Penelope lived in a mid-rise on the Upper West Side. Well, Upper Upper West Side, given how far north she was. He should know. He lived almost as far north, except on the eastern side of Central Park. The walk over had taken him only ten minutes.

He grimaced as he realized he was already trying to come up with an explanation for why he was stopping by her place first.

Cole knew his friends all too well. No way would they buy his “she was on the way” excuse.

Still, she was on the way, sort of, and here he was.

Cole used the callbox to ring her apartment, smiling as her frazzled voice came out all tinny. “Cole?”

“Yup.”

“Get up here!”

He lifted an eyebrow at the urgency in her tone. A couple minutes later, she opened the door, and he understood.

“Yikes,” he said, looking her over. Penelope was wearing a fuzzy white robe, her hair in a messy bun, her eyes huge and panicked.

“I fell asleep,” she said, jerking him inside. “I meant to take a quick nap and then next thing I knew it was six o’clock…”

“I can wait downstairs,” he said politely.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, putting both hands on his back and pushing him in the direction of her bedroom. “I need help.”

“Uh—” Cole balked a little. Usually when a woman needed “help” in the bedroom—

“Tell me everything about these people,” she said, running her fingers into her hair as she went to stand in front of her closet. “Are they like old New York, or trendy New York? Like, we talking Fashion Week or Audrey Hepburn, or—”

He stared at her, aghast. “You want me to help you figure out what to wear?”

She turned around, eyes pleading. “I’m terrible at this kind of thing.”

“Tiny, with all due respect, I’m a hell of a lot better at undressing women than dressing them.”

“No doubt,” she said dismissively, looking him over. “But look at you. You look like you should be one of the Oxford models, not a columnist.”

He glanced down at his jeans, white button-down and navy sports jacket, which he didn’t consider exactly male model attire.

She pulled out an ugly yellow dress. “What about this?”

Cole sighed. Wow. She wasn’t kidding. She really was bad at this.

“They’re not going to care about what you’re wearing, Penelope. But, uh…not that.”

She stomped her foot. “Cole!”

He held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

He went to her closet, rummaging through the hangers. “Seriously, woman, how many different jerseys do you have?”

“About half as many as I do ratty T-shirts,” she said glumly.

“You don’t look ratty at work,” he said, pulling out an Ichiro jersey from his Mariners days. “Is this a child’s size?”

“Yes, they’re all child-size,” she said. “It’s the only thing that fits. But I’m not going to show up dressed like a right fielder, so focus.”

“What about one of the boring outfits you wear to work? Slacks and a button-down, or something?”

“Well, considering you just called said outfits boring…”

He looked at her. “What do you feel most comfortable in?”

“Jeans and a T-shirt, obviously, but sometimes—”

She broke off and he lifted an expectant eyebrow.

“Yes, Tiny?” he cajoled when she looked down at the floor.

“Sometimes I’m in the mood to feel pretty.”

Her voice was quiet when she said it, and damned if his heart didn’t break just a little for her.

He had the strangest urge to pull her toward him. To tell her that she was pretty. Maybe to run his hands up her back, show her one of those kissing techniques that Lincoln had mentioned—

He grunted and pushed the thought aside. The last thing he needed to do was replay that day in the office when he’d felt something suspiciously close to jealousy.

Cole didn’t do jealous.

Certainly not over a woman who’d all but drawn a line in the sand and labeled it platonic.

He returned his attention to her closet, pulling out a bright blue halter top that was sort of silky.

“What about this?”

She eyed it skeptically. “What would I wear it with?”

Cole rolled his eyes, turned back toward the closet, and pulled out a pair of jeans. “Put these on.”

“But—”

Cole pointed a finger at her face. “Get dressed. If you want my help, you have to trust me.”

She glowered at him for several seconds before relenting with a sigh. “Fine.”

Then, to his utter shock, she pulled off her robe and threw it onto the bed.

He whirled around to face away from her, but not before he’d gotten an eyeful of Penelope Pope in a strapless bra and panties.

“Jesus.”

“Oh, stop,” she said. “It’s not like there’s a whole lot going on here.”

He sucked in a breath. His raging hard-on said otherwise.

How the hell had that happened? Usually it took more than an accidental sneak peek of a woman in bra and panties to turn him on.

But no doubt about it. He was turned on.

He tried to block out the sound of her jeans sliding up over her slim hips, tried to block out the urge to pull them back down again.

“All right,” she said a few moments later. “You can turn around. I’m dressed, so no more threats to your virtue.”

He gave a skeptical glance over his shoulder, confirmed that she was clothed, and then turned to face her more fully.

She held her hands out to the side. “Well? Are you overwhelmed?”

He turned back toward her closet, located her shoe rack, and pulled off a pair of standard black high heels.

“Unh-uh,” she said, looking at them like they were a dead rat. “Remember what happened last time I wore high heels? It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“That’s where I come in handy,” he said. “You can hold my arm.”

“Oh yeah, because that’ll make them more comfortable,” she said. “Plus it’s supposed to snow tonight.”

Cole threw his arms in the air. “Damn it, woman. Wear your sneakers for all I care.”

She pursed her lips. “Nah. Boots.”

“Fine. Can we go now?”

“No! What about makeup? I’ve mastered mascara, mostly, but I could use some help on what eye shadow would look good.”

Cole stared at her, waiting to see if she was joking, then shook his head. “No. Hell no.”

He moved toward the door and she followed him. “But I don’t know—”

Cole pulled her small purse off a hook by the door. “This what you’re bringing?”

“Yes, but—”

He looped the strap unceremoniously over her shoulder. “Get your cellphone or whatever else you need and then we’re out of here.”

She opened her mouth. “But—”

He sighed and took a step forward. Her words broke off as his hands lifted to her head. Very slowly, his fingers pushed into her hair, trying to ignore how silky it felt against his fingers as he sought out the rubber band that held it in place.

Gently, he tugged, sliding the band inch by inch until her dark hair spilled all over her shoulders. All over his hands.

“There,” he said, his voice just slightly rough. “Now you’re ready.”

She was looking up at him, her expression unreadable, and he felt a sudden surge of tenderness for this woman he barely knew and yet somehow knew completely.

Cole cleared his throat and took a step back. “You don’t need makeup to look good, Penelope.”

“That’s what guys always say the second before they give themselves whiplash looking at some gussied-up Victoria’s Secret model,” she grumbled lightly as she pulled on her boots.

“Sure,” he agreed amiably. “But just because we want to sleep with the Victoria’s Secret model doesn’t mean we want to wake up beside her in the morning.”

“Well, that’s very comforting, Sharpe,” she said primly as she locked her door. “But save it for someone who isn’t alone every night and every morning.”

Cole wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing as they made their way down the hall to her elevator.