But, lest I get ahead of myself, I need to take a moment and thank all the people who made Cole’s story happen.

First, a big shout-out to you readers. It was you who first gave me the idea that maybe Cole Sharpe had a greater destiny than being just a funny secondary character in Love the One You’re With. You wield great power, not only in an author’s imagination, but with a publisher’s decision to buy a book. Cole and Penelope thank you for your enthusiasm!

Onward: Everyone, please bow to the amazing Sue Grimshaw, my fab editor. And I know some of you might be, like, “Dude, Lauren, you thank her in every book,” and to that I say, “Um, yeah, because she is a driving force behind every book!” This one in particular, she helped whip into shape, providing some delightful “What if…” questions that helped turn Cole and Penelope’s love story into something rather epic.

Next up, we need to talk about this cover, don’t we? Fabulous, right? I gasped the moment I saw it, because it was as though Lynn Andreozzi had jumped inside my imagination and pulled out my exact vision of Cole Sharpe. There really aren’t words to describe how much I love this cover.

I’m also going to need a dramatic slow clap for the rest of the unsung heroes on my publishing team. Gina, for being the bubbly cheerleader in the background, whose enthusiasm always makes me want to write better, faster, more! For the amazing publicist-guru, Ashleigh Heaton, because, lady, you are killing it, and I am so, so grateful for you. And for marketing whiz Erika Seyfried, for all the magic you cook up behind the scenes.

To my amazing assistant, Lisa…I don’t even know what to say other than sometimes it feels like you’ve saved my life! I really don’t know what I’d do without you. Thank you for taking care of All the Things so that I have more time to write.

For my family, especially my husband, for the love and support that just never quit.

And last, for my darling friends who helped keep my head above water as I was writing this book, especially Rachel Van Dyken, Jessica Lemmon, and Kristi Yanta. You get me.

Chapter 1

Cole had been watching the brunette for the better part of three innings.

Which was just wrong on a couple of levels.

For starters, it was a rare woman who could come between Cole Sharpe and baseball. Or between Cole and any sport, for that matter.

And at Yankee Stadium in particular, the game came first. Especially a game in which the Yankees were trying to establish early dominance over the Blue Jays in the American League East division.

Cole’s eyes should have been glued to the field. Not only because the Yankees were his team—he’d been a die-hard fan since his Little League days—but because Cole was a sportswriter. Come tomorrow morning, Cole would be expected to know the details of every single at bat.

And yet…

His eyes shifted once more to the narrow figure of the brunette as he took another sip of beer.

There was something about her that demanded a second look and at the same time, there was nothing about her. She was utterly, completely unremarkable.

And that was the other reason why Cole’s fascination with the woman made no sense.

Cole loved women almost as much as he loved sports, but this woman?

Cole liked women curvy, but this one was slim to the point of being skinny. There was no noticeable definition of her waist through her Jeter jersey. No womanly flare of her hips.

Plus, Cole preferred blondes, and this one’s messy ponytail was just a couple shades lighter than black.

As for her face? Well, he hadn’t seen it yet. Not fully. But she’d turned her head once in the third inning, giving Cole a quick glance at her profile. The upturned nose was cute enough, but the rest of her features were hardly so arresting as to explain why he continued to stare at her.

It took Cole another half inning to realize what it was that had captivated him.

For the first time in his life, he was seeing a woman who was more absorbed with a baseball game than he was.

Tiny Brunette, as he’d started thinking of her, hadn’t lost interest in the game once. Even between innings, when the rest of the stadium was refilling on beer and peanuts, she merely scribbled like crazy in a little notebook she kept in her lap.

It was like clockwork. The third out would signal the swap of the players on the field, and Tiny Brunette’s attention would dip toward the damn notebook.

Her left hand would sneak around to twirl her ponytail around a finger while her right hand busily wrote…

What?

What did she write in that notebook? And exactly why did he want to know so badly?

Normally Cole would just ask. The seat beside Tiny Brunette was free. Everyone else in the suite was there more for the networking and the free food and booze than the game. It would have been so easy just to plop down beside her, strike up a conversation. Flirt.

But for some reason he was hesitant.

Cole told himself it was because he didn’t want to interrupt whatever it was she was so diligently working on, but there was an unfamiliar fear too.

The fear of rejection.

Because nothing about this woman signaled that she’d be interested in a conversation with him.

And that would be a first.

But before Cole could make the call on whether or not to die curious about that damn notebook or risk rejection by Tiny Brunette, his best friend and co-worker was holding a fresh beer in front of his face.

“You look like you need it,” Lincoln Mathis said, sipping the foam off his own beer.

“How would you know?” Cole said. “You’ve been chatting up Jonas Leroy’s wife for the better part of four innings.”

“Had to,” Lincoln said with a little shrug. “She was bored. Her husband’s completely preoccupied with whatever’s going on with that ball down there.”

“As he should be at a baseball game,” Cole said pointedly.

Cole didn’t know why he bothered. His friend was already back on his cellphone, not the least bit interested in the game.

Lincoln Mathis looked like the type of man who should enjoy sports: tall, athletic, well muscled from their early-morning gym sessions. Carelessly styled black hair and friendly blue eyes that screamed guy’s guy just as loudly as they did ladies’ man.

But, much to Cole’s dismay, he’d never been able to get his friend to invest more than a passing interest in sports—any sport. Lincoln was always happy to tag along to a game when booze and women were involved, but ask him who he thought this year’s MVP would be, and he’d say Babe Ruth without the smallest hint of irony.

Still, tonight, Cole couldn’t exactly lecture Lincoln for not paying attention when he himself was having a hell of a time keeping track of the score.

Once more, his eyes found Tiny Brunette, who was…yep. Writing in her notebook.

“Hey, Sharpe. Do you know where they keep a fire extinguisher in here?” Lincoln asked, looking around the luxury suite of Yankee Stadium.

Cole tore his gaze away from the woman and her damn notebook. “What for?”

“If you stare at that girl any harder, she’s going to burst into flames,” Lincoln said, jerking his chin at Tiny Brunette.

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Don’t insult our bromance,” Lincoln said cheerfully.

“Keep running your mouth and we won’t have a bromance.” Cole forced himself not to look at the woman again.

“Hey, if you’ve got a crush on the wee lass, you can tell me,” Lincoln said, taking another sip of beer.