“I’m over my shit,” Lincoln ground out. Or at least I’m working on it.

Nick shrugged his shoulders as if to say okay, even though his face read: bullshit.

Lincoln decided to push back, dropping his bag to the ground and settling into the chair just vacated as he spun idly around and gave Nick a taunting look. “You know, for all your sniffing around Daisy, I’d’ve bet serious money that Taylor Carr is the one who really has your dick in a knot.”

Nick’s head snapped back, barely, but enough for Lincoln to know he’d struck a nerve and gained a point.

“Taylor’s a bitch. She’s also dating Bradley Cross.”

Bradley Cross was Oxford’s lead ad exec. Lincoln couldn’t say he knew him well—their paths didn’t cross often—but he’d always gotten the impression that the guy was bland at best, douchebag at worst. Hardly the type of guy that a firecracker like Taylor would be satisfied by.

“I know,” Nick grumbled, apparently reading Lincoln’s thoughts. “Grade-A asshole. Which is why he’s perfect for Taylor.”

Lincoln laughed. “All right. I get it. I was off base about you and Taylor’s hate thing being sexually motivated, but that doesn’t change the fact that—”

“Daisy’s yours,” Ballantine bit out. “Got that loud and clear from the drippy way she talked about you yesterday.”

Lincoln felt a stab of pleasure. He and Daisy had only been doing…whatever they were doing…for a week. But it felt right. It felt good. There was the laughter and easy camaraderie from their time together in North Carolina, but there was also the sex.

The two combined made Lincoln, well…happy.

Which was great, except that hot on the heels of that happiness was always guilt. The sense that it was too soon after Katie, the sense that he shouldn’t get to feel this way about a woman twice in his life.

And along with the guilt was worry.

Worry that Ballantine was right, and that maybe, just maybe, Lincoln was using Daisy. Using her as a crutch to get away from the pain. Maybe even using her to replace the emptiness left by Katie’s accident and death.

“I need to get to work,” Lincoln said, his voice crisp and dismissive.

Ballantine smirked as though he knew exactly what sort of treacherous thoughts he’d planted in Lincoln’s head.

“No prob,” he said, walking toward the door. He turned back. “Just know that I’ll be waiting.”

“For what?” Lincoln stopped.

Ballantine’s smirk turned into a grin. “For you to fuck it up with Daisy.”

Then he was gone, leaving Lincoln with the fierce urge to punch something. Preferably Ballantine. The other man had spoken as though it was an inevitability. There’d been no if in his statement.

As though Lincoln fucking it up with Daisy was a foregone conclusion.

Lincoln jerked open the third drawer of his desk. He kept a candy stash for tough days the way guys in the Mad Men era had kept liquor. He hadn’t needed it all week, but damn it, he wanted sugar, and—

He jerked his hand back as though burned. There alongside his bags of Jolly Ranchers and Kit Kats and Rolos was a framed photo of Katie. He’d never dared to put it out on his desk for fear of the questions it would bring, but it, along with the candy, had been a source of comfort for him. A reminder of who he was, and what his life was to be.

He’d forgotten it was here.

How had he forgotten it was here?

He wanted to shove the drawer closed again, but he forced himself to pick up the basic silver frame. He’d snapped the photo with his phone on a trip to the Hamptons. The sandy wind had blown her dark blond hair all over the place, but it hadn’t obstructed her gorgeous green eyes.

He’d always looked at the picture and imagined her laughter, but now he could have sworn she was looking at him with something else.

Accusation.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

In an effort to make amends for forgetting about her, he set the frame on the desk. He wouldn’t leave it there. That would be morbid. But he needed it here, just for a few minutes.

Forgetting about the candy, he shut the drawer and rested his elbows on the desk, pressing his thumbs against his closed eyelids. He’d been an idiot to think that it would take nothing but a trip to Costa Rica to fix things. An idiot to imagine that he deserved happiness—

“Lincoln?”

He glanced up, and God damn it, there was Daisy.

And double God damn it, she was wearing the dress. The dress. The blue number with the black lace that she’d worn the night in Charlotte when he’d word-fucked her. Word-fucked both of them.

“You okay?” she asked, coming into the office and shutting the door.

No. So far from okay.

“Yeah,” he said, pushing back from his desk.

Her eyes lifted at his gruff tone, but she didn’t say anything. “Um, I just wanted to stop by and—”

“I know why you stopped by,” he interrupted.

Daisy blinked. “You do?”

Lincoln moved past her, and quietly, purposefully locked the door, before turning back to her.

“I do,” he said quietly, reaching out and sliding his hand into her hair, a little bit roughly, as his thumb traced along her jawline, his eyes locked on the full mouth that had tempted him in the worst ways since the very beginning.

Damn her. Damn her for the things she did to him.

Without preamble, he spun her around, knowing he was acting desperate, but he needed this. Needed her.