Such as the fact that he always carried a refill mug—presumably of coffee—and a doughnut box from MJ’s on Monday mornings. Every other day of the week he had only the mug, but Monday was doughnut day. The box was large enough to feed his entire staff of ten, so she figured it was a beginning-of-the-week staff treat. That was really nice of him.
Daff lifted her mug to her lips and took a cautious sip, wrinkling her nose when the bitter brew hit her tongue. Well, that was what happened when you rushed through the coffee-making process. The stuff was undrinkable. She sighed and put the mug aside. She’d have to brew another pot.
She considered going over to SCSS and apologizing in person, but she lacked the courage to face Spencer so soon. Maybe this afternoon. Possibly tomorrow morning.
She glowered across the road again. Oh look, more customers wanting sporting goods. She muttered something vile beneath her breath and dragged out a tattered secondhand historical romance novel. Might as well catch up on her reading. Would Duke Sexy rescue Lady Gorgeous from the Pornstache Villain’s clutches?
Chapter fifteen revealed all and yeah . . . no big surprise, he rescued her and she gratefully swooned into bed with him.
Daff was so absorbed in her reading that she didn’t see the figure approaching the store until the bell above the door tinkled. She dropped her book guiltily and plastered a smile on her face. A smile that faded seconds later.
“Spencer?” What was he doing here?
“Hey. What are you reading?”
“Why are you here?”
“Rude,” he admonished before dragging over an expensive, ornate, and purely decorative chair to the opposite side of the checkout counter. He sat down with a satisfied sigh. “Thought we could have lunch together.”
Seriously. What the hell?
“Why?”
“Give you the opportunity to apologize in person. I know you must be desperate to.”
“This is really weird. And it’s way too early for lunch.”
“How good is that book if you’ve lost complete track of time?” She checked the clock, and sure enough, it was after twelve. Retail people rarely took lunch at midday, but since Spencer was the boss and Daff hardly ever had customers, there was nothing stopping them from eating right now.
“I have plans for lunch.”
“Hmm?” He sounded way too skeptical for her liking. “Too bad, I have more than enough to share with you.” He lifted a brown paper bag to the counter and removed a cellophane-wrapped sandwich from its depths. “Smoked hickory ham, cheese, tomato, lettuce, and mustard on rye.”
God, that sounded delicious, and considering that she just had a small salad and an apple for lunch, it was also highly tempting.
“That barely looks like enough to feed you,” she pointed out. No way half a sandwich would sustain a man Spencer’s size.
He rumbled in agreement and lifted a second sandwich from the bag.
“Which is why I have two,” he said.
“Is that from MJ’s?” she asked faintly, unable to resist asking.
“Made them myself.”
She didn’t know why, but somehow that made it seem even more irresistible.
“Are your lunch plans really that urgent?” he asked, unwrapping the tasty-looking sandwich and holding a perfectly cut triangle up in front of her nose. Gosh, it looked good. Her stomach rumbled eagerly, and she blushed when he chuckled at the sound.
“I suppose I could postpone them till tomorrow or something,” she conceded, reaching for the sandwich with both hands. He handed it over and rummaged around in a separate bag that she hadn’t previously noticed before placing two clear bottles of orange juice and a large bag of salted potato chips on the counter between them. He nudged one of the bottles toward her.
“To wash it down,” he said before taking a hearty bite from his sandwich.
They didn’t exchange another word until they had both polished off their sandwiches and started on the salty deliciousness of the potato chips.
“So,” she began, reaching for a chip and crunching down on half of it before continuing, “I really am sorry about the things I said.”
“Pissed me off a little,” he confessed placidly, and she leveled a surprised look at him. For all that he looked brutish, Spencer always seemed personable and mild mannered. She couldn’t imagine him angry at all. What did that even look like? Her breath hitched in her chest as she imagined a furious Spencer. Would he go all quiet and deadly or would he be loud and blustery? Somehow she couldn’t picture the latter at all and decided that he would be cold and aloof, like Duke Sexy in her romance novel.
Ugh, and what was she doing, romanticizing Spencer Carlisle?
Get a grip, Daff! she warned herself sternly, but she still couldn’t help feeling a bit hot and flustered at the thought of Spencer Carlisle getting his mad on.
“It did?” she asked stupidly, and he frowned at her.
“Well, of course it did. Nobody wants to be compared to a fucking mushroom.”
She twirled the other half of her chip for a few seconds before popping it into her mouth.
“The mushroom thing really bothered you, didn’t it?” she said in dawning realization, but he didn’t reply—just glowered at her. “I said I was sorry.”
“You did.”
“So can we drop it now?”
His jaw clenched for a moment before he shrugged. “I don’t bear grudges,” he said between gritted teeth, the words so strained that she had a hard time believing them.
“Well, that’s good, since we’re going to be forced to do a lot of stuff together over the next few months.”
“Will it really be that bad? Just a couple of dances at the wedding and that’s that, right?”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t want to do separate hen and stag nights. So we’re going to have to collaborate on that.”
He looked so horrified by the notion that Daff was bordering on seriously offended until he spoke.
“A mixed stag and hen? What the hell is that about? It goes against the laws of nature,” he exclaimed, and, a little relieved that the look of horror hadn’t been at the thought of them working together, Daff laughed.
“I know, right? I don’t even know how to go about planning something like that.”
“I suppose we could start off with separate events and have them mix halfway through the evening?” he ventured and Daff nodded, thoughtfully crunching away on another chip. She washed it down with some juice.
“That would be . . . not entirely horrible. We could get the strippers out of the way before the parties mingle,” she acknowledged and then grinned when he snorted in amusement. She was starting to differentiate between his grunts and sniffs and snorts. Go her. “Look at us collaborating like pros.”
“It might not be too bad,” he agreed.
“We should probably double-check if they want a mixed event, but Daisy did say something to that effect.”
“Mason never mentioned it.”
“He’s a guy, of course he never mentioned it.”
“Watch it. Guys are people, too.”
“Ooh, witty.”
“Yeah, I’m not quite the Neanderthal you think I am,” he said, crumpling up the empty chip bag and shoving it—along with their sandwich wrappers and empty juice bottles—into one of the empty paper bags.
“I don’t think you’re a Neanderthal,” she hedged, and he slanted her a blatantly disbelieving look from beneath his heavy brows. He leaned over the counter, his face uncomfortably close to hers before responding.
“Liar.” The word was barely a whisper, a breath of warm air fanning across her cheek, and she flinched slightly in reaction to both his closeness and the shivery blaze of awareness that skirted down her spine. He withdrew and got up, gracefully easing his large frame out of the tiny chair, which had surpassed all expectations by bearing his weight admirably.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said abruptly. She was still trying to process his words when he left. He’d see her tomorrow? Did he mean like in passing? On his way to work? She was still trying to work it out when the bell tinkled again and his head popped back in.
“Don’t bring lunch.”
“Whoa . . . hold on a sec—” The door closed on her protestation and he was walking down the road to his store before she could even begin to formulate a proper response.
It was colder than a witch’s tit this evening, and Spencer hadn’t really expected much of a turnout. The kids were barely interested in any of the activities he organized at the best of times, and Spencer figured freezing temperatures combined with an outdoor activity would definitely serve as the ultimate turnoff for most of them.
He was stomping his feet to keep the circulation going, steam from his own breath clouding his vision, as he hopefully watched the local sports field’s entrance. The field generally served as a rugby, soccer, and cricket arena, and a lot of people used the track for jogging. In summer it hosted the community fete and various other social functions. Old ladies did their tai chi here when the heat in the gym got too claustrophobic. But in winter—aside from the high school soccer or rugby matches—it remained relatively unused. Spencer had had the—probably misguided—idea to rope Mason in to teach a few self-defense classes for his youth outreach program. He figured the kids would love to learn from a pro like Mason, but on a night like this even someone with as much badass cred as Mason might not be enough of a drawcard for already unmotivated kids.