The Wingman by Natasha Anders

Author:Natasha Anders [Anders, Natasha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503943155
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Published: 2017-03-06T17:00:00+00:00

Daisy watched Mason move around his kitchen with effortless ease. He looked so at home in the large room with its wholly masculine granite and wood fittings. The whole house was dripping in testosterone. The furniture big, solid pieces made up of gorgeous wood. Everything fit perfectly into the rough-hewn log interior that boasted both finesse and aggressiveness in its finishes. The wooden floor was adorned with luxurious shaggy rugs, and the living room furniture boasted sturdy but comfortable upholstery. Even the drapes were carefully chosen to be both aesthetically pleasing and durable. The place was a fascinating study in contrasts. It was obviously designed and decorated by a man, but one who enjoyed the finer things in life without compromising his masculinity one iota.

He was wearing faded jeans that molded his butt and thighs lovingly; the denim looked well worn and white at the seams. He also had on another flannel shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal those strong arms, with veins roping over his large hands and up over his forearms. The top three buttons of the shirt were undone to reveal the strong, tanned column of his throat.

“I hope you don’t mind taking your tea in a mug,” he said, and she snapped back into the present, hoping that she hadn’t been visibly mooning over him. “I don’t do froufrou little teacups.”

“That’s fine,” she said.

“How do you take it?”

“Milk. No sugar.” He grunted in response, and she barely managed to keep her grin in check as she watched him plonk a tea bag into a mug, splash hot water in after it, followed by a drop of milk. He unceremoniously thumped the mug down in front of her, with the tea bag still immersed, before turning away to stir the merrily bubbling pot on the stove top.

“Thanks.” She toyed with the tea bag tag as she searched for something to say. “Smells like curry in here.”

“Yeah. I hope you don’t mind spicy food.”

“Not at all. The hotter the better.”

“I like a woman who can handle a little heat,” he told her, shooting her a sexy little glance over his shoulder. Daisy fought back a blush and rolled her eyes at him.

“Stop twisting everything I say. It’s childish,” she admonished, and he chuckled.

“I’ve spent most of my life around a bunch of testosterone-fueled guys, Daisy. It doesn’t make for a very refined—or mature—sense of humor. Fart jokes, sex jokes, and ti—uh—boob jokes, that’s pretty much the extent of it.” He was delightfully unabashed by that fact. But Daisy didn’t believe a word of it. He had a well-rounded sense of humor—she’d seen evidence of it, heard it in the wry note that sometimes crept into his voice when he spoke.

“Who’s being self-effacing now?” she scoffed, and he fully turned to face her, shock evident on his face. “Ah, you don’t often have people calling your bluff, do you? The humble, ‘aw, shucks, I’m just a blokey bloke’ routine must have fooled a few people in the past, am I right?”

“A fair number.

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