Lincoln dragged both hands over his face and swore softly.

“I wish I could say I was one of those women who get out first thing,” she said. “But instead I was one of those women who convince themselves that it was a one-time incident. That he hadn’t meant to. He was horrified, and so apologetic, and for weeks after that he tried so hard to be kind and funny. Like the Gary I’d dated, you know? But then, slowly, it started again. The criticisms. The complaining, the tantrums. He hit me twice more. After the second time, I researched how to file for divorce. After the third time, I acted on it. By then he had his mistress and she was pregnant, and everyone assumed that was the reason for the divorce. And that was that, really. The end.”

“No, not the end, Daisy,” Lincoln said. “He came over today. You’ve seen him since the divorce?”

“This was the first time. He’s kept his distance. I’m sure he hoped that I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“What did he want?”

“One of his friends—a total misogynistic prick named Brian—was at the restaurant the other night. Saw us together, told Gary. Apparently, he’s able to knock up his secretary and marry her, but I’m not allowed to go to dinner with another man.”

Lincoln’s fingers flexed. “I wish I could hit him all over again.”

“I sort of wish that too,” she said, putting down a squirming Kiwi. “I tried to warn Larissa, you know.”

“Who’s Larissa?”

“His new wife. Baby mama, whatever. I warned her about his temper, told her if she ever needed someone to talk to…She laughed in my face, called me a jealous hag.”

“Nice,” Lincoln snarled.

Daisy lifted a shoulder, ran her fingers over the dried tears on her face. She knew she looked awful—red nose, puffy eyes—but found she didn’t care. In fact, she sort of relished it. Gary had never wanted her to look anything but her best, and it was strangely liberating to talk about him while looking her absolute worst.

“I’m not broken,” she repeated, looking down as she clasped her hands together and put them between her knees. “I got help right away, and that was huge. Just a little cracked sometimes, that’s all. Trying to figure out how to fill those cracks has been harder than I thought.”

“We’re all a little cracked, honey,” Lincoln said.

“You ever wonder?” she said, tilting her head up and looking at the late-afternoon sunshine.

“Wonder what?”

“What will fill your cracks? How to get better.”

“All the damn time.”

“Any ideas you’d like to share? I could use a few.”

“Right now, I’ve only got one, and I’m worried you might not like it, but I’m wondering if you’ll trust me.”

She looked at him, took in the stubborn line of his jaw, the strength of his solid build, and most of all, the sheer goodness in his eyes.

“I trust you,” she whispered.

Gratification flared in his eyes, and then he nodded once before shifting his weight, easing ever closer to her on the cement step until they were hip to hip. Giving her time, she realized—giving her time to adjust to the feeling of being touched by a man, more than a casual hand hold.

Daisy waited for the flare of panic, but there was none. And when he slowly wrapped his left arm around her, she found herself curling into him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her chest rested against his heartbeat as his other arm came around her, holding her close.

Just holding her.

That was all.

It wasn’t a precursor to anything. It was a moment in its entirety, separate from the moment before and the moment after.

A small, perfect heartbeat in time.

Daisy felt her eyes water, although for a different reason. She wondered if he felt it—wondered if he knew that this was the first time she’d let anyone hold her in years.

Did he know?

Did Lincoln know that the more he put her back together again, the more power he had to break her heart?

Chapter 22

Two days after Lincoln had beaten the crap out of Daisy’s ex, two days after she’d let him hold her, Daisy stood in her huge walk-in closet and tried hard to shift her attention to another man.

Specifically, Dan Lowe, the man she’d given her phone number to at the restaurant the other night. They were going on a date.

Did she even remember how to date?

She apparently didn’t remember how to dress for one.

Annoyed with herself, and tired of overthinking it, Daisy tugged a dark navy dress off the hanger and stepped into it before she could reconsider for the hundredth time.

The simple sheath dress was flattering without trying too hard. It hit just above the knees, body-hugging, but not skintight. It was high-necked and sleeveless, with a black lace pattern on the bodice to keep it from feeling too blah.

She reached around to zip it, only to find her arms too short. Damn. She’d figure out how to do that yoga contortion after she finished her makeup.

Daisy went into the bathroom to do her eyes, going just a bit more smoky than usual, smudging chocolate brown and a bit of shimmering gold over her lids before adding a couple coats of Dior mascara. She stepped back and assessed.

Not bad.

Pretty good, actually.

If only she felt more excited.

She should be more excited. Dan had been perfectly charming in their text exchange, and he was taking her to one of her favorite Italian restaurants. All signs pointed to this date having the most potential of any she’d been on post-divorce, and yet all she could think about was how she’d rather be joining Lincoln and Kiwi in their movie night.