by Lauren Layne
No, her calming influence came from her being genuine. Despite her penchant for sports, there was no game playing with this woman.
He liked her. A lot.
Cole let out a laugh as he realized it had been a long time since he’d simply liked a woman, save for the Stiletto ladies, all of whom he counted among his closest friends.
But Julie, Grace, Riley, and Emma were either married or close to it.
Penelope was single.
Although maybe not for long. He’d lost count of the number of times over the course of the evening that one of the women had unsubtly asked if Lincoln was seeing anyone. He also hadn’t missed the way the seating arrangement had put Penelope between him and Lincoln.
As though they were supposed to fight over her, with Lincoln the one everyone was betting on.
But that wasn’t what was really bothering him. The Stiletto women, while meddling, were harmless.
What was bothering him was that his guy friends—the ones who knew him best—also seemed to think that Lincoln was better for Penelope.
They’d all but said as much when they’d been up on the rooftop admiring Jake’s new grill as though their man cards depended on it.
Their comments had been casual and off-the-cuff, but they’d stung all the same.
Sure, you’re both womanizers, but at least Lincoln is equal opportunity with his exes. Cole only likes ol’ leggy blondes, and none-too-bright.
Unless Penelope figures out a way to play for the Yankees, she can’t hold Cole’s interest for more than a week. Nobody does.
And worst of all, though meant as a joke, was Jake’s assertion that Lincoln had the dark secret thing going on, while with Cole, what you see is what you get.
It wasn’t that Cole needed to be all mysterious and alluring, or whatever the fuck Lincoln was. He didn’t want to be seen as the type of man who could be fixed with just the right woman.
But it did bother him that people thought he didn’t care about things. That he didn’t care about people.
Cole cared. He cared deeply. About Bobby. About his friends and co-workers. About the Stiletto women, and maybe…
Maybe he cared about Penelope Pope. Because, although he barely knew her, somehow here he was, walking her home, not out of duty, but because he wanted to.
Because he liked her.
New York was unusually quiet for a Friday night, due to the snowstorm, and Cole was surprised how quickly they made it back to Penelope’s place.
Too quickly, if he was being totally honest. He paused outside her building, ready to bid her a reluctant goodbye, but as usual, the woman surprised him.
She tilted her head back to look at him, the snow swirling around her, flakes soaking her dark hair, landing softly on her small features.
“Want to come up?” she asked.
Cole smiled. “Somehow I don’t think you mean that how it’s usually meant.”
Her nose scrunched. “Meaning?”
He grinned down at her, once again, marveling at the strange sense of tenderness that this woman pulled out of him. “Meaning that usually when a woman asks a man up to her apartment on a Friday night, it’s for sex.”
The word hung between them as she blinked against the swirling snowflakes. “I don’t want to have sex with you, Cole.”
“Because I’m not Lincoln?” he said.
Damn it. He’d meant the question playfully, but it came out…harsh.
Penelope merely laughed, a girlish happy sound. Did nothing bother her?
“I’m a hundred percent positive Lincoln’s not interested in me.”
It wasn’t quite the answer he hoped for. She hadn’t clarified that she wasn’t interested in Lincoln.
“And yet, he kissed you,” Cole pushed.
Her eyes rolled. “You know full well that was for his silly little story. It was hardly because he couldn’t keep his hands off me.”
“The Stiletto girls are trying to set you two up,” he said, unsure why he wasn’t just letting this drop.
“No they’re not.”
He folded his arms and gave her a smug look. “Oh yeah? Then why wouldn’t they quit nudging you and Lincoln together tonight?”
Penelope let out another one of those delighted laughs. “Because they’re trying to set me up with you. Riley said something about igniting your competitive juices.”
Cole stared at her, the pieces slowly falling into place. He’d suspected early on that that had been the plan, but then everyone had started talking about Lincoln, and he figured they’d shifted course.
Apparently not.
Then he laughed, mostly at himself, for not figuring them out sooner. It was so them. His friends could be…crafty. Their hearts were in the right place, always, but he should have known better to take anything they said at face value.
“Yeah. I tried to tell them it was ridiculous,” she said. She smiled again, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He took a step forward. “Hold up now, Tiny. Did you think I was laughing at you just now?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Just the prospect of us together is so…”
He took another step closer, even as he wondered what the hell he was doing. He shouldn’t play games with her. She was too good for that.
And yet it didn’t feel like a game. It felt…
Well, hell. He had no idea how to explain what was going on here. If anything was going on.
“I was laughing at my own stupidity,” he explained quietly. “I should have known they’d be up to something.”
She smiled slightly, and even through the thickening snowfall he saw that she didn’t believe him.
What the hell had happened to this smiling, lovely woman to convince her that she was undesirable? That the prospect of a guy having any sort of sexual interest in her was laughable?
Sure, she wasn’t overtly sexy. But Cole was beginning to think that had more to do with the fact that Penelope herself never seemed to be thinking about sex, rather than the fact that men didn’t think about sex with her.
Cole definitely wasn’t finding it a stretch to think of Penelope in a not so platonic fashion. Something about her big eyes and petite body and—
Her gloved hands reached out to wrap lightly around his forearms as she went on her toes and kissed his cheek.
Cole wasn’t terribly tall—six feet, give or take—but Penelope was so short that he had to move his head down, just slightly, so that she could reach.
“Thanks for a nice evening, Cole.” Her fingers squeezed lightly as she took a step back, and the gesture was friendly to the point of being sisterly.
Which didn’t explain why Cole found himself, just slightly, stunned by the contact.
She lifted her hand with another of those happy grins and started to turn away, and something in Cole snapped, and he wanted to prove…something.
To her? To himself?
Hell, he didn’t know. Didn’t bother to think. “Hey, Penelope.”
She turned back around. “Yeah?”
His eyes locked on hers. “You never answered Lincoln’s question.”
She looked at him in confusion. “What question?”
“About the type of kiss you prefer.”
Her lips parted slightly, and damned if he wasn’t getting to know this woman, because he spotted the flicker of wariness on her face even as she pushed it away with a smile. “Oh, well…we really only tried the one, you know?”
“Did you like it?”
What the hell, Sharpe? What are you doing?
The snow had eased up, just a few flakes floating around them now. “Um, I guess so?”
Her voice was straight-up nervous now, and if he had any decency, he’d let it drop. Instead he moved toward her again.
“You don’t sound convinced. Head-holding kisses aren’t your thing, then?”
Her laugh was breathy. Nervous. “Well, it wasn’t the most romantic of situations. It was hard to really, um, gauge.”
“Huh,” he said, stopping when there were just a few inches separating them. She didn’t back away from him, but her eyes were cautious, her body language telling him to back off.
He didn’t.
“When was the last time you’ve been decently kissed, Penelope?”
She licked her lips. The gesture was more nervous than it was seductive, but damned if Cole wasn’t seduced all the same.
This was madness.
She was his co-worker. They spent eight to five together, Monday through Friday. Did he really want to go and complicate that?
No. He didn’t.
Especially considering the little pep talk she’d given him a couple weeks ago about how they were going to be friends. Just friends.
Tell her good night. Go home and take a cold shower. Or better yet, go home and call one of the dozen of willing, uncomplicated women in your black book who will know the score.
But then he saw it. Saw that she saw the moment he’d decided to walk away. That she’d been expecting it.
Cole didn’t have a temper, wasn’t prone to bursts of anger. But he was good and pissed. Pissed at whomever had taught her that she didn’t deserve a hot good-night kiss on a New York City sidewalk.
Cole tugged off his glove, then slipped his hand around the back of her neck, his thumb running along her jawline, as he slid his other arm around her back, the bulk of her puffy winter coat doing nothing to disguise how small she was.
“Cole—”
He bent his knees slightly as he used his thumb to hook under her chin, tilting her face up to his. He paused for the briefest of moments—giving her the opportunity to pull away…to protest if she didn’t want this.
She didn’t protest.
He kissed her.
He kissed Penelope Pope in the snow like his life depended on it.
His lips moved against hers insistently, swallowing the sweet breathy noises she made, his arm bringing them even more firmly together.
And when she molded herself against him, her snowy gloved hands coming up to cup his face, Cole forgot all about the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this. Forgot about the fact that this was going to make Monday morning a hell of a lot more complicated.
He thought only of her. Of them. His tongue nudged her lips apart, and she surprised him by slipping her own tongue into his mouth, tangling with his in teasing yet urgent strokes.
For someone who claimed to not have much kissing experience, she sure as hell seemed to know precisely what he liked.
He shifted them even closer, the hand on her neck sliding back so that her head was cradled in the crook of his elbow, as he held her small frame against him and devoured her mouth.
A car door slammed, and Penelope jumped, her hands pushing against his shoulders as she moved away.
It was on the tip of Cole’s tongue to protest the end of the kiss, when he saw the panicked look on her face.
She was freaked out.
Abruptly he released her and stepped back.
Penelope gave a painfully awkward smile to the elderly couple who’d just exited the cab and given them an indulgent look.
Cole was still trying to gather his thoughts—hell, was still waiting for the world to stop spinning—when she closed the distance between them once again, her hand coming up as she jabbed a finger in his face.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
Cole’s mouth dropped open.
Not exactly the response he’d been expecting. Or hoping for.
“Hey, hold on now—” he said.
He reached for her, but she stepped back. “Don’t you dare, Cole Sharpe.”
Her voice was firm and unwavering, but her lips shook, just a little, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on here.
Talk about mixed signals. She looked mad and scared and aroused, all at the same time.
“Penelope—”
She shook her head. “No. I told you we weren’t doing this. That day at the Irish bar, remember?”
“Sure, but—”
“I don’t want this, Cole. I don’t want you, not like this.”
Well…hell. What did a man say to that?
He wanted to snap that her kiss had said otherwise. That a woman didn’t kiss the hell out of a man she doesn’t want.
“You’re telling me you didn’t feel anything with that kiss?” he asked, hating what the question revealed—that he’d felt something—but he threw it out there anyway.
She looked away, and his eyes narrowed. “Of course I did. You’re very…skilled.”
He felt a little thrill of victory, and started to reach for her again, but her next words stopped him cold.
“But so was Lincoln. Skilled, I mean. And don’t get me wrong, it’s flattering to have all you gorgeous guys kissing girls like me all willy-nilly, but I don’t— Don’t do it again. Please.”
It was that last word. The please uttered with just the tiniest bit of pleading that had his hands dropping to his sides once more.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
He felt defeated. And rejected. Neither was a familiar sensation, and neither was pleasant.
But what could he do?
He’d been in her shoes dozens of times. It was never easy telling a woman that she wanted more than he had to give.
Somehow he’d never pictured how it would be on the other side, and…
It sucked.
He started to turn away, when she called his name.
Cole turned around, found her watching him with a nervous expression. “We’ll be okay, right? On Monday?”
He forced a grin. “Absolutely, Tiny.”
It wasn’t until he’d put several blocks between the two of them that he let his forced smile slip.
But as he trudged home through the snow, Cole knew one thing for sure. Penelope Pope would never find out just how much that kiss had rocked him.
Or how much that rejection had burned.
Chapter 11
True to Cole’s word, he hadn’t let Monday get awkward.
Nor Tuesday. Or Wednesday…or any of the days that followed. Nearly two weeks had passed, and to say that it was like the kiss had never happened was the ultimate in understatements.
Which was good. Really good.
Or so Penelope had told herself twice a day, every day since it had happened.
“Yo, Tiny—you coming to lunch?” Cole asked, knocking on her doorframe.
Lincoln appeared behind Cole. “Yes, come with.”
She chewed her lip. “I shouldn’t. I brought a sandwich.”
Cole made a thumbs-down motion. “Boo. We’re going to Roadie’s.”
“Onion rings,” Penelope breathed reverently.
Cole lifted an eyebrow in challenge. The man was getting to know her all too well. He understood that her appetite ran more toward battered and fried onions than it did the turkey on whole wheat sandwich that was waiting for her in the fridge.
Then she glanced down at the article she was working on. “I have to finish this before my meeting with Cassidy.”
“Need help?” Cole asked. “I can stay.”
Cole didn’t see the surprised, thoughtful look Lincoln shot him¸ but Penelope did. Lincoln shifted his gaze to hers, wiggling his eyebrows, and she gave him a Knock it off look.
“No, I’m good,” she told Cole, not wanting Lincoln to get the wrong idea. Or heck, not wanting Cole to get the wrong idea.
Although she doubted she needed to worry about that. Any vibes she’d gotten the night of The Kiss that he’d seen her as a woman rather than a colleague hadn’t made even the briefest reappearance.
Cole shrugged and he and Lincoln headed off to lunch.
Penelope returned to her computer. She tried to lose herself in the world of golf stats, but golf was one sport Penelope had never been able to get particularly excited about, and she found herself pulling up Facebook instead.
A mistake.
“Oh Go
d,” she breathed as she looked closer at the screen.
Without tearing her eyes away from the screen she reached for her cellphone. Two rings later her sister picked up.
“I’ll never forgive you for helping Mom get on Facebook,” Penelope said by way of greeting.
Janie groaned. “What now?”
“Let’s just say she’s interpreted Throwback Thursday as ‘opportunity to show my daughters naked,’ ” Penelope said.
“Again? How many naked pictures does she have?”
“Lots, apparently,” Penelope said. “Today’s feature is of you running around in a diaper with ketchup smeared all over your face, and she caught me in the process of whipping my sunflower dress over my head.”
“You know, you always did have a naked thing—”
“I do not have a naked thing,” Penelope said.
Although, with as many pictures as her mother had of her tearing her clothes off, her sister might be onto something.
“Did you see her post last night about Dad’s bunion?” Janie asked. “It got a hundred and four likes. I didn’t get that many likes when I announced my engagement.”
“It’s not right,” Penelope muttered, as she scanned the highly amused comments on her mother’s post. “We should change her password.”
“Eh, at least it keeps her busy,” Janie said dismissively. “Now she only calls me once a day instead of five. You?”
“I’m still on the thrice-a-day schedule, but I’m hoping that’ll die down once she understands I’m not at constant risk of being mugged.”
Penelope’s phone beeped, and she pulled it back to look at the incoming call.
She smiled. Of course it would be her mother.
She went back to Janie. “Mom’s calling. Don’t even try to tell me that she doesn’t have us bugged to know when we’re talking about her. I know she does.”
“Have fun with that,” Janie said in a singsong voice. “Also, next time you call me, it better be to discuss your adult naked time—”
Penelope switched over from Janie to her mother before her sister could finish.
“Hey Mom.”
“Penny! Hi, honey!”
Penelope smiled. Lydia Pope was of one of those chronically happy people whose face was never without a smile, and whose voice was never without an exclamation point.
