Irresistibly Yours (Oxford #1)(14)

Something he’d pointedly reminded her when he’d crashed her interview.

Penelope supposed she should be mad about that—it was a crappy move on his part. Immature at best, unscrupulous at worst.

But she’d never been one to waste energy getting mad about the little stuff. Her tolerance for drama was remarkably low, which was part of the reason the world of sports fit her so well.

It was all numbers and scores.

And that was why she’d asked Cole Sharpe to coffee. Someone with whom to talk shop.

At least…that was her story, and she was sticking with it.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he looked every bit as good in a charcoal suit this morning as he had in jeans and T-shirt last night…

But ultimately, the reason didn’t matter, because he’d turned her down.

No, not even turned her down—he’d responded with an uh.

That was so much worse.

Penelope tried to tell herself that it didn’t sting as she unlocked the door of her apartment and dropped her bag by the front door.

She was used to it—rejection in all its forms.

Penelope had no illusions about her place in the world of men: the friend zone.

She was the girl next door you could always count on to pick up your mail when you were out of town, provide input when you needed to shop for an engagement ring for your girlfriend, serve as that last-minute date to the wedding of an extended family member you didn’t really like.

Unless, of course, she was among fellow sportswriters, in which case she was neither one of the guys nor was she appealing as a woman, which left her chronically on the outside.

Penelope wandered into her apartment, trying to ignore how empty it was. She’d thought that finally getting some art up on the walls—some gorgeous canvas photos of her favorite stadiums—would make it feel less empty.

But pretty as the new art pieces were, they were no substitute for human company.

Penelope felt a pang of regret that she hadn’t been brave enough to ask Emma Sinclair for her phone number when the other woman had been so friendly.

Not that she exactly fit in with the high-heeled glamour of the Stiletto women, but at least then she’d feel like she knew someone in this huge city.

Penelope sat on the edge of her couch and wondered what to do with the rest of her day.

She’d managed to get through her first two weeks in the city by prepping endlessly for her interview, but now that was over, and she had nothing to do but wait.

Wait to find out if her spontaneous move to New York would pay off in the form of a job offer from Oxford, or if she’d have to go back to square one in the job hunt.

In the meantime, of course, there was always freelance stuff. Some of her old contacts back in Chicago would likely jump at the chance to have some dedicated coverage for the American League East games.

There could be good money in freelance. Especially if one wrote fast, which she did.

But freelance also meant a hell of a lot of time alone.

If Penelope was honest with herself—and she usually was—the appeal of the Oxford position wasn’t just about the chance to build out an entirely new section of a nationally acclaimed magazine.

It was about belonging to a team. To have someone to bounce ideas off of, after-work happy hours to attend, the corporate holiday party. Someone to grab coffee with.

She winced at that last one, remembering the babbling, overeager way she’d all but thrown herself at Cole Sharpe, all because he’d shown her the tiniest scrap of kindness.

It would have been bad enough if she’d been asking him out on a date. It was all the more pathetic because she’d asked a perfect stranger—and competition—out as a friend. He hadn’t even gone for that.

Penelope groaned and threw herself onto her right side. “Could I be any more pathetic?”

She rolled onto her back, pulling one of her throw pillows against her chest.

Maybe she should think about getting a dog.

Or even a fish.

Yes, a fish would be better. Less poop.

She reached for her phone, intending to look up local pet stores, when it buzzed in her hand with an incoming text message.

It was a 212 number—no name, which meant it wasn’t one of her known contacts.

Her eyes narrowed in confusion before widening in surprise as she sat back up.

She read it again, just to be sure.

Hey. It’s Cole Sharpe. Any chance I can swap your offer of coffee for beer?

Penelope let a dopey smile crawl over her face as the loneliness eased—just slightly.

Absolutely, she typed back.

She started to ask when and where, but decided that sounded a little too desperate. Penelope had learned the hard way that We should grab a drink sometime was right up there with I’ll call you…

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?