Confusing woman. It was hard to keep track of her lightning-fast mood changes. He contemplated her shiny down-bent head, marveling slightly at how soft and silky her dark-brown hair was. He recalled the texture of it beneath his roughened palm. He shouldn’t have touched her, but it had been an instinctive move—he’d seen the hair trapped in the collar of her coat and had tugged it free without much thought.
Stupid.
The move had been too intimate and had made the situation awkward. Then again, Spencer was a pro at being awkward. The eternal loner, his best friend had always been his brother, and after going to college, he’d bonded with his rugby teammates but hadn’t really forged deep and lasting friendships with any of them. He could barely function in civil society and preferred to keep his mouth shut in social situations. The second he opened it, he always seemed to shove his foot right down his throat.
Still, he couldn’t sit here tongue-tied all evening. The woman already thought he had the personality of a mushroom.
“It’s rainy,” he observed inanely. Yeah, way to state the fuckin’ obvious, Spence!
“The forecast says it’ll be this way for the rest of the week,” she said, barely looking up from the menu.
“We need it, but it’s getting a bit problematic.” Christ, still with the weather.
“How so?” she asked, looking up, her eyes frank and assessing. All the McGregor girls had the prettiest gray eyes, but Daff’s was the only gaze Spencer ever found himself lost in. And the shittiest part of it was that he knew she didn’t find herself in the same predicament with him. Ever.
“Uh. With the kids and the center.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She looked away—without any fucking hesitation—and went back to perusing the wine list. “I think I’ll have a glass of this 2013 cabernet sauvignon.”
“Why don’t we just get a bottle of that?” Spencer shrugged and tossed aside his menu.
“You’ll have the same thing?” Daff looked surprised by that, and Spencer lifted his shoulders again.
“Sure. I trust your taste.” He did. A hell of a lot more than he did his own. When it came to choosing wine, he always felt like a complete philistine. He lacked the knowledge to make an informed choice and usually only went with the house red or white. He never knew if he should sniff or swirl the stuff before sipping it and took his cues from those around him. He always felt exceptionally awkward when he was around people he perceived as more learned on the subject. He supposed it was one of the hazards of being nouveau riche, so to speak.
Daff looked a little taken aback by his words and fiddled with the ends of her hair for a moment. Thankfully the waiter returned before another awkward silence could descend.
Daff watched Spencer expectantly after the young man asked if they were ready to order and, belatedly recognizing what they were waiting for, he self-consciously asked the guy for the wine she’d mentioned. From the way the waiter jumped and Daff rolled her eyes, Spencer knew he’d probably barked the words. It was something he did when he was nervous and he was aware that it came across as rude or bossy, but he’d take that over people knowing what he was really feeling.
After the waiter scurried away like a frightened mouse, Spencer heaved a sigh and shook his head. He put aside the wine list and focused his attention on the menu. He was aware of Daff’s scrutiny and ignored it for a moment while he gathered his thoughts.
But Daffodil McGregor wasn’t a woman to be ignored.
“You didn’t have to snarl at the poor guy,” she chastised, and Spencer stared levelly back at her. It was a look meant to intimidate, one that had gotten him out of a few uncomfortable situations before. But she didn’t react the way other people did. No lowered eyes or hastily mumbled apology—she just returned his look unflinchingly.
“Didn’t mean to,” he finally admitted. “Sometimes it just comes out like that.”
She pursed her lips as she considered his words.
“I see,” she said thoughtfully, and the words drove Spencer a little crazy. What did she see? He was on the verge of asking when the waiter rushed back with their wine. Gracing them with a nervous smile, his eyes darted to Spencer for a second before he focused all his attention on Daff. Clearly he was too intimidated by Spencer to hold his stare for long.
Fuck, how badly had he snapped at the poor guy earlier?
He made an effort to loosen up when the waiter—Liam, as his name tag helpfully informed—popped open the bottle and poured a sample into Spencer’s glass. Daff and Liam both gawked at him expectantly, and Spencer sucked in an irritated breath before lifting the glass and—without bothering to do any of the swirling, sniffing crap—downed the entire portion in a gulp. Sometimes, brazening it out crassly was the only way to go. Putting up a front of impatience and arrogance was an excellent—if obnoxious—way of hiding any feelings of uncertainty.
“Awesome,” he said dismissively before pointing at Daff’s glass. “Fill up.”
“Yes, sir.” Liam leapt to it and practically genuflected before leaving with a promise to be back soon for their food orders.
Daff lifted her glass by the delicate stem, swirling it between her thumb and forefinger before taking a small mouthful. He watched her eyes close as she savored the taste of the wine—a taste he’d barely registered when he’d swigged it down—before swallowing it with a delicate movement of her slim throat.
“Good?” he asked, fascinated by that beautiful throat, and her eyes opened before she lifted her shoulders and placed the glass back on the table.
“Full-bodied. With subtle hints of black pepper, a mere suggestion of berries, that slight tang of woodsmoke—oak, if I’m not mistaken—and just the tiniest suggestion of vanilla.”
Spencer contemplated his glass dubiously before lifting his eyes back up to her somber face. That full lower lip was trembling ever so slightly, and Spencer felt his own lips curve.
“Bullshit.”
“Well, yeah!” she said, the “duh” unspoken but very present. “It tastes like red wine. I like red wine. It’s yum . . . but I never taste the hints of this and the overtones of that. Pretentious crap, if you ask me.”
“Right?” he agreed, feeling a chuckle rise up in his throat and escape before he could choke it back.
“Oh, he can laugh,” she observed, and he felt his cheeks heat. Did he give the impression that he couldn’t?
“Only when I find shit funny,” he said self-consciously.
“Well, then, do tell: What kind of ‘shit’”—she made air quotes—“do you find funny?”
“I don’t know. Random shit.”
“Like what? Adam Sandler movies?”
“Fuck no.”
“Ricky Gervais movies?”
“Who?”
“Work with me here, Carlisle. Tina Fey movies?”
“She’s pretty good.”
“What? I totally didn’t see that coming. You like chick coms?”
“When they’re funny. Y’know?”
“No I don’t, ’cause you won’t elaborate,” she complained, and he felt his smile widening.
“I don’t watch too many comedies; I find the humor forced.”
“Action man?”
“I wouldn’t say no to something with guns, fast cars, hot babes, and lots of explosions.”
“Improbable stunts? Fast and Furious style?”
“I’ve watched a few of those,” he confessed. “An okay way to spend a couple of hours.”
“We’re veering dangerously off topic, Carlisle. Come on, spit it out, what do you find funny?”
“Okay, so the other day,” he started, and Daff wriggled forward in her chair, eager and attentive. It was a little unnerving to be her sole focus, and he took a fortifying sip of the wine. “Customer comes in, asking if we sell branded condoms, you know, like Nike or Adidas condoms, and Claude, my manager, tells him”—he chuckled to himself at the recollection—“he says—”
He snorted when he recalled the expression on Claude’s face and his tone of voice. “He says, ‘I’m sorry, sir, the only Adidas latex we sell are those running shorts over there. Comfortable fit and ribbed for your pleasure and, yes, we do stock them in extra large.’”
By the time he finished his anecdote, he was practically clutching his sides. Usually he wouldn’t have condoned such attitude toward a customer, but this particular guy was a bored asshole who came in regularly with impossible requests. And Claude had such a genuine warmth to him that it was really hard to take offense to anything he said.
He wiped his streaming eyes and comprehended that Daff was sitting there with a polite smile on her face. He winced a bit.
“You—uh—you probably had to be there,” he said lamely, and the polite smile widened sweetly. It was a novelty seeing such a warm expression on her face, and he gaped.
“If the mere memory of it still has the ability to make you laugh like that, then I really wish I had been there.”
“Claude’s a funny guy,” he said, taking another drink. “He always says exactly the right thing at the right moment. Dry, quick wit.”