Irresistibly Yours (Oxford #1)(12)

Cassidy didn’t respond, and Cole gave the other man a sharp look as the editor in chief walked around to sit down at his desk.

“Don’t jump to reassure me or anything,” Cole said under his breath.

Cassidy sighed. “Would you just sit down so we can do this damn interview?”

Cole eyed the door. “Do we have to do it now? You seem like you’re in a shitty mood.”

“Of course I’m in a shitty mood,” Cassidy said, running a hand through his hair. “You just interrupted that woman’s interview. She could sue us.”

“Please,” Cole said with a scoff. “She wanted to go to coffee with me.”

“Only because she doesn’t know you,” Cassidy muttered.

“Yup, you’re definitely in a shitty mood. Maybe we should reschedule—”

“Sit,” Cassidy commanded. “Let’s get this over with. How about we start with an easy one.”

“Sure,” Cole said, plopping in the chair, feigning cockiness he didn’t feel after Tiny Brunette’s impressive display of New York sports stats.

“Great,” Cassidy snapped. “How about you tell me what the hell you were thinking, barging in here—”

Cassidy’s rant continued for several moments, but Cole didn’t bother listening. He already knew the answer to Cassidy’s question.

Why did he barge into the office? It was a two-parter.

The first was easy. He’d wanted to ensure that a tiny Chicago outsider wasn’t getting his job.

The second part was more complicated. He’d wanted to see said tiny Chicago outsider.

Now he just needed to figure out why.





Chapter 4


“It can’t have been that bad.” The voice at the other end of the phone was soothing.

“Trust me,” Penelope said. “It was worse.”

There was a moment of silence as her younger sister thought this over. “And you say he just stared at you?”

“Like I was an animal in the zoo. An exotic one, but not a pretty, exotic one,” Penelope said, taking a bite from the hot dog she’d gotten from a vendor in Central Park.

Street meat, she’d heard it called. Sounded so disgusting. Tasted so good.

Penelope had always imagined that Central Park would be crazy crowded, being the crown jewel of the most populous city in the country and all.

But on a cooler than usual Wednesday in April it was nearly deserted, and Penelope felt as though the park were her personal playground.

“What’s that noise?” Janie asked. “Are you eating?”

“Hot dog,” Penelope said.

Her sister groaned. “And here I was thinking that the only good thing about you leaving Chicago was that it would get you away from those things.”

Penelope sucked a drop of mustard off her thumb. “Nope. New city, new dog.”

“You say that as though it’s a common phrase,” Janie said. “It’s not.”

“Not to a vegetarian who’s doing yet another juice cleanse, maybe,” Penelope said, crumpling up the foil in her fist and leaning against the bench. “But did you know that different cities have different styles of dogs? The Chicago dog, for instance—”

“Stop. Just stop,” Janie cut in. “If I’m not allowed to tell you what’s in them, you’re not allowed to tell me all the disgusting things that go on them. Let’s get back to this guy—”

“Cole,” Penelope said. “Cole Sharpe.”

“Hmm. Good name.”

It was a good name.

Looked really damn good on a byline too, as Penelope well knew. She’d done her homework.

She knew everyone in the industry.

Being one of the few females in her line of work, Penelope hadn’t exactly had a plethora of mentors to pick from. The senior sportswriters of Chicago thought her an abomination. The sports columnists who were her own age had been both annoyed and threatened by her very existence.

For all of today’s talk about feminism and equality, female sportswriters were still few and far between. Nobody had exactly been banging down the door to show Penelope the ropes, so…

She’d taught herself.

She subscribed to dozens of newspapers across the country and read their entire sports sections, every day.

Then there were the magazines. And the blogs. And the apps. And the Twitter feeds. So, yeah, she’d known who Cole Sharpe was, even before she decided to move to New York.

And if Penelope was honest, she wished she were up against someone less, well, good.

Cole Sharpe’s work was amazing. He had an impressive knack for seamlessly blending analysis, stats, and summary in a way that read like a really good story.

Add in the fact that he had a distinctive writing style—a “voice” that came through in the written word—and, well, he was just about as worthy an opponent for the editor position as she could have dreamt up.

So much for her hopes that her rival would be someone a bit older—an old-school “boys’ club” type of columnist. At least then Penelope could have gotten the edge by playing the “I’m youthful and technically savvy” card.

But Cole Sharpe barely looked a day over thirty. Chances were he was not only as well versed in social media as she was, but also understood its importance in the future of sports reporting.