He lifted the crate to eye level where the little white dog glared back at him. “She needs to…what’s the word for this…um, shit.”

“She hasn’t gone since New York?” Daisy asked.

“She pissed on an ugly planter outside the airport, but she’s got to do the other. Where should I let her out?”

“Anywhere’s fine,” Daisy said, waving her hand toward the front door.

Lincoln’s eyebrows lifted. “You sure? There’s some pretty fancy landscaping out there.”

“Gary’s insistence. The landscapers come out once a week to maintain it, but the immaculate lawns and rigid hedges are all him. And…you know what, Kiwi?” she said, stepping forward and pushing a finger through the grate to pet the dog’s soft fur. “Do your worst, would you?”

Lincoln grinned and headed to the front door. “You want to really defile the place, you need a German shepherd, but Ki will do what she can with her pebble-size craps.”

Daisy smiled as she went into the kitchen and pulled out the platter of cheese and cold cuts she’d prepared earlier, and took another sip of her wine.

A few minutes later, she heard the front door open and close, and the rumble of a low masculine voice talking to his small nonmasculine dog.

“Daisy?”

“In here.”

“You need a damn map for this place,” he muttered as he came into the kitchen. He paused when he saw the platter. “You know you’re doing me a favor just by letting me stay in the guesthouse, right? You don’t need to feed me.”

She waved a hand at the barstool. “Sit. I want the company.”

Daisy liked that he didn’t put up pointless protests, instead sitting on the barstool and picking up a piece of salami as the dog wandered around the kitchen, sniffing the entirety of the baseboard.

“What can I get you to drink? I’ve got wine, some beer, a full bar if you want a cocktail, lemonade—homemade, obviously—freshly brewed iced tea, some fresh mint if you want a julep, or…”

He shook his head in wonder. “Damn, Cassidy may have been on to something when he said Southern women were a whole different animal.” Lincoln gestured his chin toward the glass in her hand. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

She poured him a glass and set it in front of him as he snuck a piece of provolone to Kiwi. He was wearing a light gray suit, sans tie, and she felt a stab of pure feminine appreciation at the way his five o’clock shadow contrasted with the white of his shirt, complemented the dark of his jacket lapel.

“Lincoln.”

He looked up.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “For your loss.”

His eyes shadowed before he turned his head to look down at the dog once more. “Thank you.”

Daisy wanted to tell him that if he needed to talk about it, she was here. But she said nothing, because she sensed he already knew that. Knew that if and when he ever wanted to talk about it, she was always available.

Right now, what he needed was not to talk about it. Eventually he would. If not to her, then to someone. But his wound was still fresh. It was why he was here—a change of routine that would allow him to start to heal.

That was Emma and Cassidy’s plan anyway. They loved him like a brother and were a little desperate for him to stop hurting. But it wasn’t up to them. She of all people knew there was no expiration date on pain, no due date for healing.

The fact that Lincoln was here told her some part of him wanted to be away from New York. For all his carefully crafted easygoing Lincoln vibe, this was a man who was always in control—a man who wouldn’t let anyone push him into a damn thing he didn’t want to do.

He rolled his shoulders before laying a piece of turkey on top of a slice of bread and chewing it thoughtfully. He wiped his fingers and picked up his wineglass and patted the stool beside him.

“Wallflower. Come tell me how you’ve been. Let me bask in the Big House before being sent to the servants’ quarters.”

She laughed and came to sit beside him, one foot pulled beneath her butt, the other swinging freely as she sipped her wine. “You know you’re welcome to stay here. There are eight bedrooms. You and Kiwi could each have your own.”

“No can do. Ki’s a cuddler.”

“Ah. Big spoon?” Daisy asked.

“Obviously. But you dodged the question. How’ve you been? It’s been a while.”

“Yes, well, that’s what happens when two people live in different states.” She took a sip of wine. “I’ve been fine. Good.”

“Fine and good. Is there some new man in your life responsible for such enthusiasm?”

She snorted. “Hardly. Two mediocre dates that almost warranted a fine, but definitely not good.”

He pretended to wipe his eyes in happiness. “My little Wallflower…out there dating?”

Daisy bit her lip and ignored the question. “Okay, before I forget, there’s just one thing I need to say. I wanted to come for the funeral, but it seemed…I don’t know. I wasn’t invited, and I barely know you, and—”

He caught the hand that she’d been waving around nervously. “Thank you for sending the flowers to Brenda. It was kind.”

Daisy stilled. “She told you?”

He nodded. “She thought it was sweet. As for the funeral, to be quite honest, I’m not sure I registered who was there and who wasn’t. That whole week is sort of…blocked out. But for the record, I wish you wouldn’t have thought you needed an invitation.”