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.”