After all, Emma and her friends knew him a hell of a lot better than she did. Perhaps she’d merely tried to paint a picture of Lincoln as she wanted him to be.

Her eyes scanned his bathroom, looking for more clues into the mystery that was Lincoln. It was clean, but not Spartan. While there were no frilly accessories, there was a blue hand towel that almost matched the bath towel hanging on the rack, and a bath mat that matched neither but was at least present. More than a lot of bachelor pads, she’d guess.

Although something about both his bedroom and bathroom didn’t scream bachelor pad so much as…lonely. Based on his reputation, she’d have expected sleek furniture and black sheets, maybe a box of condoms on the bathroom counter. Instead everything was comfortable, and tidy, but careless somehow. As though he had enough self-respect to clean up after himself, but didn’t really care one way or the other what someone else might think of his place. There was nothing to welcome a woman’s touch to the place, but nothing to deter women either. It felt…ambivalent.

Daisy rinsed and spit before picking up her phone.

Rumors confirmed, but don’t worry, I left his virtue intact. Congrats again on a beautiful wedding, Em. I’ve never seen you so happy, which made ME so happy.

She waited a second to see if her sister would respond immediately, but there was nothing. Good. Emma was no doubt cozy in bed with Cassidy, exactly as she should be.

Daisy reluctantly peeled off the soft, comfortable shirt and boxers. A quick glance showed a hamper in the corner of the bathroom. She dropped in Lincoln’s clothes and pulled the dress over her head. The halter-top bodice hadn’t allowed for a bra, so thank goodness she didn’t need to worry where she might have tossed that during her striptease.

Her hair was a mess, but a quick, guilty peek through his bathroom drawers showed only extra razor blades and deodorant. No sign of a hair tie left behind from one of his one-night stands. Damn. She’d known he didn’t sleep with as many people as she’d been told, but she was definitely getting the impression he didn’t sleep with any. There was absolutely no sign of woman in this place.

Daisy smoothed her hair down as best she could and did a quick braid. There was nothing to secure the braid with, but her hair had enough of last night’s hairspray left to mostly stay in place.

She opened the bathroom door.

No Lincoln. She contemplated stripping the bed so he could wash the sheets, but it felt wrong to leave him with a blatant pile of laundry, so she made the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles on the gray duvet. She tilted her head, studied the bed. It was a queen.

More proof that he wasn’t much for sexual company. The bedroom was small, as she suspected most Manhattan bedrooms were, but he could have most certainly squeezed in a king-size bed if he wanted to. And the bedspread, while perfectly serviceable and masculine, didn’t scream seduction so much as don’t give a shit.

Then again, maybe she was basing her assumptions too much on the movie version of bachelor pads. Just because Lincoln wore a suit better than any man she’d known and looked to have a hundred-dollar haircut didn’t necessarily mean he had to have dark leather and black lights everywhere.

Realizing the clock was ticking and she was increasingly outstaying her welcome, Daisy glanced around for her shoes and, not seeing them, wandered into his living room.

Now this was more like it. There was the requisite big screen, a comfortable-looking leather sofa, and an abandoned beer bottle on the coffee table.

Her eyes scanned until she found Lincoln in the kitchen, rinsing her coffee mug. He glanced over his shoulder when she came into the room and smiled, although she thought his smile seemed a little less wide than it usually was, his eyes a little less flirtatious.

Yeah, she’d definitely outstayed her welcome.

“I made the bed,” she said, awkwardly gesturing over her shoulder. “But if there are fresh sheets you want me to put on…”

“Nah, I’ll take care of it later. Maybe. There are worse things than the smell of a woman’s perfume on a pillow.”

They could have been the words of a man very accustomed to multiple women’s perfumes on his pillow, but Daisy could have sworn she heard a trace of sadness in his voice just then.

She watched as he filled a small silver bowl with dog food. Kiwi wandered over to sniff it, then gave him a disdainful look that clearly said, Make me some eggs.

Lincoln shook his head at the dog, a communication it seemed to understand because Kiwi huffed before halfheartedly taking a bite of the dry dog food.

Cute. Very, very cute.

“Do I even want to know where I might have discarded my shoes?” Daisy asked, crossing one bare foot over the other self-consciously.

Lincoln nodded his chin toward a table by the front door. Sure enough, there was her clutch, and on the floor by the door, her silver strappy sandals.

She went to put them on, trying to keep the mood light. “Scale of one to ten, how ‘walk of shame’ is this outfit? It’s bad, right?”

He didn’t respond, and Daisy glanced up to see him with his hands braced on the counter, staring blankly down. “Lincoln?”

His head shot up. “Sorry. What?”

She maneuvered the skinny strap through the tiny buckle with years’ worth of uncomfortable-shoe-wearing practice and reached for the other one. “Nothing. I don’t need to call a cab like I would in Charlotte, right? This is NYC, so I just do as they do on TV and walk outside and hail one?”

“I’ll drive you.”