The Best Man (Alpha Men Book 2)(57)

“How long would you expect this tenuous sexual thing without labels to last? A few months? A couple of years? How do you introduce him to people? As your friend with benefits? Your casual lover?”

“I don’t know, okay? I just don’t think marriage is the right fit for me!”

“Why not?”

“Because I—” Don’t deserve it!

I don’t deserve . . . him.

Daff stopped herself before she completed the sentence. Horrified to hear the silent words screaming loudly in her mind. Why would she think that? Why would she feel so inadequate?

She thought about Spencer’s words to her: Never let anyone make you feel like you’re less. Because you’re not. You’re everything.

And Daff finally recognized that she was her own worst enemy. She was the one who thought she was less. Who thought she didn’t deserve good things and happiness. She had allowed complete assholes to grind her self-worth to dust, and once they were out of her life, she’d taken over the job herself. And Spencer, unfailingly kind and loving Spencer, who had made her feel cherished and important, had been the one she’d inadvertently been punishing for everyone else’s sins.

She gulped down a sob, and Lia put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her close.

“You’re okay, Sissy. You’ll be fine.”

Daff nodded and plastered another smile on her face, trying to keep the cheerful façade in place for Daisy’s sake. But she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be fine again.

The hen party was a smashing success, and by the time they hooked up with the guys, everybody was well and truly sauced. Daisy was just loud and drunk enough to be hilarious. She launched herself at Mason when she saw him, for all the world like someone who hadn’t seen her man in months. Mason wasn’t much better; he wouldn’t stop snogging her.

The guys were all wearing “Mason’s Stag Bros” T-shirts, and Mason himself was topless. Someone had crudely painted “Daisy’s Man” on his back and “This belongs to Daisy” on his truly magnificent chest, with an arrow pointing down to his crotch. He had lipstick kisses all over his neck and shoulders, which would have been dodgy if not for the fact that all the guys had lipstick smeared over their mouths and halfway down their chins.

Clearly they’d been up to some crazy shit. Daff knew that Mason had invited their dad along, but she was kind of relieved that the older man had politely declined the invitation. He’d said he’d be fine staying home to play a few rousing games of Scrabble with Charlie and their mother. She didn’t think the party would have been quite as crazy if their father had been present.

Her eyes scanned the crowd until she spotted Spencer’s huge shoulders on the other end of the dance floor. He had a drink in each hand and was about to make his way back to the party when a couple of nearly naked skanks rubbed themselves up against him. One of them ran her hand up his chest, and Daff felt her brows slam together. When the other woman curled her hand around his bicep, she clenched her teeth and heard herself growling.

One of the little slags put her hand on his cheek, and he tilted his head enough for her to go up onto her toes and say something directly into his ear.

“Uh-uh,” Daff snapped, and before she knew it she was halfway across the dance floor, pushing her way through throngs of writhing people. She wasn’t sure what her endgame was—her only objective was to get their hands off Spencer!

“Spencer,” she barked when she reached the threesome, raising her voice so that he could hear her above the music. He was smiling at them. Why was he smiling at them? His head jerked up when he heard her voice, and his eyebrows rose clear to his hairline when he saw her folded arms and her scowl.

“What’s up, Daff?” he asked warily.

“Thought you might need a hand carrying those drinks,” she offered. And he lifted a powerful shoulder nonchalantly.

“I’m fine.”

Daff’s eyes tracked to the two women, one of whom still had a hand on Spencer’s arm. Her eyes lingered on that hand as she entertained dark thoughts of ripping each scarlet acrylic nail off those slender fingers. That would teach her to lay hands on Daff’s man.

Only he wasn’t her man. Was he? Not according to her own rules, and especially not after Spencer had ended things between them. He was a free agent—he could flirt with whomever he wanted, date anybody, sleep with every woman under the sun. Daff had no claim on him. She had revoked that right.

She ran a hand over her throbbing forehead. The tension and stress of the last few days, combined with the music and alcohol, had given her the worst headache.

“You okay?” Spencer shouted, shrugging off the woman’s hand to move closer to Daff. He completely ignored the other women, his attention wholly focused on Daff, and she choked back a sob as she recognized the look in his eyes as concern . . . for her.

His reaction was utterly instinctive, the behavior of a man who wanted to protect someone he cared about. This was the man Spencer was, the man he couldn’t help being, and Daff loved him for it.

She loved him!

She took a moment to process that thought. She examined the emotion from every angle and felt . . . relieved. Not panicked or terrified, but relieved. Because of course she loved him. How had she not seen that sooner? And how could she have tried to curb the very thing about Spencer that made him special? She had attempted to stifle his protective instinct by minimizing their relationship. By lying to herself and him and referring to what they had as a thing. In refusing to give it a name or any importance, she had basically communicated to him that he didn’t have the right to care about her, to worry about her, or to love her.

And Spencer wasn’t wired like that.

And seeing him with these women, Daff finally began to understand that perhaps she wasn’t wired like that, either. She wanted everybody to know that he was off-limits and belonged exclusively to her. Suddenly Daff found herself wanting those strings. She wanted this man so thoroughly bound to her that he would never get away again.

She gaped at him in slack-jawed bewilderment—the epiphany, so long in coming, sent her reeling—and it took a moment to register the alarm on his face or hear his words.

“—going to be sick?” he yelled, the music all but drowning the words.

“Uh, I-I’m fine,” she said, and he gave her another long, searching look.

“Great,” he said dismissively. “I’ve got to get these drinks back. See you later.”

And with that, he walked away. Without so much as a backward glance. Leaving Daff to feel completely abandoned. Despite knowing that this sense of loss she felt was entirely her own doing.

“So you’re Dahlia.” Lia trembled at the sound of the dark, silky voice murmuring directly into her ear. She immediately knew who the voice belonged to, of course—the man hadn’t taken his eyes off her since the stag party had collectively strutted into the nightclub an hour ago. She’d been expecting some kind of contact from him, and sure enough, here he was, standing so close she could smell his delicious aftershave and feel his breath stir her hair.

She shut her eyes, drew in a deep, fortitudinous breath, and turned to face him. Crumbs, he was much too close; if either of them inhaled too deeply, her chest would scrape against his. He was just four or so inches taller than her five foot seven, and—with her heels—their eyes were nearly level. He was smiling, and somehow that display of even white teeth did not make him seem approachable or friendly, but predatory.

It was disconcerting.

“Yes,” she replied. Not really wanting to talk with him. Thankfully the pulsing music and strobe lights made it almost impossible to have a decent conversation. So she gave him a wholly fake smile before dipping her head to take a sip of her drink. She drank too fast and then grimaced when the frozen margarita gave her brain freeze.

“Stick your tongue to the roof of my mouth,” Sam Brand shouted in her ear. Completely appalled by the lewd suggestion, she backed away and glared at him, one hand pressed to her chest. His smile transformed into a roguish grin and he, once again, breached the space between them to yell into her ear. “For the brain freeze. Stick your tongue to the roof of your mouth!”

She watched him in confusion, not sure if she’d imagined the “my” the first time or if he was messing with her. Brain freeze forgotten in her complete confusion, she waved him off.

“I’m fine,” she said, raising her voice to be heard. Then, remembering her manners, “Thank you.”

“It’s loud in here! Want to go someplace quiet to . . . talk?” Well, she certainly hadn’t imagined that suggestive pause and gave him her most quelling look. The one Daff often described as the “cock burn.” It wasn’t a term Lia would ever use, but the look was usually pretty effective.

It had no effect on Sam Brand. He continued to watch her expectantly. She sighed, recognizing that she would have to use her words on this one.

“No. I would not like to go anywhere with you—” Okay, that seemed a little rude, and being rude was completely out of character for Lia, so she added a polite disclaimer. “Right now.”

“Yeah, I get it, your sister’s hen party. I’m cool with that. Want to dance?”