again she pictured his naked chest and thighs, and that anticipation zipped along her nerves in addition to the anxiety already bubbling there as a result of this insane move. This wasn’t the behavior of a rational person, she knew that . . . but she didn’t know what else to do. She had to make him understand that she was sorry . . . that she . . .

The door was yanked open, and she gaped at the hulking figure silhouetted there in absolute shock.

“P-pajamas,” she heard herself stuttering like an idiot. Yes, there he stood, this big, sexy beast of a man, resplendent in his flannel pajamas. Plaid, red-and-black pajamas. They were buttoned all the way up to his throat. Only his hands, face, and large feet were naked.

It was . . . unexpected, to say the least. And Daff’s throat went dry as she discovered that reality—this buttoned-down image that was nothing close to what she’d been picturing for days—was so much better than her imagination. He looked absolutely, unexpectedly gorgeous. He’d cut his hair since dinner, she noted regretfully, before immediately wanting to run her fingers through the newly shorn, inch-long locks.

“Daff, what the fuck?” She came back to reality with a bump as she jerked out of her lustful haze to remember that she was dripping in the man’s doorway.

“I—I wanted to t-tell you . . .” Her teeth were chattering, and she couldn’t tell if it was because she was nervous or cold. “It’s not that I don’t like you, Spencer. It’s that I like you too much. I think I’ve always liked you too much. And that t-terrifies me. I don’t want to like you. Not when I’m just starting to like myself.”

He looked confused and a little alarmed.

“Jesus, have you been drinking? Come in, for Christ’s sake, it’s freezing and you’re turning blue.” He dragged her over the threshold and grabbed a huge coat from the coatrack to drape around her shivering body. He then ran his hands vigorously up and down her arms, returning some of the sensation she hadn’t even known she had lost, before enfolding her in his arms and enveloping her in his delicious warmth. She sighed and cuddled closer, only vaguely aware that she was getting his sexy pajamas wet.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

“Oh darling, you’re a complete mess,” he murmured into her hair, and her eyes filled with tears at both the words and the old-timey endearment. Of course Spencer would use an endearment like darling—it was exactly like him and it made her feel treasured.

“I am.” She nodded with a wet sniff, and he sighed.

“You are what?”

Your darling.

“A mess. And I didn’t mean to drag you into my mess. I just wanted to tell you something.”

“That you like me?” he said on a questioning lilt.

“And something else.” He lifted his head at that and looked down at her, his striking, savage face much too close to hers.

“What?” he asked curiously.

“This.” She went onto her toes and lifted her lips to his, wanting so very desperately to taste the full lower curve of that beautiful mouth. He jerked, her move obviously surprising him, but then he sighed and deepened the kiss. His lips firming beneath hers and taking charge. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb lovingly tracing the curve of her jawline as he changed the angle of her head to allow him better access to her mouth.

The kiss was . . . everything. More than everything. All those other mediocre kisses—those immature fumblings by inadequate men who could never be the measure of this one perfect man—they had all led to this moment here. Now. With him. His mouth was fire . . . ice . . . elemental, and his tongue, when it finally teased its way inside, was like sunshine casting light over all the dark stains on her soul.

Her arms came up, wrapped around his neck, her hands burrowing through the hair she had fantasized about stroking just moments ago. She felt his hands moving up to her arms, encircling, tightening, and then . . . pushing her away.

She sobbed and tried to burrow back into his warmth, but he kept her firmly at arm’s length, his delicious, stern mouth much too far away.

“Please . . .” she moaned, and he shook his head. His chest heaving with each breath, clearly as affected by their embrace as she had been.

“No.” The word was harsh and completely without emotion.

“Why not?” She heard the whimper in her voice and despised herself for that weakness.

“Because I don’t know what this is. I don’t know where it’s coming from, and I sure as hell don’t know where it’s going.”

“I was hoping . . . to bed?” She tried to get close again, and his throat worked as he swallowed.

“Damn it. No.”

“Oh.” How humiliating. She’d thought . . . she’d figured he wanted her, too. He’d been trying to hook up with her for years. “I’m sorry. I should . . . I should probably leave.”

He swore, and his hands tightened on her arms. His fingers were going to leave bruises. But unlike the others, she knew that Spencer would regret leaving marks on her skin.

“You’re hurting me,” she said quietly, testing that theory, and he immediately loosened his hold, his hands instinctively stroking over the bruised area.

“You’re not leaving,” he said. “You’re going to dry off, have a hot drink, and we’re going to fucking talk about this.”

“Okay,” she said meekly, and his eyes narrowed.

“I mean it, Daff.”

“I know.”

Spencer was confused, horny, and mad as hell. What in the ever-loving fuck was this about? If he hadn’t tasted her clean—hot—mouth himself, he’d have sworn she was drunk. That left drugs, but her pupils and responses seemed pretty normal, she didn’t seem doped up. She was just . . . odd. And it scared the hell out of him. She seemed much too vulnerable, like one wrong word or action would shatter her completely. He didn’t want to be the one to break her. Not when all he’d ever really wanted was a chance to cherish her.

He marched her into the guest bathroom and handed her a bathrobe and a towel.

“Get out of those wet things and dry off. I’ll be waiting in the kitchen.” It was an open-plan home, so she wouldn’t have trouble finding him. “Bring your clothes out with you and I’ll stick them in the dryer.” His voice was sharp, but he needed it to be, to snap her out of whatever the hell was wrong with her. She nodded slowly, as if she had a hard time understanding his words, but thankfully she turned toward the basin, allowing Spencer to shut the door.

He heaved a huge sigh after closing the door and rested his forehead against the wood for a brief moment before shaking himself and heading to the kitchen. He braced his hands on one of the granite countertops and regarded the glossy, marbled dark surface for a moment. He wasn’t sure what to say to her after all this. She clearly needed help, but he wasn’t sure what kind, and he wasn’t sure if he was the man for the job. He didn’t want to fuck her up any more than she already was.

She stayed hidden in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes, but he didn’t rush her, just kept the kettle going until the door creaked open and a small, bare foot tentatively stepped out from behind the door. He followed the foot up, over the much too large bathrobe that seemed to swallow her whole. The only reason it wasn’t puddling over her feet was because she had the front gripped in both hands, to prevent it from tripping her when she walked. Her wet hair was a mess, and her eyes and nose were red from an obvious bout of crying.

He smiled at her and hoped his face didn’t reflect the grimness he felt.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” He was happy that his voice sounded gentle, and she hesitated before nodding. He had never seen her this uncertain before, and it made his chest ache.

She stepped up to the island and sat on one of the tall bar stools. Completely stripped of makeup, with her skin red and blotchy, she looked a bit like a child playing dress-up in his huge robe. Spence rubbed at his chest as the ache intensified.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Two sugars, no milk.” Her voice sounded hoarse. He finished her tea and a comforting cup of cocoa for himself and handed it to her. He positioned himself on the other side of the island, directly opposite her. He reached across and thumbed away the remnants of a tear from her cheek, ignoring the way she flinched at the movement.