“Let’s just say there’s a reason I told you to bring your notebook and iPad.”

“You think this is going to be part of my research?”

“Oh, I know it is,” she said, turning and pulling her oversize purse out of the backseat. “See, last night you met what I’d call the country club set. The well-coiffed, expensive-Chardonnay-for-lunch women. They’re not unlike the Park Avenue elite. You know Melody? She has a personal shopper. Rachel? Her personal hairstylist comes to her house three days a week.”

“Yeah, I noticed they smelled like money,” he said.

“Like me?”

He smiled. “Like you.”

“But,” Daisy said, holding up a finger, “we Southerners are multifaceted. You know how back in New York you’d handle a sexy dive-bar bartender different than you would a fancy Park Ave princess, different from a Columbia student, different from a hotshot lawyer…”

“Hold up. A Columbia student? I’m not a creep.”

Daisy waved her hand. “Grad student, whatever. You get my point.”

“That different women call for different seduction, yes, I get it. Now explain to me why I’m outside Walmart for the first time in my life.”

She stared at him. “You’ve never been to Walmart?”

He lifted his shoulders. “I was born and raised in Tribeca. City guy through and through. No such thing as Walmart in Manhattan.”

“Oh man, this lesson’s going to be even more important than I thought. Okay, get out,” she said, gesturing to the door handle of the driver’s side as she opened her own door and stepped into the autumn sunshine.

He obeyed, starting to go around to the back of the car, then reversing when she gestured him toward the hood. “Okay, what are we buying?”

“We aren’t buying anything,” she said, rummaging around in her bag until she found the plain white hand towel she kept in the rag pile in the laundry room.

She stepped forward, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans before stepping back, tilting her head, and then nodding approvingly.

Lincoln glanced down. “Um…”

“Okay now, open the hood.”

He stared at her. “Come again?”

“The hood. Of the car. If you don’t know how, I can probably find it on YouTube…”

She started to reach into her bag for her phone, but he all but snarled at her before turning toward the car and pulling some lever that popped the hood.

“What’s wrong with the car?” he asked. “What am I supposed to fix?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Make something up.”

Lincoln turned and gave her an incredulous look. “This is your grand plan?”

She sighed. “Look, most girls won’t admit it, but they love a grease monkey. A guy who knows his way under the hood of a car, well…he knows his way around other things too.”

His gaze narrowed. “Is that so.”

“It is.”

“That’s why you made me wear the jeans and the T-shirt. It’s a damn uniform.”

“Yup. And the towel is the perfect accessory. See if you can’t get some grease somewhere under there. Get some on your hands, then wipe it on the towel. You’re going to have to really sell this.”

“Sell what? Fake car problems?”

“Just…” She blew out a breath. “Will you trust me on this? A guy in a too-tight white shirt—”

“It’s an undershirt. I never intended to prance around in a Walmart parking lot wearing it.”

“A too-tight white shirt,” she continued as though he hadn’t interrupted, “strained across a great chest, really great biceps, and his head under the hood of a car, a little sweaty, a little messy, a lot handy.”

“You sound like a pimp.”

“You’ll thank me when the babes come crawling and you’ve got a whole batch of fresh notes for your article.”

He glared at her. “And what are you going to be doing? Won’t you cramp my game?”

“I will. Which is why I’ll be in there.”

She hitched a thumb toward the behemoth store.

“Buying what?”

“Paper towels. Cleaning supplies. Tampons,” she added, just to ensure he didn’t try to follow her in.

He flinched, just as she’d known he would. Lincoln might be evolved, but he was still a guy.

“Don’t worry,” she said sweetly. “I’ll take my time. I wish I’d thought to bring a squirt bottle. We could have sort of faked the sweat, really sold this whole thing.”

“I swear to God, Daisy—”

She backed away a couple steps because he looked good and ready to haul her toward the car door and shove her back inside. “Good luck!”

“Wallflower—Daisy!”

She turned on her heel, walking quickly into the safety of the store.

She’d always sort of loved the anonymity of Walmart. It was just so darn big, and nobody looked at you twice. You could roam the aisles for hours and nobody would even know. Hadn’t there been a book or a movie or something about a woman living in Walmart?

It wasn’t hard to imagine. The store literally seemed to have everything.

As promised, Daisy took her time. In the cosmetics aisle, mostly. Generally speaking, she tended toward high-end makeup found in department stores, but she’d always had a weakness for nail polish. She loved a good manicure but hated the process of sitting and paying to have one done professionally when there were so many DIY options.