Someone Like You Page 10

“Come over on Tuesday like usual; by then he’ll be settled,” Daisy said, following her friend to the door as they made their way back to the main house.

  The guesthouse was only a minute-or-two walk; far enough so that they wouldn’t feel like roommates, but close enough to be, well…close.

  “How long’s he in town?”

  “TBD. Cassidy said he was guessing about two weeks to get what he needs for the story, maybe clear his head a bit.”

  “Two weeks,” her friend mused. “Not much time, but enough. Maybe.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Nothing,” Whitney said in a singsong voice, shoving her half-full wineglass at Daisy and pulling her keys out of her purse. “Drink that. Also, text me later. Bonus points if you can catch a pic of him getting out of the shower, and text me that.”

  “Absolutely,” Daisy said, sipping some of the rejected wine. “That’s been my plan all along. To take dick pics of the guy.”

  “I don’t think a girl can take dick pics of a guy, I think he has to do it himself to make it a legit dick pic,” Whitney said through the open window as she started the car. “Ask him, will ya?”

  “Good-bye, Whitney,” Daisy called over the starting engine.

  After her friend drove away with a saucy wave, Daisy went back into her kitchen, deciding it couldn’t hurt to top off the wineglass.

  Because Lincoln Mathis was coming here.

  To stay.

  And to date other women.

  Not for real, Daisy reminded herself. It was just part of his story. The same thing he’d always done back in New York, interviewing women about dating, more than actually dating them.

  She wasn’t sure why she let the distinction matter so much. Daisy did a load of laundry, then made a pitcher of iced tea. Then she rearranged the pink flowers she’d bought for herself when she’d bought the white ones for him, sipping her wine as she did so, very determinedly not looking at her watch, not glancing at the clock, not listening for the sound of a car…

  She never did hear the sound of his car coming up her driveway, but she did hear a dog barking. A very small dog.

  Kiwi.

  Daisy couldn’t fight the grin as she went to the front door and opened it. She’d meant to go to his car, help him with his bags, but he was already there. Right there, standing on her front porch with a weekender bag in one hand, a small gray dog crate in the other.

  For a moment they both froze, and there was something strangely electric about the moment, as though they were both poised on the precipice of something both epic and wonderful.

  And then it passed, and they were just Daisy and Lincoln. Strange that there was such a thing as Daisy and Lincoln, with as little time as they’d spent together. But there was. And she’d bet anything he knew it too.

  Lincoln’s eyes were shaded by his aviator glasses against the late-afternoon sunshine, but his smile was the same as she remembered.

  “Hey, Wallflower.”

  She grinned back. And for the first time since the early days of her marriage with Gary, she had the urge to wrap her arms around a man, and have his wrap around her. Instead she stepped aside and gestured him in. “Well, if it isn’t the city boy here to woo us country girls.”

  Lincoln glanced around the lavish foyer and let out a low whistle. “Nothing country about this house.”

  “I know, it’s a little ostentatious, right?”

  The entryway was white marble, as was the wide, split staircase winding around a chandelier to meet up together on a second-floor landing.

  Instead of answering, he pushed the sunglasses on top of his head and looked her over. “It’s good to see you.”

  She felt a surprise wave of pleasure at the sincerity in his voice. She’d been terrified he’d been forced into this little venture.

  “You too.”

  With his glasses no longer hiding his eyes, Daisy saw that she’d been wrong when she’d thought he looked the same. This wasn’t the Lincoln she’d met in New York. Sure, same great jaw, same perfectly sculpted body, but the eyes, while no longer haunted and wary, were guarded and maybe a little cynical. The smile a little flat.

  Their gazes locked and held, but before she could figure out what she was feeling, a pissed-off bark from the dog crate ruined the moment.

  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 befor
e 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.”

  “Well, I have only known you for all of forty-eight hours,” she said with a smile.

  “Sure, but in that forty-eight hours we had a wedding-speech duel, drank a river of Jack Daniel’s, and there was that striptease…”

  “Which could have been horrible for all you know, seeing as your back was turned. Right?”

  He merely grinned. “Back to these two fine dates. Any chance they’d want to be interviewed for my article?”

  “Um, that’s a hell no. What’s your plan for real though?”

  He shrugged. “Ask all the Scarlett O’Haras around here what qualifies as Prince Charming. I’m pretty sure they’ll just point at me.”

  She snorted. “I want to argue, but it’s probably true. Women really do seem to adore you. Have you always been so…smooth? What about when you and Katie first got together, you make any missteps?”

  It was a risky move, talking about the before version of Katie, but he took it in stride, smiling as he picked up his wineglass, as though the fondness of the memory overshadowed the pain of the later loss.

  “Aha! So there was a time when you weren’t perfectly suave,” she said.

  “There may have been five minutes, this one time, when I was so enamored with the pretty green-eyed girl sitting at the bar that I uttered the phrase ‘You come here often?’ ”

  Daisy laughed. “You did not.”

  “I did. And I said it while leaning one arm on the bar, trying to look all cool, only I put my elbow on one of those damn little cocktail napkins, and ended up half sprawled across the bar when it slipped.”

  Daisy clapped her hands, delighted. “I’ll bet she was charmed though.”

  His eyes went a little shadowed. “Katie told me later that it was the napkin move that made her decide to give me her phone number. She said it was endearing, or some shit.”

  “Yes, well,” Daisy patted his arm. “I think that may have been a one-hit wonder sort of thing. You’ll have to do better here in Charlotte than a bad line and falling all over yourself, no matter how pretty you are.”

  “How about some tips?”

  “Not a chance,” she said, nibbling on a piece of cheese. “I have a front-row seat to Lincoln Mathis being out of his element and I intend to relish every minute of it.”

  “You North Carolina girls can’t be that different from New York City girls.”

  “Can’t we?” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

  “You’re a Southern girl, and I had you in my bed in one night.”

  “Doesn’t count. You may have had me in your underwear, but you never got me out of mine.”

  For a half second, she could have sworn she saw his eyes flare with heat, but then the moment passed, and Lincoln glanced down at his watch. “Thirty minutes. That’s how long it took us to get the conversation to underwear. We’re weird together, Wallflower.”

  “We are,” she agreed, carefully making sure her voice didn’t come out as breathless as she felt at the thought of him taking off her panties. “More wine, or do you want to see the guesthouse first?”

  “Guesthouse. I’m guessing that since you practically have the words perfect hostess stitched into that blouse, the guesthouse is stocked with beer, wine, and liquor of its own?”

  “And fresh flowers, and a pitcher of my homemade lemonade. Pink lemonade, because you’re you.”

  “You’re good to me,” he said as he stood, grabbing a piece of bread and throwing half to Kiwi before popping the rest in his mouth. “Lead the way.”

  A couple minutes later, Lincoln had hauled a suitcase out of the trunk as he followed Daisy toward the guesthouse. Kiwi ran ahead of them, only to circle back every few feet or so as though herding their ankles.

  “I left the door unlocked,” Daisy said as she reached for the handle. “But when you leave to go embarrass yourself in the Charlotte dating scene, there’s a keypad so you don’t have to bother with a key. I programmed it to zero-one-one-five, same as your phone.”

  Lincoln said nothing as she pushed the door open, leading the way into the guesthouse. Well, not quite leading. That would be Kiwi’s role.

  “Well, this is just an absolute hovel,” Lincoln said, taking in the barely used hardwood floors and the dark granite counter of the open-plan kitchen. The guesthouse was dwarfed by the main house—most houses were—but it was still top-of-the-line everything. Gary had wanted it to meet his mother’s exacting standards when she came to visit from Florida.

  The appliances were brand-new and stainless steel, the living room outfitted with a massive white sectional and even more massive flat-screen TV.

  “Master suite’s that way,” Daisy said, pointing down the hall. “Sheets and towels are clean; there’s more in the linen closet in the bathroom. Second bedroom’s the other way, should you and Kiwi get in a fight and need a break from cuddling.”

  “I bet you can guess which one of us sleeps on the proverbial couch when that happens,” he called, hauling the suitcase in the direction of the master bedroom.

  Kiwi wasn’t paying attention. She’d found the doggie bowls Daisy had bought just this afternoon, and was happily chowing down on the dog food that the pet store owner had assured Daisy was absolute top of the line.

  “You fed my dog,” Lincoln said, coming up behind Daisy.

  She turned. “Like you said. Perfect hostess.”

  “That. Or you’re simply very kind,” he murmured, studying her face.

  She shrugged and turned away. “I’m probably good on wine myself, but can I get you—”

  “Daisy.”

  She stilled as his fingers touched her elbow, before he let his hand fall back to his side.

  “You don’t have to wait on me. Truly.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice quiet. “It’s just…I meant it when I said I’m a little lonely out here by myself. It’s nice to have company.”

  He held her gaze. “I owe you an apology.”

  Daisy frowned. “For?”

  “For pulling back. After you left, but before Katie died, I know I just sort of…quit responding to your texts.”

  “Ah. I understood,” she said.

  “Yeah. Yeah, see, I figured you understood. That’s th
e thing about you, Daisy, you seem to understand everything.”

  She wrinkled her nose in puzzlement. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Not a bad thing, no.” He looked away, then back again. “But it’s the reason I had to pull back.”

  “Because I understood things?”

  “No, because you understand me. And it’s been a long time since anyone has.”

  Chapter 15

  Lincoln considered himself a city man through and through, but that didn’t mean he was immune to the appeal of a crisp autumn evening that involved a beer, a big-ass man grill, and the laughter of two lovely women.

  He’d always loved the high-energy hustle of life in New York, but he had to give Charlotte, North Carolina, credit…as far as vacations went, it wasn’t bad. Not by a long shot.

  The company didn’t suck either.

  Daisy’s best friend was impossible to dislike. A little loud, and a lot flirtatious, Whitney Silva struck him as a firecracker with a heart of gold. He admitted he wouldn’t have pinned the curvy brunette who stepped out of her red Mustang convertible in the leopard-print halter and bright orange platform sandals as Daisy Sinclair’s best friend, but it was clear they were close as sisters.

  Perhaps even closer than Daisy and Emma these days, seeing as Emma was a newlywed and a plane ride away, while Whitney lived nearby and was a fellow divorcée, courtesy of her ex being “an immoral but marvelously hung bastard.”

  “This might be our best Taco Tuesday yet,” Whitney said, leaning back in the chair on Daisy’s outdoor patio as she stroked Kiwi in her lap. The dog had become instantly obsessed with the woman. “We did good, Daiz.”

  Daisy took a sip of her margarita and rolled her eyes. “Oh did we?”

  “Hey, I cut a lime. Lincoln, baby, did you see me cut that lime?”

  “I sure did. None of this would have been possible without you.”

  Whitney wagged a finger up and down at him. “I like you. I knew right off I liked you when Daisy showed me your picture.”

  Daisy choked a little on a bite of her homemade guacamole, and Lincoln turned, grinning as he leaned back against the back porch railing. “A picture, you say. Do tell.”