by Lauren Layne
Lincoln shrugged.
“Well, how’d she look when she came out of the interview?” Cole asked. “Nervous? Stressed? Hopeful?”
Cole had meant to stick around and see the aftermath for himself, but some of the guys from the Fitness department had dragged him to a long lunch, and then he’d gone straight to Starbucks for Jo’s coffee.
“Don’t know,” Lincoln said.
“What do you mean you don’t know? You’re Oxford’s resident relationship expert. You read women for a living.”
It was true too. Cole was good with women, but Lincoln was in a whole other league. Even more annoying than Lincoln’s ability to pick up women with little more than a wink was his ability to let them go without so much as a hurt feeling.
Whereas Cole’s in-box chronically held at least one hate email from a woman he’d dumped, Lincoln had standing lunch dates with at least half of his exes.
Cole had always figured that there had to be a story behind Lincoln’s strange approach with women. He just hadn’t figured it out yet.
“I do read women for a living,” Lincoln replied calmly. “But I have to actually see them first.”
The implication behind Lincoln’s words washed over Cole, and he froze. “Wait. Hold the fuck. Are you telling me you haven’t seen her come out of Cassidy’s office yet?”
Lincoln shrugged. “I’ve been sitting here since she went in. Haven’t seen her leave.”
“Maybe because you’re too busy reading about what to expect at your next gyno appointment,” Cole said, pointing accusingly at the Stiletto magazine in his friend’s hands. “Damn it, Linc, you’re supposed to be paying attention.”
“I can multitask, dude. I’m telling you, your girl hasn’t come out of there yet.”
Before Cole could stop to consider whether it was a good idea (it wasn’t), he was already strolling down the hall toward Cassidy’s office.
“If I were Jo, I’d have to follow you and tell you you can’t go in there!” Lincoln called after him.
Cole didn’t bother to respond. He didn’t have to look to know Lincoln was already back to his magazine.
It had been nearly two hours since the start of Penelope’s interview. What the hell were they talking about?
Cole could maybe understand how Cassidy had to go through the motions of the interview with another candidate—maybe.
But a thirty-minute “tell me about a time that you showed initiative” question-and-answer session should have sufficed.
Anything over an hour?
Bad news for Cole.
Alex Cassidy was a professional. He wouldn’t rush someone out without giving them a fair chance. But neither would he humor someone if he thought they were wasting his time.
If Tiny Brunette was still in there, it meant she was killing it in her interview.
“God damn it,” Cole muttered, when he found Cassidy’s door still closed.
Unfortunately for him, Cassidy’s office wasn’t one of those glass-for-walls affairs. There wasn’t even a peep window on the door for him to walk past accidentally-on-purpose.
He’d either have to wait until it was his turn, or—
His hand was on the door handle, and before he could think better of it, he’d opened the door.
Cassidy’s face was the first one he saw—the editor in chief’s expression went from surprise to pissed in record time—but Cole barely noticed.
His eyes were too busy taking in the small, dark-haired woman across from Cassidy, watching as she turned around at the interruption.
God, those eyes.
They got him every time.
And then she smiled. “Hi, Cole!”
God help them all. She sounded genuinely happy to see him. And not in a flirty, breathy, oh-Cole-ask-me-out kind of way that he was used to.
Just a friendly, I’m-a-nice-person kind of smile.
“Out,” Cassidy growled at Cole.
Cole glanced at his watch, letting his face go slack with fake dismay. “Crap, are you guys still— Sorry. Am I early?”
Cassidy pointed toward the door. “Out. Your interview’s not until two.”
“I know, but Jo wasn’t at the front desk, so I just figured I’d come on back like I always do.”
Cole’s like I always do was a deliberate reminder to Penelope that Cole belonged here. Him. Not her.
But if Penelope picked up on this, it never once registered on her face, and for some reason this annoyed Cole all the more.
For God’s sake woman, fight back. Tell me to get the hell out of your interview.
Instead, her damn smile never wavered and she turned around to Cassidy. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cassidy. I’ve taken up far too much of your time. I’ll let you go.”
“Please, Ms. Pope, for the last time—call me Alex.”
Cole rolled his eyes behind Penelope’s back.
Most everyone called Cassidy Cassidy.
The whole “Call me Alex” thing was strictly for Cole’s benefit. To let him know that he wasn’t the only show in town.
“Only if you call me Penelope,” Tiny Brunette said, getting to her feet.
“I’d like that,” Cassidy said with a genuine smile as he too rose.
Cole’s smile slipped a little as he realized they were wrapping up their interview.
On the plus side, he’d done what he set out to do—interrupt Penelope Pope’s interview. Maybe spy a little.
On the downside—it felt awful.
Cole knew he could be a cocky son-of-a-bitch sometimes, but he wasn’t an asshole.
And right now he definitely felt like one.
“Ms. Pope, please,” Cole said, holding up a hand. “Sit down. I absolutely should not have come barging in like this, ruining your interview.”
Doing the right thing was such bullshit.
“Oh, it’s okay,” she said brightly, picking up a portfolio from Cassidy’s desk and tucking it into an oversize bag. “You didn’t ruin anything. I’m not worried about this interruption making me look bad.”
Cole was silent for several seconds, and then he couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter.
Penelope Pope might look sweet as a kitten, but damned if he hadn’t just felt the subtlest scratch of her claws. He admired her for it.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “This is not a good way to start my interview, is it, Cassidy?”
“You have no idea,” Cassidy muttered. “I’ll see you out, Ms. Pope—Penelope.”
“Oh gosh, don’t worry about it,” Penelope said, moving toward the door. She looked like a kid playing dress-up, in her dark dress slacks, and especially with the short-sleeved black turtleneck that was slightly too big on her tiny frame. “Good luck, Mr. Sharpe.”
“Yeah, thanks. Oh, and Penelope—”
She paused in the doorway and turned back with a questioning smile.
Cole let his smile glow warm. “I’m sure it’s hard to move to a new city with so many new teams and players to learn. If you ever want me to show you where to start—”
“Save it, Sharpe. You have to see this,” Cassidy interrupted, coming to stand beside Cole.
Cassidy turned to focus on Penelope. “Terrence Mason.”
She frowned a little and shuffled her feet.
Cassidy nodded in encouragement to her, before turning his head slightly to Cole and muttering watch this out of the corner of his mouth.
Penelope licked her lips nervously. “Um, okay. Terrence Mason. Starting shortstop for the Mets, three twelve batting average, one-hundred-thirty-three-RBI season average over his six-year career, switch hitter despite missing the outer half of his left pinky due to a high school shop class accident—”
“Joe Carrington,” Cassidy interrupted.
Penelope didn’t even pause to think. “Second-string point guard for the Knicks. Severely underrated, never seems to make the same move twice on the court. Graduated from Duke, took his team to the NCAA championship all four years, was MVP h
is senior year after scoring—”
“Rick Macornis,” Cassidy said, interrupting again.
“Recently retired Rangers goalie. Probably could have gone a few more years, but he’d started to get slow, likely made a good call quitting while he was ahead. His GA was creeping up every year in a bad way. Had an affair with his left wing’s wife.”
Cole shook his head, feeling a little dazed. “I get it,” he said, all trace of levity gone from his voice. “I should be asking you for stats.”
“Oh, I’d like that!” Penelope said, seemingly missing his mea culpa altogether. “Perhaps we could grab coffee sometime. I’d love to pick your brain about which players like to talk and which need to be coaxed—”
She broke off, glancing between the two men, no doubt taking in Cole and Cassidy’s stunned expressions.
Was this woman for real?
They were neck and neck for a highly paid, highly desirable position with one of the largest magazines in the country and she wanted to have coffee and swap pointers?
“Uh…” was all Cole could manage.
“No pressure,” she rushed to say. “I just thought, well…I’m new to town. Mr. Cassidy has my number if you care to grab a drink sometime. Not a date, just, you know, just— Okay, good luck with your interview.”
Her words got faster and faster so that his brain had to scramble to follow along…and then she was gone.
The door shut with a click behind her, and neither Cassidy nor Cole moved for several seconds.
“Did that just happen?” Cole asked, still staring at the door.
“Apparently,” Cassidy murmured. “You going to call her?”
“Not if she gets my job,” Cole grumbled.
Cassidy didn’t respond, and Cole gave the other man a sharp look as the editor in chief walked around to sit down at his desk.
“Don’t jump to reassure me or anything,” Cole said under his breath.
Cassidy sighed. “Would you just sit down so we can do this damn interview?”
Cole eyed the door. “Do we have to do it now? You seem like you’re in a shitty mood.”
“Of course I’m in a shitty mood,” Cassidy said, running a hand through his hair. “You just interrupted that woman’s interview. She could sue us.”
“Please,” Cole said with a scoff. “She wanted to go to coffee with me.”
“Only because she doesn’t know you,” Cassidy muttered.
“Yup, you’re definitely in a shitty mood. Maybe we should reschedule—”
“Sit,” Cassidy commanded. “Let’s get this over with. How about we start with an easy one.”
“Sure,” Cole said, plopping in the chair, feigning cockiness he didn’t feel after Tiny Brunette’s impressive display of New York sports stats.
“Great,” Cassidy snapped. “How about you tell me what the hell you were thinking, barging in here—”
Cassidy’s rant continued for several moments, but Cole didn’t bother listening. He already knew the answer to Cassidy’s question.
Why did he barge into the office? It was a two-parter.
The first was easy. He’d wanted to ensure that a tiny Chicago outsider wasn’t getting his job.
The second part was more complicated. He’d wanted to see said tiny Chicago outsider.
Now he just needed to figure out why.
Chapter 4
“It can’t have been that bad.” The voice at the other end of the phone was soothing.
“Trust me,” Penelope said. “It was worse.”
There was a moment of silence as her younger sister thought this over. “And you say he just stared at you?”
“Like I was an animal in the zoo. An exotic one, but not a pretty, exotic one,” Penelope said, taking a bite from the hot dog she’d gotten from a vendor in Central Park.
Street meat, she’d heard it called. Sounded so disgusting. Tasted so good.
Penelope had always imagined that Central Park would be crazy crowded, being the crown jewel of the most populous city in the country and all.
But on a cooler than usual Wednesday in April it was nearly deserted, and Penelope felt as though the park were her personal playground.
“What’s that noise?” Janie asked. “Are you eating?”
“Hot dog,” Penelope said.
Her sister groaned. “And here I was thinking that the only good thing about you leaving Chicago was that it would get you away from those things.”
Penelope sucked a drop of mustard off her thumb. “Nope. New city, new dog.”
“You say that as though it’s a common phrase,” Janie said. “It’s not.”
“Not to a vegetarian who’s doing yet another juice cleanse, maybe,” Penelope said, crumpling up the foil in her fist and leaning against the bench. “But did you know that different cities have different styles of dogs? The Chicago dog, for instance—”
“Stop. Just stop,” Janie cut in. “If I’m not allowed to tell you what’s in them, you’re not allowed to tell me all the disgusting things that go on them. Let’s get back to this guy—”
“Cole,” Penelope said. “Cole Sharpe.”
“Hmm. Good name.”
It was a good name.
Looked really damn good on a byline too, as Penelope well knew. She’d done her homework.
She knew everyone in the industry.
Being one of the few females in her line of work, Penelope hadn’t exactly had a plethora of mentors to pick from. The senior sportswriters of Chicago thought her an abomination. The sports columnists who were her own age had been both annoyed and threatened by her very existence.
For all of today’s talk about feminism and equality, female sportswriters were still few and far between. Nobody had exactly been banging down the door to show Penelope the ropes, so…
She’d taught herself.
She subscribed to dozens of newspapers across the country and read their entire sports sections, every day.
Then there were the magazines. And the blogs. And the apps. And the Twitter feeds. So, yeah, she’d known who Cole Sharpe was, even before she decided to move to New York.
And if Penelope was honest, she wished she were up against someone less, well, good.
Cole Sharpe’s work was amazing. He had an impressive knack for seamlessly blending analysis, stats, and summary in a way that read like a really good story.
Add in the fact that he had a distinctive writing style—a “voice” that came through in the written word—and, well, he was just about as worthy an opponent for the editor position as she could have dreamt up.
So much for her hopes that her rival would be someone a bit older—an old-school “boys’ club” type of columnist. At least then Penelope could have gotten the edge by playing the “I’m youthful and technically savvy” card.
But Cole Sharpe barely looked a day over thirty. Chances were he was not only as well versed in social media as she was, but also understood its importance in the future of sports reporting.
There went her edge.
“Pen?”
“Hmm?” she asked, realizing she’d completely zoned out and missed whatever Janie was talking about.
“I asked if Cole Sharpe was as hot as his name implies. He sounds…yummy.”
Penelope smiled. It was exactly the sort of question she’d expect from her sister. Granted, Janie was no longer a boy-crazy teen, but marriage hadn’t done much to temper her appreciation of the opposite sex.
Younger by two years, Janie was Penelope’s opposite in just about every way. In looks, certainly. Janie was tall and blond, with an hourglass figure—as different from Penelope’s petite, brunette boy-shape as could be.
But it was their interests and personalities that really set them apart. The only sport Janie believed in was shopping. Still, her sister was her best friend, and one of the people it had been hardest to leave behind in Chicago.
Harder, even, than leaving Evan.
Penelope’s smile dimmed at the memo
ry of her former co-worker and friend.
She struggled to push thoughts of him aside, and hated how hard it was. The man had betrayed her—personally and professionally, and she could still see his beautiful smile every time she closed her eyes.
She. Was. Pathetic.
“Pen? You going to fill me in on this Cole guy?”
Penelope tilted her head back, feeling just the faintest hint of warmth from sun mostly hidden behind the clouds. “Um, Cole is—”
“He’s yummy. Isn’t he?” Janie demanded.
“Hot dogs are yummy,” Penelope said. “Not men.”
“Oh, Pen,” her sister sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for you to fall in love. Or at least meet a guy who gives you butterflies.”
There it was again. That pang.
Penelope had never told her sister how she’d felt about Evan, although she sometimes suspected that Janie knew and was too kind to mention it.
Or maybe her sister had just been hoping that silence on the matter would kill Penelope’s silly crush. Her sister had never liked Evan.
“Cole’s…attractive,” Penelope said, forcing her mind away from the past.
“Describe.”
She opened her mouth to try to describe his features to Janie, only to realize that there wasn’t anything particularly distinctive about them, other than that they all went together exceptionally well.
“He has a nice smile,” was what she settled on.
Janie let out a frustrated groan. “You’re hopeless.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter what he looks like,” Penelope grumbled. “He goes from being perfectly nice to being totally grumpy. He couldn’t even respond to my offer of coffee.”
“Sweetie, you’re his main competition for a pretty kick-ass job. Not everyone is as easygoing as you about such things.”
“I know,” Penelope said, running a pinky over the perfect crease of her dress slacks. “It’s just…I don’t really have any friends here. I thought maybe he could be one.”
Janie made a strangled noise. “You’re breaking my heart here. Come back to Chicago. You have a million friends here.”
Penelope squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Janie demanded. “New York can’t be that great. And I still can’t believe you moved there before knowing whether or not you got the job. I mean, you’ll get it, of course, but—”
