The only person who never saw him, or heard from him, was Daisy. And she knew that it was deliberate. He was avoiding her; maybe she had embarrassed him with her declaration of love. Who could blame him, really? She was a total stranger to him, and a few weeks of fake dating couldn’t change that fact. So why couldn’t she accept that reality and move on?
Maybe because, despite all those warnings and reminders she had given herself to the contrary, it hadn’t felt fake at all.
Ralphie’s. Great. Of course it would be Ralphie’s; there was literally nowhere else to go. Daisy sighed and reluctantly climbed out of the car, pulling her too-short and too-tight skirt down surreptitiously. She was trying new things, and this skirt was part of the wardrobe that she had bought a week after Mason had so roundly rejected her. Tight, black, and a smidgeon too far above knee, it clung to her hips and butt a little too lovingly. She’d combined it with a sparkly black scoop-necked top, black stockings, and shoes that were an inch too high. She left her hair wild and loose, and for the first time appreciated the carefree look it gave her. Daff had done her makeup, telling her the outfit called for smoky eyes and “fuck me red” on the lips. Daisy wasn’t so sure about the red, but it did make her lips look plumper, which wasn’t a bad thing, she supposed.
They were slammed with that familiar wall of heat and sound when they entered the door . . . and greeted by a cacophony of enthusiastic wolf whistles. Daisy’s first instinct was to take a step back and allow her sisters the spotlight, but after just a second’s hesitation, she stepped forward in unison with them and greeted the crowd with a vivacious grin. The male eyes scanned all three of them with equal amounts of appreciation, and it felt quite . . . liberating.
The whistles and catcalls drew his attention, and Mason lifted his gaze from their deep contemplation of his beer to the commotion at the front door and froze.
“Christ,” he swore shakily, and Spencer—who sat with his back to the door—watched him in concern.
“What?”
“What the fuck is she wearing? She’s going to cause a riot in that getup!” Spencer glanced over his shoulder, and his eyebrows climbed to his hairline, before he added his appreciative whistle to that of the adoring male crowd.
“Hellooo, Dr. Daisy,” Spencer growled, and Mason’s brow lowered.
“Hey! Stop staring at her like that.”
“I can’t help it; that skirt is killing me. And that top does great things for her ti—”
“Don’t say it!” Mason interrupted viciously, and Spencer turned his gaze back to his brother.
“What?” he asked, all innocence. “She’s hot.”
“I know that,” Mason said. “I don’t know how none of you saw that before. Why does she have to shimmy her way into a skirt that ends just below her ass cheeks for you to see it now?”
That skirt was way too high, and it took every ounce of willpower Mason possessed not to march over there and throw his jacket over her to cover her up. She hadn’t spotted him yet; she was still smiling—God, what was that shade of red on her lips? It should be illegal!
“I have to go,” he said, getting up and reaching for his wallet. He had successfully avoided her for weeks, trying to get back into the dating game but finding every woman who Spencer set him up with unappealing and boring. He needed just a little more time before he was able to face her without saying or doing anything stupid. Just a little more time to get his shit together.
“You can’t keep avoiding her forever, you know?” Spencer predicted, and Mason shrugged.
“No clue what you’re talking about.”
“I think I’ll ask Daisy to dance,” Spencer said, and Mason snorted.
“Good luck with that; she doesn’t dance.”
“Well, that definitely looks like dancing to me,” Spencer said, and Mason’s head flew up. Just in time to see Daisy shimmying against some douche bag in a plaid shirt and jeans. The guy looked like Christmas and all his birthdays had come at once, and then, as Mason watched, she did it . . . She actually pulled a few chicken dance moves and then laughed at herself for doing it. Her laughter was so contagious that it invited her partner and everybody else in the immediate vicinity to join in, and when she leaned into the guy to whisper something in his ear, Mason felt his blood boil. When the guy tipped his head back to laugh and started doing the chicken dance too, Mason knew that she had “confided” her so-called dance weakness to him.
He felt outrageously betrayed by that, like she had taken something that was theirs alone and shared it with the masses. And it was crazy, irrational thinking like that, which meant he had to get out of here immediately.