Текст книги "Irresistibly Yours"

Автор книги: Layne Layren

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“Of course I’m in a shitty mood,” Cassidy said, running a hand through his hair. “You just interrupted that woman’s interview. She could sue us.”

“Please,” Cole said with a scoff. “She wanted to go to coffee with me.”

“Only because she doesn’t know you,” Cassidy muttered.

“Yup, you’re definitely in a shitty mood. Maybe we should reschedule—”

“Sit,” Cassidy commanded. “Let’s get this over with. How about we start with an easy one.”

“Sure,” Cole said, plopping in the chair, feigning cockiness he didn’t feel after Tiny Brunette’s impressive display of New York sports stats.

“Great,” Cassidy snapped. “How about you tell me what the hell you were thinking, barging in here—”

Cassidy’s rant continued for several moments, but Cole didn’t bother listening. He already knew the answer to Cassidy’s question.

Why did he barge into the office? It was a two-parter.

The first was easy. He’d wanted to ensure that a tiny Chicago outsider wasn’t getting his job.

The second part was more complicated. He’d wanted to see said tiny Chicago outsider.

Now he just needed to figure out why.

Chapter 4

“It can’t have been that bad.” The voice at the other end of the phone was soothing.

“Trust me,” Penelope said. “It was worse.”

There was a moment of silence as her younger sister thought this over. “And you say he just stared at you?”

“Like I was an animal in the zoo. An exotic one, but not a pretty, exotic one,” Penelope said, taking a bite from the hot dog she’d gotten from a vendor in Central Park.

Street meat, she’d heard it called. Sounded so disgusting. Tasted so good.

Penelope had always imagined that Central Park would be crazy crowded, being the crown jewel of the most populous city in the country and all.

But on a cooler than usual Wednesday in April it was nearly deserted, and Penelope felt as though the park were her personal playground.

“What’s that noise?” Janie asked. “Are you eating?”

“Hot dog,” Penelope said.

Her sister groaned. “And here I was thinking that the only good thing about you leaving Chicago was that it would get you away from those things.”

Penelope sucked a drop of mustard off her thumb. “Nope. New city, new dog.”

“You say that as though it’s a common phrase,” Janie said. “It’s not.”

“Not to a vegetarian who’s doing yet another juice cleanse, maybe,” Penelope said, crumpling up the foil in her fist and leaning against the bench. “But did you know that different cities have different styles of dogs? The Chicago dog, for instance—”

“Stop. Just stop,” Janie cut in. “If I’m not allowed to tell you what’s in them, you’re not allowed to tell me all the disgusting things that go on them. Let’s get back to this guy—”

“Cole,” Penelope said. “Cole Sharpe.”

“Hmm. Good name.”

It was a good name.

Looked really damn good on a byline too, as Penelope well knew. She’d done her homework.

She knew everyone in the industry.

Being one of the few females in her line of work, Penelope hadn’t exactly had a plethora of mentors to pick from. The senior sportswriters of Chicago thought her an abomination. The sports columnists who were her own age had been both annoyed and threatened by her very existence.

For all of today’s talk about feminism and equality, female sportswriters were still few and far between. Nobody had exactly been banging down the door to show Penelope the ropes, so…

She’d taught herself.

She subscribed to dozens of newspapers across the country and read their entire sports sections, every day.

Then there were the magazines. And the blogs. And the apps. And the Twitter feeds. So, yeah, she’d known who Cole Sharpe was, even before she decided to move to New York.

And if Penelope was honest, she wished she were up against someone less, well, good.

Cole Sharpe’s work was amazing. He had an impressive knack for seamlessly blending analysis, stats, and summary in a way that read like a really good story.

Add in the fact that he had a distinctive writing style—a “voice” that came through in the written word—and, well, he was just about as worthy an opponent for the editor position as she could have dreamt up.

So much for her hopes that her rival would be someone a bit older—an old-school “boys’ club” type of columnist. At least then Penelope could have gotten the edge by playing the “I’m youthful and technically savvy” card.

But Cole Sharpe barely looked a day over thirty. Chances were he was not only as well versed in social media as she was, but also understood its importance in the future of sports reporting.

There went her edge.

“Pen?”

“Hmm?” she asked, realizing she’d completely zoned out and missed whatever Janie was talking about.

“I asked if Cole Sharpe was as hot as his name implies. He sounds…yummy.”

Penelope smiled. It was exactly the sort of question she’d expect from her sister. Granted, Janie was no longer a boy-crazy teen, but marriage hadn’t done much to temper her appreciation of the opposite sex.

Younger by two years, Janie was Penelope’s opposite in just about every way. In looks, certainly. Janie was tall and blond, with an hourglass figure—as different from Penelope’s petite, brunette boy-shape as could be.

But it was their interests and personalities that really set them apart. The only sport Janie believed in was shopping. Still, her sister was her best friend, and one of the people it had been hardest to leave behind in Chicago.

Harder, even, than leaving Evan.

Penelope’s smile dimmed at the memory of her former co-worker and friend.

She struggled to push thoughts of him aside, and hated how hard it was. The man had betrayed her—personally and professionally, and she could still see his beautiful smile every time she closed her eyes.

She. Was. Pathetic.

“Pen? You going to fill me in on this Cole guy?”

Penelope tilted her head back, feeling just the faintest hint of warmth from sun mostly hidden behind the clouds. “Um, Cole is—”

“He’s yummy. Isn’t he?” Janie demanded.

“Hot dogs are yummy,” Penelope said. “Not men.”

“Oh, Pen,” her sister sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for you to fall in love. Or at least meet a guy who gives you butterflies.”

There it was again. That pang.

Penelope had never told her sister how she’d felt about Evan, although she sometimes suspected that Janie knew and was too kind to mention it.

Or maybe her sister had just been hoping that silence on the matter would kill Penelope’s silly crush. Her sister had never liked Evan.

“Cole’s…attractive,” Penelope said, forcing her mind away from the past.

“Describe.”

She opened her mouth to try to describe his features to Janie, only to realize that there wasn’t anything particularly distinctive about them, other than that they all went together exceptionally well.

“He has a nice smile,” was what she settled on.

Janie let out a frustrated groan. “You’re hopeless.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what he looks like,” Penelope grumbled. “He goes from being perfectly nice to being totally grumpy. He couldn’t even respond to my offer of coffee.”

“Sweetie, you’re his main competition for a pretty kick-ass job. Not everyone is as easygoing as you about such things.”

“I know,” Penelope said, running a pinky over the perfect crease of her dress slacks. “It’s just…I don’t really have any friends here. I thought maybe he could be one.”

Janie made a strangled noise. “You’re breaking my heart here. Come back to Chicago. You have a million friends here.”

Penelope squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Janie demanded. “New York can’t be that great. And I still can’t believe you moved there before knowing whether or not you got the job. I mean, you’ll get it, of course, but—”

Penelope couldn’t do this right now.

“Janie, I’ve got to run,” Penelope interrupted.

“Why?”

“I forgot that I have the cable guy coming by later. Something’s wrong with the box they installed last week.”

“Oh. Okay. Well…you’ll text me the second you know about the job, right?”

“Definitely,” Penelope promised. “Love you. Tell Josh I say hey.”

Penelope hung up the phone with a long sigh, feeling a stab of guilt.

It hadn’t been a complete lie. The cable guy really was scheduled to come by and figure out why ESPN kept cutting in and out. It was just that he was scheduled to come by tomorrow.

But the alternative to her fib was telling her sister the truth—the whole truth. That the reason she hightailed it out of Chicago was not just because she’d failed to get her dream job but because of a man.

A man who had taken her dream job right out from under her nose.

Penelope stood, tugging her heavy bag over her shoulder as she headed back toward home.

Her apartment on 107th and Amsterdam was too far north to be considered a prime location by most New Yorkers. But in a new-to-her city where she knew nobody, had no favorite restaurants, and didn’t yet know the public transportation system, the cozy one-bedroom suited her just fine.

It was close to the park. Close-ish to the Oxford offices…

If she got the job.

She’d felt pretty damn confident right up until the moment she’d met Cole Sharpe last night.

Granted, until today, she’d only had phone interviews. But in her conversations with Alex Cassidy and a handful of the other Oxford guys who’d vetted her, Penelope had had a sense of rightness.

She’d felt like they liked her. Felt like she belonged.

But Cole Sharpe—he belonged there too.

Something he’d pointedly reminded her when he’d crashed her interview.

Penelope supposed she should be mad about that—it was a crappy move on his part. Immature at best, unscrupulous at worst.

But she’d never been one to waste energy getting mad about the little stuff. Her tolerance for drama was remarkably low, which was part of the reason the world of sports fit her so well.

It was all numbers and scores.

And that was why she’d asked Cole Sharpe to coffee. Someone with whom to talk shop.

At least…that was her story, and she was sticking with it.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he looked every bit as good in a charcoal suit this morning as he had in jeans and T-shirt last night…

But ultimately, the reason didn’t matter, because he’d turned her down.

No, not even turned her down—he’d responded with an uh.

That was so much worse.

Penelope tried to tell herself that it didn’t sting as she unlocked the door of her apartment and dropped her bag by the front door.

She was used to it—rejection in all its forms.

Penelope had no illusions about her place in the world of men: the friend zone.

She was the girl next door you could always count on to pick up your mail when you were out of town, provide input when you needed to shop for an engagement ring for your girlfriend, serve as that last-minute date to the wedding of an extended family member you didn’t really like.

Unless, of course, she was among fellow sportswriters, in which case she was neither one of the guys nor was she appealing as a woman, which left her chronically on the outside.

Penelope wandered into her apartment, trying to ignore how empty it was. She’d thought that finally getting some art up on the walls—some gorgeous canvas photos of her favorite stadiums—would make it feel less empty.

But pretty as the new art pieces were, they were no substitute for human company.

Penelope felt a pang of regret that she hadn’t been brave enough to ask Emma Sinclair for her phone number when the other woman had been so friendly.

Not that she exactly fit in with the high-heeled glamour of the Stiletto women, but at least then she’d feel like she knew someone in this huge city.

Penelope sat on the edge of her couch and wondered what to do with the rest of her day.

She’d managed to get through her first two weeks in the city by prepping endlessly for her interview, but now that was over, and she had nothing to do but wait.

Wait to find out if her spontaneous move to New York would pay off in the form of a job offer from Oxford, or if she’d have to go back to square one in the job hunt.

In the meantime, of course, there was always freelance stuff. Some of her old contacts back in Chicago would likely jump at the chance to have some dedicated coverage for the American League East games.

There could be good money in freelance. Especially if one wrote fast, which she did.

But freelance also meant a hell of a lot of time alone.

If Penelope was honest with herself—and she usually was—the appeal of the Oxford position wasn’t just about the chance to build out an entirely new section of a nationally acclaimed magazine.

It was about belonging to a team. To have someone to bounce ideas off of, after-work happy hours to attend, the corporate holiday party. Someone to grab coffee with.

She winced at that last one, remembering the babbling, overeager way she’d all but thrown herself at Cole Sharpe, all because he’d shown her the tiniest scrap of kindness.

It would have been bad enough if she’d been asking him out on a date. It was all the more pathetic because she’d asked a perfect stranger—and competition—out as a friend. He hadn’t even gone for that.

Penelope groaned and threw herself onto her right side. “Could I be any more pathetic?”

She rolled onto her back, pulling one of her throw pillows against her chest.

Maybe she should think about getting a dog.

Or even a fish.

Yes, a fish would be better. Less poop.

She reached for her phone, intending to look up local pet stores, when it buzzed in her hand with an incoming text message.

It was a 212 number—no name, which meant it wasn’t one of her known contacts.

Her eyes narrowed in confusion before widening in surprise as she sat back up.

She read it again, just to be sure.

Hey. It’s Cole Sharpe. Any chance I can swap your offer of coffee for beer?

Penelope let a dopey smile crawl over her face as the loneliness eased—just slightly.

Absolutely, she typed back.

She started to ask when and where, but decided that sounded a little too desperate. Penelope had learned the hard way that We should grab a drink sometime was right up there with I’ll call you…

It didn’t mean that the other person actually wanted to share a drink.

But then his next text came through, and she realized—happily—that Cole Sharpe might be for real.

Good. How do you feel about day-drinking?

She smiled as she typed back. Depends on the day. And the occasion.

Penelope didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it whooshed out at his next response.

The day: Wednesday. The occasion: receiving an apology for intruding on your interview.

She grinned. Well, I DO like beer and apologies.

Glad to hear it. And by Wednesday, I meant today. Dubliner on 82nd and Broadway in a half hour?

Penelope hopped to her feet in excitement, and then did an unabashed happy dance.

The very existence of Cole Sharpe might mean a step backward in her New York job search, but it also might mean a step forward in something much more important: making her first New York friend.

Chapter 5

It wasn’t that Cole was bored with his life. Not really.

Sure, he was due for a change on the work front, both for the practical purpose of a bigger paycheck, as well as his brain needing a new challenge.

And yeah, he was a little tired of his usual date nights on Friday and Saturday with an endless string of nice but ultimately forgettable women.

Even his weeknight routine of WhistlePig Rye Whiskey on the rocks and whatever game was on had started to feel a little monotonous.

But even with all of that, it came as a surprise that the best time Cole had had in a long time was a spontaneous Wednesday afternoon in a mediocre pub, with mediocre beer, mediocre hot wings, and a feisty tomboy.

Penelope Pope continued to surprise him.

She’d surprised him last night at the Yankees game, with her unwavering focus on the field.

She’d surprised him again today with her friendly, no-strings-attached offer of coffee.

And she surprised him now, with how enjoyable she was to be around.

It had taken Cole the better part of an hour this afternoon—sitting side by side with her on the barstools in a crappy pub, drinking crappy beer—before he finally figured out what made her so damn arresting.

Penelope Pope was real.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met someone who meant what they said—everything they said. But this woman had more honesty in her tiny body than the entire population of Manhattan.

Yet that wasn’t even the most surprising part. There were plenty of people who claimed candor as a way to utter harsh statements and snide observations. What made Penelope refreshing was that her goodness was honest.

Kind and straightforward. He didn’t want to get all weepy and weird about it, but even he could admit that Penelope Pope was a rare creature indeed.

“Okay, your turn to fess up,” she said, dragging a hot wing through a pile of blue cheese dressing before tearing at it neatly with her small white teeth.

“Fess up about what?” he asked.

He picked up his own chicken wing and took a healthy bite. Finally. A meal with a woman that wasn’t sushi or tapas.

She licked sauce off her finger, and if he had the urge to watch the motion of her lips longer than he should, he ignored it.

“You and sports,” she said. “You love them, obviously. But are you good at them?”

Cole picked up a piece of celery. “You mean am I good at playing them?”

“Yup. Were you high school quarterback? Starting point guard? Hotshot tennis player?”

“Baseball,” he said.

“My favorite! What position? No, let me guess. Shortstop.”

“Easy there, stalker. How’d you know that?”

She grinned and picked up her wing again. “It’s my job to know.”

“Not spilling your trade secrets?”

Her small shoulder lifted. “It’s your body type. It’s lean. Muscular but not too big. And you move well.”

Cole choked out a laugh. This had to be the strangest conversation he’d had over drinks with a woman. “I move well?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Your body looks like you know how to use it. You know?”

Her eyes went big, as though she just now realized that her choice of words could be misconstrued. “Oh. God. Not like that—”

Cole couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward with a sly smile. “Not like what?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re teasing me.”

Cole laughed. “Actually, I thought I was flirting.”

“Oh. Well. Maybe you were,” she said. “I’ve never been good at picking up on that.”

Her voice was just the tiniest bit glum, and Cole wanted to pry, despite the fact that wanting to dig beneath the surface of a woman was unusual for him.

Not because he was some jaded prick or anything, it was just…he hadn’t experienced what he’d seen some of his friends experience. True love, and all that.

Someday, maybe. Or not. He wasn’t holding his breath.

Instead he steered the conversation to safer topics. “Okay, my turn for a question.”

She held out her hands and made a beckoning motion. “Bring it.”

He smiled. He liked her.

“All right,” he said slowly, leaning back slightly. “What’s your story?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “My story?”

“Everyone’s got one, babe.”

She laughed. “That’s one hell of a question for our first nondate, Sharpe. I mean, where would I even start? About how I was born on a snowy day in November? Favorite movie? First time I broke my nose? Or how about the first time I broke my sister’s nose—”

“That one,” he said. “You broke your sister’s nose?”

“Total accident. In my youthful ignorance, I didn’t understand that it was instinct for some people to freeze in horror when a softball came their way rather than catch it.”

“And your broken nose?”

“Sixth grade. Elbow to the face during a basketball game.”

“Tiny. You played basketball?”

She smiled. “Let’s just say it wasn’t my glory sport.”

He nodded as he took another sip. “It’s good. All good stuff you’re sharing here, Tiny. But I want to know the really good stuff.”

“Such as?”

Her expression went just slightly wary, and his interest was piqued. Was it possible Penelope Pope wasn’t quite the open book she pretended to be?

“How about we start with why you moved to New York, when best I can tell, you don’t know a soul and you’re destined for unemployment.”

Penelope flicked at Cole’s arm. “Don’t count on that last one. But as for the first…”

She sighed, and Cole felt the same pang of protectiveness he had that morning when she’d been standing there in her stained shirt, with those big sad eyes looking up at him.

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone else,” she said.

“But what will I talk about at girls’ night?” he asked.

“Ha. Ha. Okay, here’s the thing, Sharpe…”

She blew out a breath, took a sip of beer, and then spun her barstool around to face him.

“I’m sort of running away from a guy.”

Was she now.

He didn’t know why he could possibly be interested in Penelope Pope’s love life, but he kept his voice casual to coax her into continuing.

“Well, switching time zones isn’t a bad way to do it,” he replied.

“Yeah. That and…”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t chicken out on me now, Tiny.”

“We worked together. Sort of. We were both freelancers, but we did a ton of stories together. Our styles meshed well. Readers loved our good-natured bickering about who would win the Series, or who the top draft pick would be. The Chicago Tribune would bring us on for months at a time to cover everything from Sweet Sixteen to the Triple Crown…”

Cole wiggled his eyebrows. “You do know how to sweet-talk a man.”

Her smile was faint, and he nudged her with his knee. “So what happened?”

Penelope bit her lip. “Well, the thing is, I’ve always wanted to go in more of a digital direction. I mean, I love the newspaper, and the team at the Tribune was great, but I sort of geek out on the more interactive things that are happening on the tech front.”

“Smart,” Cole said.

She nodded. “Evan thought so too. He encouraged me. Hooked me up with a college friend who was heading this great start-up. Basically a social media site for sports lovers. They had a ton of investors, and they were looking for a director of editorial. I wanted it. I prepped for weeks. I talked to every tech nerd in Chicago, learning the lingo. I put together this amazing portfolio. I showed it to Evan, and he loved it….”

She tilted her head back. “Ah gawd, I was stupid.”

Cole frowned as he realized where this story was going. “He took your portfolio.”

She swallowed and nodded. “The thing is, I didn’t even know he wanted the job. He never said a word about it. If he had, I would have—”

“You guys were a thing?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I mean, I thought maybe, someday…I thought…well, I found out he had a girlfriend. The same day I found out that he’d interviewed for the job with my proposal.”

“Holy shit, Tiny,” he said, staring at her. “I feel like I just walked into a summer blockbuster and your guy Evan is the villain. Real people actually pull that shit?”

She rubbed her hands over her face. “Apparently. And that’s all we’re going to say on the matter.”

“Really? Because if you want to cry…”

She smiled. “I’m not going to cry.”

“You sure? Because I was ready.”

“To what, offer a shoulder?”

Cole reached across the bar and rapidly pulled out a half dozen paper napkins from a beat-up dispenser.

He held them out to her and smiled when she burst out laughing.

Penelope pushed his hand aside. “I’m over it. Really.”

He didn’t think so. But she had a stubborn, don’t-push-me look on her face, and it was hardly his place to press. He barely knew the woman.

“My turn for a question,” she said.

He gestured for her to continue.

“The Stiletto ladies,” she said, sucking a drop of blue cheese off her finger.

Cole felt his groin tighten and looked away. Get it together, man.

“What about them?”

“They’re…friends?”

He smiled. “Yes. Good friends.”

“So you never…” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“Never,” he said. “Julie and I flirted once upon a time, but never came close to dating. And by the time I got to know the rest of them, they were already involved with their respective significant others.”

“Damn,” she muttered. “There’s not a single one among them?”

“Nope. Why, were you hoping they’d be your Sex and the City crowd?”

“How do you know about Sex and the City?”

“I live in New York City and have dated a lot of women. Of course I know about Sex and the City.”

“A lot, hmm? How many is a lot?”

He winked. “Fishing? Seeing if I’m available?”

Penelope patted his arm. “Definitely not. You’re pretty, but don’t worry. You’re safe with me.”

Cole lifted an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

She pursed her lips and tilted her head to study him.

Cole laughed. “Why do I feel like I should be giving you my good side? To see if I pass muster?”

“Oh, don’t fret, this is quite nice,” she said, lifting her hand to gesture over his face.

“But you’re still not feeling the pull, huh?”

Penelope took a sip of beer. “Are you?”

He blinked in surprise. “What?”

She shifted in her barstool to face him. “Take it all in. Are you feeling light-headed? Dazzled by my feminine charms?”

“Ah—”

“Exactly,” she said, looking strangely satisfied with his nonreaction. “You’re out of my league, Sharpe.”

He opened his mouth, and she shocked the hell out of him by leaning forward and tapping a finger over his lips very matter-of-factly.

“Don’t even,” she said. “This is how it’s going to be, okay? I don’t have any illusions about the fact that I’m a friend-zone kind of girl, and I’m okay with that. Plus, lucky for you, I’m a darn good friend.”

He tried to speak, but she kept right on talking.

“Plus, we have a career in common, and let’s be honest, there aren’t that many sportswriters out there, so we should stick together, right?”

“I—”

“You can’t say no,” she chattered on. “Because I’m new to the city and desperate for a friend, and I like you. But that’s where it ends, okay? At like. You don’t have to worry that I’ll get the wrong idea about what this is because I won’t. But in return, you have to promise not to flirt.”

Cole could only stare at her.

It was the strangest conversation he’d ever had with a woman. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had a woman tell him quite so plainly that she didn’t want anything romantic from him.

Which was fine—he wasn’t in the market for a girlfriend, and even if he were, this chatty little tomboy wasn’t really his type.

Still, he couldn’t help being a little insulted by her easy dismissal of him as a potential lover.

And her insistence that he not flirt—Cole wasn’t sure he even knew where that line was anymore. What was the difference between friendly and flirty?

Penelope pointed a finger at him. “You’re overthinking this.”

He grabbed another celery stick and bit into it as he studied her. “Well, I do have a question. Since you have this so planned out, and all.”

“Shoot,” she said, taking a sip of her beer.

He leaned forward a little. “There is the not so tiny detail that as of now we’re actively competing for the same job. What happens when one of us gets it?”

And despite his surprise affection for Tiny, he would get the job. He had to. Rent at his brother’s adult-care home got more expensive every time Cole blinked, and Cole couldn’t bear the thought of Bobby’s having to move away from his friends if Cole hit a gap in his freelance contracts.

He needed that steady paycheck.

Penelope shrugged. “Why would that make a difference? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I want the job. I want it badly. But if you get it…well, then, I have to think you’re the best person for Oxford. And I’ll be happy for you.”

Cole could only shake his head. “You’re a unique creature, Penelope Pope.”

“What about you? If I get the job, can you handle it? We can still be friends?”

Cole glanced down at their near-empty glasses. “Another round?”

“Sure,” she said slowly, “but you didn’t answer the question.”

He lifted his hand to get the bartender’s attention. “We can absolutely be friends,” he told her.

“Even if I get the job,” she pressed, sounding doubtful.

Cole glanced over and smiled before chucking her playfully under the chin. “Oh, Tiny. That ain’t never gonna happen.”