Cole smiled a little. “I’ve noticed. Hell, I knew every last one of them when they were single, and believe me, watching them all find each other has been endlessly entertaining.”

“I bet it was lovely,” she said with a little sigh.

He couldn’t help laughing. “You’re a romantic.”

“I know,” she said, smiling up at him through the increasingly heavy snowfall as they walked. “It’s always baffled my parents. Just when my dad started to get excited about my love of sports, I’d throw him off by crying over a romantic movie. And my mom would be all thrilled when I asked to borrow her Jane Austen books, only to be dismayed when I put them aside to watch a football game.”

“No siblings to take the heat off?”

“A sister,” she said. “Janie’s younger by two years. We’re totally opposite, and yet I think we sort of balance each other. I’m lucky to have her. She’s the most fiercely loyal person I know.”

Cole nodded, and she tilted her head to look up at him. “What about you, any siblings?”

He stiffened the way he always did when someone mentioned his siblings, but then forced his shoulders to relax, remembering that her question was harmless—innocent.

“An older brother,” he said, his voice coming out gruff.

Cole didn’t need another reason to like Penelope Pope, but she gave him one anyway.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t look offended that he didn’t elaborate. Instead, she seemed to know that the topic of his brother was not an open one, and she let it go.

But not before she touched his hand, just briefly. It was nothing. Glove to glove, not even any skin contact. There was zero agenda in the touch—no attempt at seduction, no playing coy as though it was an accident.

The touch merely was.

It said, I’m here, but only if you want me to be.

And, oddly enough, he did want her to be. There was something calming about Penelope Pope.

Not because she was particularly quiet or serene. He’d witnessed that just an hour ago during a spontaneous group game of charades in which she’d thrown her whole body into an attempt to get the group to guess cyclone.

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.