Irresistibly Yours - Lauren Layne Page 0,38
him, wondering, not for the first time, if there were depths to Cole Sharpe that he kept carefully hidden from the world.
Sure, it was common knowledge that he was nice. Friendly. Charming.
But did people see beneath that to the kindness?
“Quit looking at me like that, Tiny,” he said, not glancing up from his phone.
“Like what?”
“Like I just threw myself in front of a truck to save a toddler. They’re onion rings, not flowers.”
“I don’t like flowers.”
He glanced up at that. “What do you mean, you don’t like flowers?”
She shrugged and dunked another onion ring into the spicy mayo that came in a little side container. “I mean, I like flowers. But I don’t like to receive them.”
Not that she’d been on the receiving end of a lot of flowers.
“What do you have against a bunch of nice roses?”
“Don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful,” she said, polishing off the onion ring and looking in dismay at her now completely greasy fingers.
Cole shifted his weight and reached into his pocket, pulling out a bunch of napkins.
It was her turn to lift her eyebrows, and he just shrugged. “Figured you’d need them. But back to the flowers thing—how can you both think they’re beautiful and not like them?”
“I don’t like that they’re cut,” she explained, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “I like flowers in their natural habitat. They belong in nature, not hacked up and sentenced to die in a vase somewhere.”
“Huh,” he said, looking at her. His feet came down off her desk, landing softly on the carpet of her office as he leaned forward. “Well, then, tell me, Tiny, how do you expect a guy to woo you if you don’t get all gushy over overpriced long-stem roses?”
“I don’t,” she said.
“What do you mean, you don’t?”
“I don’t expect to be wooed,” she said, picking up another onion ring, getting her fingers greasy all over again. “Don’t want it, really.”
“Every woman wants to be wooed.”
“Nope.”
He leaned back and tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair as he watched her eat. She supposed she should feel embarrassed about the speed with which she was finishing off the deep-fried goodness, but…nope.
“You know what I think?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you think, but I do know that I don’t want to hear it,” she replied.
He told her anyway. “I think that despite all your I’m just a simple girl next door charm, you’ve got walls.”
“Oh boy,” she said, dunking another ring in the sauce. “This should be good.”
He leaned forward again, smiling evilly. “I think that you pretend you don’t want to be wooed, because no one’s made the effort, and deep down, you’re terrified that nobody ever will.”
Penelope ignored the truth of his words and rolled her eyes. “This is good stuff, Cole. Do you accept credit cards, or should I write you a check?”
He ignored her dismissal. “I’ll drop it if you answer one question for me.”
“Fine,” she said with sigh.
His eyes locked on hers. “When was the last time you got flowers?”
“Two weeks ago,” she said, happy to have a ready answer.
Cole’s eyes narrowed. “Who were they from?”
She licked her thumb. “A friend.”
“And the occasion?” he asked.
She hesitated, wishing she could tell him they were of the romantic variety. But she was a terrible liar. “They were congratulatory for the new job.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said. “And which friend were they from?”
“You said one question,” she said primly. “This is turning into an inquisition.”
“Fair enough. I’ll rephrase my original question,” he said, as though this were a fair compromise. “When was the last time you got flowers from a man?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Her voice was defensive, and he knew it. “Aha, so these last flowers were not from a man.”
“My sister, Janie, sent them,” she admitted somewhat reluctantly. “But her husband’s name was on the card too. And he’s a man.”
Cole shook his head and looked disappointed. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” she asked, even as she told herself not to play into his little game of goading.
“You’re so prickly that men are too scared to try.”
“Prickly!” Penelope said, outraged. “I am not prickly.”
“Not personality-wise,” he said, his voice reassuring, as though talking to a skittish horse. “But romance-wise…you’re prickly.”
Penelope crossed her arms on the desk and leaned toward him. “Is this because I told you not to kiss me again?”
He crossed his own arms, mimicking her posture. “Definitely not. You’ll be relieved to know I’ve found my way to women who actually want to kiss me.”
Penelope