by Lauren Layne
Lincoln shrugged. “It’s almost done. It’s fine.”
“Cassidy’s going to want better than fine.”
Lincoln set the dog down and spun on the rotating stool slightly. “Well, it’s not like he gave me Pulitzer material to work with. Basically I’ve just talked to a couple dozen women, figured out what they’re looking for in a dude. Then I’ll spin it, explain how it’s different from New York women—”
“So they are different? From us New York girls?” Penelope cut in.
“You’re from Chicago,” Cole said.
She put her small hand over his face and pushed him away. “I love the way the Southern girls talk. All soft and feathery. Super-hot. Do you love it, Lincoln?”
“Pen. Do we have to have guy talk?” he said, grimacing.
“Yes,” she said emphatically.
Lincoln smiled. “Fine. Yes, there are plenty of beautiful women down here, and yeah, the accent is kind of hot.”
“Women, plural?”
He paused in spinning around in his chair. “You know I’m not down here to date, right? Cassidy just banished me so I could clear my head, not find a frigging life mate. I’ll be back next week. And speaking of, how’s my replacement doing?”
“Nick? He’s fine. I like him. A lot.”
Cole came back into the picture with another piece of pizza. “Oh do you?”
“Nick’s a part-time bartender,” Penelope told Lincoln. “Sometimes he can be talked into making cocktails in the break room in the afternoon.”
Lincoln nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to smile. Nick Ballantine had been brought in to cover the online portion of Lincoln’s job, which basically entailed making sure their contract online journalists didn’t shit the bed with crap articles, making sure everything went up on time, and writing posts himself as time allowed.
Lincoln had been checking the Oxford website daily, torn between dread that the guy would ruin what Lincoln had built, and fear that he wouldn’t.
So far, it was the latter. Nick seemed damn competent, and it pissed Lincoln off. He knew Cassidy wouldn’t replace him after a week away, not even two weeks, but it still sucked to feel so…replaceable.
It was also a rude awakening to realize just how much Lincoln had let work become the center of his being in the past couple years. Lincoln had accepted the Oxford job because he liked writing, liked the team, and because it paid well, but he was starting to wonder if he hadn’t let it define him—letting it become everything after Katie’s accident. A way to distract himself from the pain.
And then here comes this new guy, stepping in like it was no big deal…
“You all right there, Mathis?” Cole asked. “Kiwi’s bow fall out or something?”
“Yeah, fine,” he said, turning his head at the sound of a car engine.
Lincoln leaned back slightly, looking out the window that faced the main house. He expected to see Daisy’s car leaving, but instead it was another car arriving. And not Whitney’s red Mustang. A silver sedan.
“So how’s Daisy?” Penelope asked.
He looked back at the screen. “She’s good. Great, actually. Couldn’t ask for a better host.”
“Well, duh, she’s Emma’s twin. Of course she’s going to be awesome. You guys are getting along?”
Lincoln’s eyes narrowed at the too-casual tone. “Did Emma ask you to find out if Daisy and I were sleeping together?”
“No,” Cole answered for Pen. “But Cassidy did.”
Lincoln swore softly, and tried not to think about the hotter-than-hot sex dream. “We’re not. We’re friends. I’m nowhere near being in a relationship place right now, and she’s…”
“She’s…?”
“Going on a date later this week,” Lincoln said, glancing again toward the window in time to see a tall, stocky man get out of the car.
“How do we feel about that?” Cole asked.
“We feel damn good about it. Maybe even a little proud, since I’m the one who helped her get the guy’s number.”
“Dang,” Penelope muttered. “Somehow I don’t think that you playing matchmaker for Daisy and some dude in a bar is how Emma and Cassidy saw this thing going.”
“Well, that’s the way it is going, so they better get used to it.”
Hell, Lincoln was trying to get used to it. He told himself that it had been a fun challenge on Saturday night, telling a woman how to get a man instead of telling men how to get a woman. He’d even considered that it could be a fun spin on an article, and made a note to pitch Cassidy and Camille, the editor in chief of Stiletto, on a sort of role-reversal piece.
The writer in Lincoln had felt a surge of satisfaction when he’d seen a laughing Daisy take the man’s iPhone and enter her phone number.
The man in him had felt something hot and primal about the way the other guy’s gaze had lingered on Daisy’s bare back as she’d walked away.
He glanced again toward the window. Daisy had come out of the house, meeting the guy halfway to his car. They were talking, but it didn’t seem to be a good conversation. Lincoln could see only their profiles, but both expressions were angry, the man’s arms waving wildly.
It had to be her ex-husband. Lincoln would put money on it.
His eyes narrowed as Daisy tensed and took a step back.
“Guys, I’ll call you back,” Lincoln said. “Sorry.”
He disconnected the Skype call in the middle of their good-byes and pushed the chair back, going to the window to keep an eye on Daisy.
She was still angry. He could see it in the tense line of her mouth, the way she crossed her arms, but there was something else too. Something…
The man’s arm lifted, still waving wildly, and the guy’s shouting was loud enough so that Lincoln could hear the anger, if not the words.
The man shouted something, and stepped toward Daisy, and then Lincoln saw it.
Saw her fear.
Daisy flinched, raising both arms in front of her face as though to protect herself.
As though to protect herself.
Motherfucker. That was the missing piece of Daisy’s story. She hadn’t just had a bad divorce. The guy hadn’t just cheated on her.
He’d hit her.
Lincoln knew it with every fiber in his being. It explained the sometimes haunted look in Daisy’s eyes and the way she seemed always ready to run if someone—especially a man—touched her too long.
It probably also explained why the bastard had left Daisy with a huge house, two Mercedeses, and a hefty alimony check.
Hush money. He was trying to keep her quiet about the real reason they weren’t together anymore.
Because he’d hit her. This Gary bastard had hit Lincoln’s beautiful, funny, kind Daisy.
The thought filled Lincoln with a fury he’d never felt before, white and hot and pure.
Before he could think better of it, he’d opened the door to the guesthouse and was striding toward Daisy and her ex.
Chapter 21
One second Daisy was braced for the all-too-familiar pain of Gary’s fist against her cheek, and the next, her ex was flying back into the perfectly groomed, hideous hedges he’d always wanted.
“You fucking son of a bitch.”
Daisy’s eyes widened as she registered what she was seeing. What had just happened.
Lincoln’s hand grabbed the front of Gary’s dress shirt, hauling him to his feet only to send him sprawling backward again with another fist to the face.
“What the fuck?” Gary lifted a hand to his face, then pulled it away and stared in horror at the blood there. “You broke my fucking nose.”
“You deserve a hell of a lot more than that broken.”
Lincoln’s hand fisted again, but Daisy leapt forward, grabbing his arm, cupping his fist in her palms.
He snarled, lifted his hand as though to shake her off, but then he looked down. He swore softly, closing his eyes and breathing in through his nose, as though forcibly trying to calm himself.
For her.
He was trying not to scare her.
“Please,” she whispered.
He gave a curt nod, although his face was still granite. There was no sign of the affable Lincoln anywhere, nor the sad version.
This was alpha Lincoln—angry, stubborn, and struggling mightily for self-control.
“He’s not worth it,” she said quietly.
“No, but you are,” he said, meeting her eyes.
She squeezed his hand in gratitude then released it, but not before Gary witnessed the interlude and decided to make things worse for himself by opening his idiotic mouth.
“This is him, isn’t it?” Gary said, pushing awkwardly to his feet. “This is the douchebag Brian saw you with at the bar the other night, wearing a slutty dress, conducting yourself like a damned whore for everyone to see—”
“Sorry, Wallflower,” Lincoln muttered. “Has to be done.”
His fist collided with Gary’s face once more, but this time he grabbed her ex-husband’s shirt, hauling him forward when he would have reeled backward.
Lincoln dragged Gary over to his car. Gary was thick, but Lincoln was stronger, and for the first time, Daisy saw her ex-husband as he actually was:
Weak.
Weak in spirit, character, and, at the moment, weaker physically.
She crossed her arms over her waist as she watched Lincoln shove Gary against the car door, a forearm pressed against his throat.
Daisy couldn’t hear the words, but the intent was clear, both from the furious but resigned expression on Gary’s face and the cool, controlled rage on Lincoln’s.
She felt a soft brush against her ankles, and she knelt to pick up Kiwi. The front door of the guesthouse was open, telling her that Lincoln had come over in a hurry.
Daisy kissed the top of the dog’s head, brushing her cheek against the sweet little purple bow as she watched Gary get into his car.
Gary didn’t look at her. Not once as he put the car in reverse and made his way back down the long tree-lined driveway that he himself had designed.
That’s when she knew—it was over. Gary was done with her, and she with him, and he wouldn’t be coming back. It had taken her a long time to understand Gary. To understand that he was a bully, but the chickenshit kind.
He liked being king of the roost too much to ever come back to where he’d been bested.
Daisy hated Gary, but she also knew him. And she knew that in his messed-up mind, she’d now been tainted by Lincoln’s strength. Gary wouldn’t look at her and see a woman he could best; he’d look at her and remember the way Lincoln had pinned him to that car like a rag doll.
Lincoln stood perfectly still, watching until Gary’s BMW disappeared from view before turning toward her. Neither of them moved as their eyes caught and held, but she felt the intensity of his gaze.
She meant to go to him. To tell him thank you. But when she tried to step forward, her knees felt wobbly, so instead she took a step backward, shakily lowering herself to the step of the front porch.
He was beside her in an instant, sitting close but not too close, as though instinctively knowing she couldn’t handle physical contact at the moment.
“You okay?” he asked gruffly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good—no,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m not okay. I hate him. I hate myself when I’m near him, I hate that I cowered.”
She lowered her head, resting her forehead along Kiwi’s back, as the little dog sat curled protectively in her lap.
Daisy felt Lincoln shift closer, near enough to comfort, not so close as to crowd. “You know I’m the last person to urge someone to talk about it before they’re ready,” he said quietly. “But Daisy. You’re ready.”
She nodded against the dog’s fur, realizing that she was crying. Kiwi squirmed, maneuvering so that she could lick at Daisy’s damp cheek, and Daisy smiled in spite of herself.
“It only happened a few times,” she said, lifting her head and wiping at her tears. “I’m not saying that makes it any better, but sometimes I think it’s not the couple times he hit me that did the most damage, so much as the nonstop verbal abuse. You know, that idea that outside bruises heal, but the ones inside…those stick with you.”
Kiwi placed her front paws on Daisy’s chest and licked her chin, offering her own special kind of comfort.
“And I have talked to someone,” Daisy said. “I went to a therapist three times a week after we separated, and I owe her everything. I think she’s the only reason I’m not entirely broken right now. Just a little bit.”
“You’re not broken,” Lincoln said quietly. “Someone that weak could never break someone so strong.”
“Almost, though,” she said, turning her face toward his stark profile. “He almost did. I wanted so badly to be a good wife, a good companion. Not in the ‘little woman’ kind of way. Or maybe that way, I don’t even know. I just know that I was so happy, and I wanted him to be happy. So I wanted to be perfect.”
She adjusted Kiwi’s bow and pressed on. “We used to live in a swanky condo downtown, and he didn’t want me to work. I guess maybe in hindsight that was a warning sign but instead I threw myself into building the perfect home. Everything was always clean; the meals I cooked were fancy, took me hours. He was mostly pleased. It was easier there. The place was small, only a couple rooms to keep spotless. But then we moved here, and there was so much more to do. I had a cleaning service come once a week, but he was always angry about something. The clutter in the garage, or the grocery bag I hadn’t unloaded by the time he’d gotten home. The first time he hit me was when I hadn’t read his mind and gotten more of the flavored sparkling water he wanted. I thought he was joking when he got mad about it. I laughed, told him I’d get more tomorrow, and he just…lost it.”
Lincoln dragged both hands over his face and swore softly.
“I wish I could say I was one of those women who get out first thing,” she said. “But instead I was one of those women who convince themselves that it was a one-time incident. That he hadn’t meant to. He was horrified, and so apologetic, and for weeks after that he tried so hard to be kind and funny. Like the Gary I’d dated, you know? But then, slowly, it started again. The criticisms. The complaining, the tantrums. He hit me twice more. After the second time, I researched how to file for divorce. After the third time, I acted on it. By then he had his mistress and she was pregnant, and everyone assumed that was the reason for the divorce. And that was that, really. The end.”
“No, not the end, Daisy,” Lincoln said. “He came over today. You’ve seen him since the divorce?”
“This was the first time. He’s kept his distance. I’m sure he hoped that I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“What did he want?”
“One of his friends—a total misogynistic prick named Brian—was at the restaurant the other night. Saw us together, told Gary. Apparently, he’s able to knock up his secretary and marry her, but I’m not allowed to go to dinner with another man.”
Lincoln’s fingers flexed. “I wish I could hit him all over again.”
“I sort of wish that too,” she said, putting down a squirming Kiwi. “I tried to warn Larissa, you know.”
“Who’s Larissa?”
“His new wife. Baby mama, whatever. I warned her about his temper, told her if she ever needed someone to talk to…She laughed in my face, called me a jealous hag.”
“Nice,” Lincoln snarled.
Daisy lifted a shoulder, ran her fingers over the dried tears on her face. She knew she looked awful—red nose, puffy eyes—but found she didn’t care. In fact, she sort of relished it. Gary had never wanted her to look anything but her best, and it was strangely liberating to talk about him while looking her absolute worst.
“I’m not broken,” she repeated, looking down as she clasped her hands together and put them between her knees. “I got help right away, and that was huge. Just a little cracked sometimes, that’s all. Trying to figur
e out how to fill those cracks has been harder than I thought.”
“We’re all a little cracked, honey,” Lincoln said.
“You ever wonder?” she said, tilting her head up and looking at the late-afternoon sunshine.
“Wonder what?”
“What will fill your cracks? How to get better.”
“All the damn time.”
“Any ideas you’d like to share? I could use a few.”
“Right now, I’ve only got one, and I’m worried you might not like it, but I’m wondering if you’ll trust me.”
She looked at him, took in the stubborn line of his jaw, the strength of his solid build, and most of all, the sheer goodness in his eyes.
“I trust you,” she whispered.
Gratification flared in his eyes, and then he nodded once before shifting his weight, easing ever closer to her on the cement step until they were hip to hip. Giving her time, she realized—giving her time to adjust to the feeling of being touched by a man, more than a casual hand hold.
Daisy waited for the flare of panic, but there was none. And when he slowly wrapped his left arm around her, she found herself curling into him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her chest rested against his heartbeat as his other arm came around her, holding her close.
Just holding her.
That was all.
It wasn’t a precursor to anything. It was a moment in its entirety, separate from the moment before and the moment after.
A small, perfect heartbeat in time.
Daisy felt her eyes water, although for a different reason. She wondered if he felt it—wondered if he knew that this was the first time she’d let anyone hold her in years.
Did he know?
Did Lincoln know that the more he put her back together again, the more power he had to break her heart?
Chapter 22
Two days after Lincoln had beaten the crap out of Daisy’s ex, two days after she’d let him hold her, Daisy stood in her huge walk-in closet and tried hard to shift her attention to another man.
Specifically, Dan Lowe, the man she’d given her phone number to at the restaurant the other night. They were going on a date.
