“You’re wrong,” she called after him, even though he was out the door.

He backed up two steps, just enough to poke his head back into her office.

The look he gave her was positively panty-dropping. “We’ll see, Tiny. We’ll see.”

Chapter 14

For Cole, Sundays always had, always would be about Bobby. Cole saw his brother on other days of the week, certainly. Occasional lunches, ball games, spontaneous visits. But Sundays were their days.

Whether it was playing checkers in Bobby’s room while watching reruns of whatever his brother’s current pet show was, or trips to Governors Island on sunny summer days, Cole always ensured that Bobby knew he came first.

And more than that, Cole enjoyed it. Even before their disengaged parents had passed away, Bobby had always been Cole’s only real family.

It was Bobby who taught Cole that people could be unconditionally good.

And it was also through Bobby that he’d learned just how cruel they could be. People stared too long, laughed when they shouldn’t, or could be all-out mocking.

Even the ones with good intentions got it wrong more often than not. Whether it be talking about Bobby as though he wasn’t there or speaking to him as though he were a child, people in general just screwed up.

It was because of these people that Cole kept Bobby separate from the rest of his life, although he sometimes feared that Bobby would misunderstand his motives—that he would think Cole was ashamed of him.

Luckily, this had never seemed to cross Bobby’s mind, and Cole was glad for it, because it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Was he guilty of being overprotective of his brother?

Perhaps. But ashamed of Bobby? Never.

Bobby was the light of his life. His constant.

Which was why, on this particular Sunday, when Bobby was sick in bed with a nasty stomach virus and strict instructions for Cole to keep his distance, Cole was feeling a bit…

Lost.

No, that wasn’t quite right. Cole was lonely.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Sundays as his way of relaxing—of connecting—until the opportunity wasn’t there.

But the most startling realization wasn’t that Cole didn’t want to spend Sunday alone. The startling part was the way in which he’d decided to remedy it.

Somehow, Cole found himself outside the callbox of Penelope’s apartment building, trying to hide his apprehension as he hit the button next to her name and waited to see if she was home. Waited to see if she’d let him up.

“Hello?” Her voice was crackly, although not at all as confused-sounding as it should be for a single woman who wasn’t expecting company.

Unless she was expecting company. Ah, fuck, if she had plans with someone else—another man, he’d—he’d—

“Hello?” she said again, just a tiny bit impatient.

He hit the button before she hung up. “Hey, it’s Cole.”

He waited for the expected pause. The few moments of silence while she registered that her colleague was standing uninvited outside her apartment building and figured out how she felt about it.

As usual, Penelope surprised him. There wasn’t so much as the slightest delay before her voice crackled through, even more chipper than her hello. “Cole! Hey! You wanna come up?”

He stared for a second at the callbox.

How was it that everything was so simple with her?

Even with this push-pull thing they had going on, the sometimes kissing, sometimes arguing, sometimes platonic mess they had on their hands, she sounded genuinely glad to see him.

He closed his eyes in gratitude, just for a second.

“Cole? You still there?”

“Yeah,” he said, punching the button once more.

“Well get up here already.”

She let him into the building, and as he made his way up to her floor and knocked on her door, he realized that it wasn’t all that long ago that he’d been in this very spot, waiting to walk her to Jake and Grace’s dinner party.

Back then, she’d opened the door dressed in a robe, and his fingers hadn’t itched to remove it—much.

And now, Cole found himself hoping that history would repeat itself. That she’d open the door in a robe, and that he’d peel it off her body…

The door opened, and Cole blew out a sigh of regret.

No robe.

Just an enormously oversize Texas Rangers sweatshirt, cropped black yoga pants, and bare feet.

“What’s up?” she said, ushering him in.

Cole had to laugh. “Are you this welcoming to all uninvited visitors?”

She snorted. “Trust me. When you’re as short on visitors as I am, you’d be excited to see anyone.”

He smiled, although it wasn’t quite the answer he wanted. He’d wanted her to say that she was happy to see him….

“But I am in an extra good mood,” she was saying. “Edgar’s alive.”

“Come again?” he said, following her into the living room where the TV blared the Boston/Toronto game. The Yankees were away, on the West Coast, so their game wouldn’t be on for another hour.

“Edgar,” she said, gesturing at the fishbowl. “My fish. I thought he was dead, because he didn’t eat his breakfast, and was just sort of floating there, but maybe he was only resting, because now he’s moving again.”

Penelope was staring down at the fish with an adoring look on her face, and Cole could have sworn that his heart squeezed.

So much damn affection for a fish.

“ ’Sup, Edgar,” he said, glancing down at the black goldfish. He glanced at her. “Maybe he’s lonely. Have you thought about bringing him a friend?”

Her mouth turned downward, her eyes sad. “He had a friend. Lola. She died a couple days after I brought her home.”

Cole nodded solemnly. “May she rest in peace.”

“She’s totally in fish heaven where Finding Nemo plays twenty-four-seven,” Penelope said, good humor returning. “Can I get you a beer?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”

She seemed to think about this. “Oh. Sure. What are you doing here?”

Suddenly Cole regretted his prompting her to ask the question, because he remembered too late that he didn’t have a damn clue.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and Penelope gave him a sly grin. “Thought that might be the case. Beer?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, running his hand through his hair.

“Take your jacket off,” she said over her shoulder as she headed to the kitchen. “Sit. Get comfortable. It’s an awesome game.”

He glanced at the screen as he shrugged out of his jacket. “It’s zero–zero.”

“Exactly,” she said, coming back and handing him a bottle of beer. “It’s the fifth inning and neither team has gotten a hit.”

“Really,” he said, drawing out the word as he turned back to the screen with more interest.

She nodded and sat beside him, curling her legs up underneath her. “It’s early yet. One’s bound to mess up. But still, how cool would a double no-hitter be. There’s only been one in MLB history—”

“Fred Toney and Hippo Vaughn,” he interrupted, “in nineteen seventeen. The first hit didn’t happen until the tenth inning.”

Penelope glanced over at him, then lifted her bottle. “Well done, sir.”

He leaned back with a smug grin, kicking off his shoes before putting his feet up on her ottoman. “It’s annoying, huh? No longer being the only one in your social circle who can spout little-known sports facts?”

“I kind of like it,” Penelope said, taking a sip of beer. “Maybe it’s different being a woman. I hate to stereotype, but most of my female friends aren’t all that interested in talking sports. I mean, some like football, some like baseball, et cetera, but there’s nobody quite as passionate about all of them as me.”