Irresistibly Yours Page 5

  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 mayb
e, 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?”