A moment later, Daisy had found a photo someone took of Lincoln delivering his killer best man speech, and handed her phone to Whitney.

Her friend stared at the screen and then looked at Daisy. “I’m sorry, I think you misunderstood my question. I asked you to show me the guy you were texting, not a stock photo of the hottest guy that ever lived.”

Daisy laughed. “Sadly, he really is just that good-looking. Better, actually.”

Whitney began scrolling through the photos, searching for more. She paused when she found one. “Honey, you did good. Those shoulders. That hair. Those eyes. The jawline. That smile. And he’s tall, and the tall ones always have it going on in their briefs, if you know what I’m saying.”

Daisy rolled her eyes and pulled her phone back. “Yes, Whitney. I know what you’re saying.”

“So am I right?” her friend said, leaning forward. “How big we talking? Nine-plus inches, right?”

“You’re impossible,” Daisy muttered, standing and going to the fridge. “You still up for chicken panini for dinner, or are you full?”

“You got some of that homemade pesto?”

Daisy held up a Tupperware filled with the bright green pesto she’d made that afternoon.

“Let’s do it,” Whitney said. “I’ll make us another round of margaritas while you cook and tell me all about the dirty fantasies you’ve been having about Mr. Look-Don’t-Touch.”

“I haven’t been having dirty fantasies about Lincoln.”

Not that many anyway.

“Lincoln. Oh gawd, a great name to go with all that yummy. Sex dreams then. Don’t lie to me, Sinclair, a woman doesn’t spend time with him and not have the most primal part of her wonder about what it would be like.”

Daisy said nothing as she pulled chicken out of her meat drawer.

“I knew it,” her friend gloated as she glugged some tequila into the blender. “Awake Daisy might have the lust locked down, but sleeping Daisy wants some.”

“Sometimes I don’t know why we’re friends,” Daisy replied, setting her sandwich ingredients on the counter.

“Because I’m right. You had a naughty dream about him.”

Daisy said nothing as she pulled her panini press out of the cupboard.

But yeah. Her friend was a little bit right.

Chapter 11

“Super-hot new girl started today.”

Lincoln glanced up from his computer, somehow unsurprised to see that it wasn’t one of his guy coworkers bringing him the news, but one of Oxford’s female columnists.

Penelope Pope was coeditor of the magazine’s sports section, a role she shared with Cole Sharpe—her boyfriend and one of Lincoln’s best friends.

The friendly, pint-size brunette was one of Lincoln’s favorite people, even more so at this very moment as she placed a plate in front of him bearing a chocolate donut with rainbow sprinkles.

“I love you,” Lincoln said around a large bite. “Leave Cole and marry me.”

“Don’t even think about it, Tiny,” Cole said from the doorway as he ambled into Lincoln’s office, eating his own donut—a boring glazed old-fashioned, Lincoln’s sweets-trained eye noted.

“Give up now, Sharpe,” Lincoln said, licking chocolate off his thumb. “I’m irresistible. Right, Pen?”

Her answer was to pull Cole’s head down for a kiss, before nipping a bite of the donut in his hand. She plopped into his chair and blinked at him with huge brown eyes as she chewed. “What now?”

“Never mind.” Cole and Penelope were about as in love as it was possible to be. Had been since the day Cole first laid eyes on her at a Yankees game more than a year ago.

“So what are we doing here?” Cole said, taking the chair beside Penelope.

“Telling Lincoln about the new girl.”

“What new girl?”

“The hot one,” Penelope replied.

Cole narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, shaking his head as though he couldn’t quite place who his girlfriend was referring to.

Smart man.

She laughed. “Don’t even try, Sharpe. You were standing right beside me when Cassidy introduced us. Taylor Carr is stunning.”

Lincoln glanced at Cole with a questioning lift of his eyebrow, merely because he knew it was expected of him. Cole lifted a shoulder in confirmation.

“Didn’t know we were hiring anyone new,” Lincoln said noncommittally, polishing off the donut and reaching for his coffee.

“She’s a new account manager over in advertising.”

“Ah,” Lincoln said. “And I care about this because…”

Penelope began ticking points off on her fingers. “Long, wavy brown hair. Like really good hair. Gray eyes. Gray, Lincoln. Tall. I’m thinking five-ten, although that could just be the five-inch heels. Figure…wow. We’re talking like thirty-four–twenty-four–thirty-five. Pretty much perfect. Am I right here, Cole?”

“Yeah, I’m not answering that,” Cole muttered.

Lincoln barely heard any of this, his attention locked on his phone where Daisy had responded to his picture of Kiwi with a link to a pink-rhinestone-studded dog bed and the note, Diva needs her sparkle.

He typed a response.

Kiwi’s going to need more than that trashy bed, Sinclair. She’s still pissed since she learned that her collar was cubic zirconia and is demanding an upgrade. Can’t decide between Harry Winston and Tiffany. Thoughts?