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—