by Lauren Layne
She gestured awkwardly over her frame with her hands.
Lincoln looked her over, and Penelope sighed in resignation over what he’d see. She was wearing a skirt today—a slim gray affair, and a pink shirt—pink! But even still, she knew that the effect was hardly femme fatale.
Hell, it was barely feminine.
No matter what she did, no matter what color lipstick, no matter how high the heels, she never quite managed to escape the little-girl-playing-dress-up effect.
“I’m liking what I see,” Lincoln said.
“Oh my God,” someone muttered. Penelope wasn’t sure if it was Cole or Jake.
Still, Lincoln’s voice was more polite than it was enamored or lecherous, so she merely smiled.
Penelope hadn’t been here long, but she’d caught on pretty quick that Cole and Lincoln both had reps as ladies’ men. She could see why. They were both painfully good-looking.
And yet there was something about Lincoln…something about the way he held himself back and treated women with a deferential respect even as he charmed their pants off…
At least, she assumed. Lincoln hadn’t charmed her pants off. He hadn’t tried, really. And she was glad. He was handsome, and yet Lincoln wasn’t the one who sometimes made her heart beat a little too fast.
“How about the last time you were kissed, Tiny?”
Penelope’s head whipped around toward Cole. “What?”
He shrugged. “You said it’s been a while, but surely it hasn’t been so long that you can’t remember how you like to be kissed. So which is it? Do you like when a man holds your head? Your waist? Your back?”
“Cole!” Jake said in exasperation.
“I, um—” Penelope bit her lip, wondering how the hell she could stay relevant in this conversation without betraying the horrible truth that she didn’t really have a favorite, because she’d always found kissing…overrated.
“Okay, that’s it,” Lincoln said, throwing his hands up before tossing his pen and notebook on the desk.
He got to his feet, then gestured for Penelope to do the same.
“Up,” he said.
“What?”
“Stand up.” His voice was calm. Cajoling. “It’s experiment time.”
“No,” Jake said. “No fucking way. This is an office, Lincoln, she’s our colleague. HR or no HR, you can’t just go around kissing her.”
Lincoln frowned. “It’s not a romantic kiss. It’s just like when the guy over in the booze section brings in whiskey to taste-test. We’re experimenting. And she can say no.”
“But—”
“No, it’s okay,” Penelope said, holding out a hand to stop Jake’s objections. “Lincoln’s right. It doesn’t have to be weird.”
What the hell are you doing? This is so not you.
Penelope ignored the voice and stood up.
She was comfortable with who she was—really. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a tiny part of her that was tired of being one of the guys. And that same part of her was doing cartwheels because a handsome man was offering to kiss her—no, more important, he was looking at her as someone who deserved to be kissed.
No way she was going to turn that down, meaningless or not.
“Okay,” Lincoln said moving closer. “This is good. Here’s option one.”
“You can’t be serious,” Cole said, his voice pissed.
Penelope glanced at him, surprised by the sharpness in his tone. His face matched his tone—incredulous and maybe a little…angry?
“Ignore him,” Lincoln said, drawing her attention back to him. “Ready for this, darling?”
“Um—”
Lincoln’s hand closed over her face, then gently but strongly…and wow, okay…she understood what he’d meant by the head hold. It was nice.
Lincoln’s mouth closed over hers, and Penelope’s eyes fluttered closed, as she assessed.
It was also…nice. Not exactly toe-curling but…nice.
He pulled back.
“No?” he asked. “How about this one?”
His hands moved to her shoulders, tugging her forward again. Penelope’s eyes closed once more, wondering if this one would be a bit more, well, exciting, but his lips never touched hers.
Instead, he released her altogether.
She opened her eyes in confusion.
Cole was leaning across her desk, his hand on Lincoln’s shoulder, having clearly just shoved the other man away from her.
“Get it together,” Cole said. “Jake’s right, you can’t just go around macking on female employees.”
“Macking on,” Jake muttered from behind her. “Really?”
“It’s a fucking lawsuit waiting to happen,” Cole growled.
“Uh-huh,” Lincoln said, crossing his arms. “You’ve been an employee less than a month, and you’re worried about Internal Affairs?”
“Fuck no, I’m worried about her,” Cole said, pointing at Penelope.
She couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled up then, and Cole gave her an incredulous look.
“Sorry,” she said, trying to keep her face straight, and failing. “It’s just…you look a lot like my dad right now.”
Cole’s mouth dropped open just as Jake let out a muffled laugh and Lincoln put a fist in front of his mouth, blue eyes twinkling in amusement.
“Your dad?” Cole said, sounding horrified.
Lincoln glanced at his watch. “Shit. Malone. We’re late for that meeting.”
“What meeting?” Jake asked.
Lincoln gave him a pointed look as he grabbed his notebook and pen. “Fine, you want to stay here and watch this go down, be my guest—”
“Oh, that meeting?” Jake said. “Right. We’re late.”
“Thanks for the kiss,” Penelope called playfully after Lincoln. “I think head-holding is definitely—”
She broke off when she saw Alex Cassidy standing in the doorway. His expression gave away nothing, but there was no way he hadn’t heard her loudly thanking her colleague for a kiss.
Penelope felt a blush rise to her cheek as their boss looked around at the four of them.
“We were, ah, doing some research,” Lincoln said, scooting by Cassidy.
Jake followed Lincoln, holding up his left hand innocently as he did so. “Didn’t touch her. I’m married.”
Cassidy narrowed his eyes at the two men before shifting his attention back to Penelope, then to Cole.
Then he merely rolled his eyes and walked away.
Penelope blew out a sigh of relief as she slumped back into her chair. “Whew. Do you think it’s always like this around here?”
“Don’t sound so hopeful,” Cole muttered grumpily.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “Like you wouldn’t have done the same in Lincoln’s position. I see the way you flirt with the receptionist every morning.”
“Flirt with is different than make out with,” he said, hands braced on the desk as he loomed over her.
Penelope rolled her eyes. “It was one five-second kiss. Hardly a makeout session.”
“So you didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
His eyebrow lifted in challenge.
“Well, you interrupted,” she huffed. “Maybe if he’d gotten to the other methods of kissing, I would have gotten a little more excited.”
Cole looked at her for several seconds before standing up straight. “I don’t think so.”
“Why, because I’m not capable of passion?” she asked, her voice sounding more defensive than she’d intended.
He was in the process of walking by her, but paused at that.
Cole glanced down, his expression thoughtful.
“Nah, I think you’re plenty capable.” He waited until Penelope met his gaze. “I just don’t think Lincoln’s your guy.”
He winked, then strolled out of her office, good humor apparently restored, closing the door behind him.
The second the door clicked shut, she slumped back in her
chair, feeling flustered.
Cole was wrong. There was nothing the matter with Lincoln. That kiss would have been exactly the same coming from anyone else. Say, coming from Cole, for example.
She pushed out of her guest chair and moved around the desk to her actual chair.
Penelope was suddenly desperate to lose herself in work. Desperate to ignore that little voice in the back of her head whispering, Liar.
Chapter 8
Cole wasn’t exactly sure what had made him suggest that he and Penelope show up together at Jake and Grace’s dinner party.
If anything, he should have gone out of his way not to make a thing out of it.
It was bad enough that they’d be some of the only people not coupled-up at the party. And, despite Jake’s claims, Cole wasn’t at all sure that the Stiletto girls weren’t angling for a setup.
Arriving at the same time would only put the wrong idea in everybody’s head. Well, everybody except Penelope.
It was almost insulting how thoroughly he’d been put in the friend zone.
Or at least, he’d be insulted if he weren’t vastly relieved. The last thing he needed was a romantic entanglement with a co-worker.
Which absolutely did not explain why he was currently standing outside her apartment building feeling decidedly excited to see her.
Penelope lived in a mid-rise on the Upper West Side. Well, Upper Upper West Side, given how far north she was. He should know. He lived almost as far north, except on the eastern side of Central Park. The walk over had taken him only ten minutes.
He grimaced as he realized he was already trying to come up with an explanation for why he was stopping by her place first.
Cole knew his friends all too well. No way would they buy his “she was on the way” excuse.
Still, she was on the way, sort of, and here he was.
Cole used the callbox to ring her apartment, smiling as her frazzled voice came out all tinny. “Cole?”
“Yup.”
“Get up here!”
He lifted an eyebrow at the urgency in her tone. A couple minutes later, she opened the door, and he understood.
“Yikes,” he said, looking her over. Penelope was wearing a fuzzy white robe, her hair in a messy bun, her eyes huge and panicked.
“I fell asleep,” she said, jerking him inside. “I meant to take a quick nap and then next thing I knew it was six o’clock…”
“I can wait downstairs,” he said politely.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, putting both hands on his back and pushing him in the direction of her bedroom. “I need help.”
“Uh—” Cole balked a little. Usually when a woman needed “help” in the bedroom—
“Tell me everything about these people,” she said, running her fingers into her hair as she went to stand in front of her closet. “Are they like old New York, or trendy New York? Like, we talking Fashion Week or Audrey Hepburn, or—”
He stared at her, aghast. “You want me to help you figure out what to wear?”
She turned around, eyes pleading. “I’m terrible at this kind of thing.”
“Tiny, with all due respect, I’m a hell of a lot better at undressing women than dressing them.”
“No doubt,” she said dismissively, looking him over. “But look at you. You look like you should be one of the Oxford models, not a columnist.”
He glanced down at his jeans, white button-down and navy sports jacket, which he didn’t consider exactly male model attire.
She pulled out an ugly yellow dress. “What about this?”
Cole sighed. Wow. She wasn’t kidding. She really was bad at this.
“They’re not going to care about what you’re wearing, Penelope. But, uh…not that.”
She stomped her foot. “Cole!”
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”
He went to her closet, rummaging through the hangers. “Seriously, woman, how many different jerseys do you have?”
“About half as many as I do ratty T-shirts,” she said glumly.
“You don’t look ratty at work,” he said, pulling out an Ichiro jersey from his Mariners days. “Is this a child’s size?”
“Yes, they’re all child-size,” she said. “It’s the only thing that fits. But I’m not going to show up dressed like a right fielder, so focus.”
“What about one of the boring outfits you wear to work? Slacks and a button-down, or something?”
“Well, considering you just called said outfits boring…”
He looked at her. “What do you feel most comfortable in?”
“Jeans and a T-shirt, obviously, but sometimes—”
She broke off and he lifted an expectant eyebrow.
“Yes, Tiny?” he cajoled when she looked down at the floor.
“Sometimes I’m in the mood to feel pretty.”
Her voice was quiet when she said it, and damned if his heart didn’t break just a little for her.
He had the strangest urge to pull her toward him. To tell her that she was pretty. Maybe to run his hands up her back, show her one of those kissing techniques that Lincoln had mentioned—
He grunted and pushed the thought aside. The last thing he needed to do was replay that day in the office when he’d felt something suspiciously close to jealousy.
Cole didn’t do jealous.
Certainly not over a woman who’d all but drawn a line in the sand and labeled it platonic.
He returned his attention to her closet, pulling out a bright blue halter top that was sort of silky.
“What about this?”
She eyed it skeptically. “What would I wear it with?”
Cole rolled his eyes, turned back toward the closet, and pulled out a pair of jeans. “Put these on.”
“But—”
Cole pointed a finger at her face. “Get dressed. If you want my help, you have to trust me.”
She glowered at him for several seconds before relenting with a sigh. “Fine.”
Then, to his utter shock, she pulled off her robe and threw it onto the bed.
He whirled around to face away from her, but not before he’d gotten an eyeful of Penelope Pope in a strapless bra and panties.
“Jesus.”
“Oh, stop,” she said. “It’s not like there’s a whole lot going on here.”
He sucked in a breath. His raging hard-on said otherwise.
How the hell had that happened? Usually it took more than an accidental sneak peek of a woman in bra and panties to turn him on.
But no doubt about it. He was turned on.
He tried to block out the sound of her jeans sliding up over her slim hips, tried to block out the urge to pull them back down again.
“All right,” she said a few moments later. “You can turn around. I’m dressed, so no more threats to your virtue.”
He gave a skeptical glance over his shoulder, confirmed that she was clothed, and then turned to face her more fully.
She held her hands out to the side. “Well? Are you overwhelmed?”
He turned back toward her closet, located her shoe rack, and pulled off a pair of standard black high heels.
“Unh-uh,” she said, looking at them like they were a dead rat. “Remember what happened last time I wore high heels? It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
“That’s where I come in handy,” he said. “You can hold my arm.”
“Oh yeah, because that’ll make them more comfortable,” she said. “Plus it’s supposed to snow tonight.”
Cole threw his arms in the air. “Damn it, woman. Wear your sneakers for all I care.”
She pursed her lips. “Nah. Boots.”
“Fine. Can we go now?”
“No! What about makeup? I’ve mastered mascara, mostly, but I could use some help on what eye shadow would look good.”
Cole stared at her, waiting to see if she was joking, then shook his head. “No. Hell no.”
He moved toward the door and she followed h
im. “But I don’t know—”
Cole pulled her small purse off a hook by the door. “This what you’re bringing?”
“Yes, but—”
He looped the strap unceremoniously over her shoulder. “Get your cellphone or whatever else you need and then we’re out of here.”
She opened her mouth. “But—”
He sighed and took a step forward. Her words broke off as his hands lifted to her head. Very slowly, his fingers pushed into her hair, trying to ignore how silky it felt against his fingers as he sought out the rubber band that held it in place.
Gently, he tugged, sliding the band inch by inch until her dark hair spilled all over her shoulders. All over his hands.
“There,” he said, his voice just slightly rough. “Now you’re ready.”
She was looking up at him, her expression unreadable, and he felt a sudden surge of tenderness for this woman he barely knew and yet somehow knew completely.
Cole cleared his throat and took a step back. “You don’t need makeup to look good, Penelope.”
“That’s what guys always say the second before they give themselves whiplash looking at some gussied-up Victoria’s Secret model,” she grumbled lightly as she pulled on her boots.
“Sure,” he agreed amiably. “But just because we want to sleep with the Victoria’s Secret model doesn’t mean we want to wake up beside her in the morning.”
“Well, that’s very comforting, Sharpe,” she said primly as she locked her door. “But save it for someone who isn’t alone every night and every morning.”
Cole wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing as they made their way down the hall to her elevator.
Penelope looked thoughtful as she punched the down button. “Hey, did Cassidy or Jake mention if Lincoln would be there tonight?”
He gave her a startled look. “Do you want him to be?”
She didn’t respond as she stepped into the elevator.
Cole followed her a little surprised—and annoyed—by how desperately he wanted her to answer.
Chapter 9
It took all of five minutes of being at the Malones’ gorgeous high-rise apartment for Penelope to realize what was happening: She was hanging out with the beautiful people.
Those people you saw in TV or movies. The ones you watched while wearing sweats and shoving popcorn in your face and thinking that real people couldn’t possibly look like that. And surely people didn’t really throw dinner parties where there’s a color scheme to the table linens and fresh flowers all over the place.
