Irresistibly Yours (Oxford #1)(26)

“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.”