“Does it get old?” she blurted out.

His eyes lifted. “Does what?”

“Being gorgeous. And irresistible.”

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “I don’t think anyone’s ever managed to make those two adjectives sound so undesirable.”

“My immunity to your charms bothers you?”

“It does not,” he said. “It’s rather refreshing, actually.”

“Ah-ha, so the constant female attention does get old,” she pressed.

“Saying so would be a bit like copping to the ultimate in first-world problems, don’t you think? There are worse things than to be approached by a pretty woman now and then.”

“Now and then?” she quirked her eyebrow. “It seems a bit nonstop.”

He laughed. “I probably bring it upon myself.”

“You certainly don’t do much to ward them off,” she agreed. “But then that’s part of it, isn’t it?”

His gaze sharpened just slightly. “Part of what?”

“Your coping mechanism. Flirting distracts you.”

“From?”

“I have no idea.” She bit her lip. “You know, if you want to talk about—”

Lincoln straightened and finished off the rest of his drink before nodding his chin at hers. “Another?”

Daisy glanced down at her almost empty glass, then, mimicking his actions, tossed back the rest of her drink, relishing the burn. So he didn’t want to talk about it.

That was fine. She didn’t want to talk about hers either. Especially not on the night of her sister’s wedding where rancid memories threatened at the edges of her consciousness.

Perhaps a night of oblivion would be just the thing.

Daisy held out her empty glass to Lincoln. “Another. Hold the Coke on this one.”

Chapter 5

The headache wasn’t the worst she’d ever had, but it was definitely present.

Daisy opened her eyes slowly, grateful for the dim light in her bedroom…?

Her hands spread to her sides, finding an unfamiliar bedspread, sheets that were just slightly less soft than her own.

A hotel bed, her sleepy brain registered. She was in New York for Emma and Cassidy’s wedding, not in her bed back in Charlotte.

Her eyes opened all the way and she rolled to the side toward the nightstand alarm clock…that wasn’t there.

There was, however, a small bundle of white fluff next to her face.

The bundle of fluff moved.

Daisy sat bolt upright, realizing a bunch of things all at once:

(1) Her head hurt worse than she’d previously thought.

(2) Her mouth was wretchedly dry.

(3) There was a dog in bed with her. A tiny Maltese, if she was remembering her breeds correctly.

(4) The hotel bedspread was gray instead of white, the alarm clock on the left nightstand instead of the right…

Because…(5) She wasn’t in her hotel room.

A quick glance down showed she was in a man’s undershirt; a peek under the covers showed she was wearing blue-and-white plaid boxers that were way too large for her.

The only relief, if there was one, was that she was at least alone in the bed. Now, anyway. A few hours before, who knew, she couldn’t remember anything past…

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the Jack Daniel’s–induced fog to clear. There’d been the wedding, the reception. The bar with Lincoln…

Her eyes opened again, her heart thudding to a slow. Lincoln. She was in Lincoln’s bed. They’d gone to another bar after the first, and another bar after the second, and after that…

Oh dear.

His place, apparently.

The dog stirred, lifting an accusatory head toward Daisy, as though annoyed to be awoken. Then the dog yawned, showing a tiny pink tongue, and uncurled out of its sleep ball. The little creature crawled into her lap, resting its tiny head on Daisy’s thigh.

Daisy had never been much of a dog person, but this one was cute. She ran a hand over the soft white fur, her fingers gliding along the magenta collar—of course Lincoln’s dog would have a pink collar—until she found the little circular tag.

“Kiwi,” she read with a laugh.

The dog lifted its head, as though to say Yes?

The man had a dog that would fit in his palm. Adorable.

Perhaps Emma had been dead right about warning Daisy about Lincoln after all.

There was movement in the doorway of the bedroom and she glanced up to see Lincoln standing there, slowly and needlessly raising a knuckle to rap on the doorjamb. He was wearing jeans and a dark blue long-sleeved shirt that looked every bit as good on him as last night’s tux. The scruff on his jaw was a bit more pronounced than it had been yesterday, so he hadn’t shaved, although the way his dark hair curled damply over his forehead told her he’d showered recently.

“Morning, Wallflower. May I? I come bearing gifts.”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “I’ve decided I’m not responding to that. I’ve never been a wallflower in my life.”

“Says the girl I found cowering in the corner last night.”

“I wasn’t—okay, fine, I was. But it’s not my nickname. Is that coffee?” she asked, rubbing her pounding temple as her gaze zeroed in on the mug in his hands.

“Yep. Cream and sugar.”

She held out her hands in a gimme motion. “How’d you know?”

He smiled as he approached. “You told me. About four times. It was your condition on which you agreed to come home with me after we tried unsuccessfully to get a cab to take you back to Midtown on a Saturday night at bar-closing time.”