He spends the majority of his days in the office, but I have no clue what he does with his evenings. On the few occasions I’ve busted into his temporary penthouse, he’s been alone, thank God, but I’m honestly unaware if he’s actively dating. The only thing I can be certain of is that when he first returned, he said he hadn’t had sex in a long time. Is that still the case? Why does it actually feel like there’s a giant green-eyed monster taking over my entire body?

It’s in this highly negative, territorial frame of mind that I knock on his office door.

“What?” he barks out.

I throw the door open, ready to give him hell for the less than pleasant greeting, but I’m momentarily thrown off by his huge grin. Aside from his gorgeously disarming smile, he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves so his muscular forearms are on display. Why does he have to be so ridiculously attractive on all levels? Maybe I should suggest he grow the beard again. At least the chin dimple would be covered, and less of a weakness.

“We’ve talked about this, Lincoln,” I scold.

His smile growing wider. “I knew it was you.”

“How? I didn’t announce myself.”

“I know your knock. You rap three times quickly, pause, and rap twice more.”

“I do not.” At least I don’t think I do.

“Yes, you do. Every time. And Marjorie has a timid knock. My g-mom only ever knocks once, and Armstrong usually pounds on the door like he’s slamming his head against it, so I knew it was you.” He folds his arms behind his head and leans back in his chair. His biceps pop and stretch the white fabric. I wonder what he looks like when he’s working out. I’ve seen him in his underwear enough times that I’m sure I can accurately imagine all those muscles flexing.

“Wren?”

Dammit. I’ve been daydreaming. “Hmm?”

“Did you do something different with your hair?”

“What?” I touch it. Maybe I should’ve stopped in the restroom before I came in here and checked my appearance.

“Your hair looks different. Is it lighter?”

“Oh. I had some highlights put in earlier in the week. It’s nothing.” It’s also the first time I’ve worn it down since I had it done.

“I like it.”

“Thank you.” My cheeks feel hot. Why am I so flustered over a compliment?

“Sorry. You came in here for something, didn’t you?” Lincoln leans forward and rests his forearms on his desk.

“Oh. Right. Yes. The fundraiser event is this weekend.” His smile drops, but I power on. “I have a tux fitting arranged—”

He holds up a hand. “Didn’t we already do enough fittings with the damn suits?”

“Yes, but you need a tux for special events. They already have your measurements; this is to make sure it fits properly. It won’t take very long.”

“I hope not.” He tosses his pen on his desk. “Anything else?”

“We’ll need to review your speech, but that can wait until tomorrow if you’d prefer. The draft is already in your email.”

“Of course I don’t get to write my own speech,” he mutters.

“You can give your input if you’d like.”

He brushes off the offer. “Why bother? It’s not like I’m going to be here in a few months, anyway.”

I let it go for now. “I also need to know if you’re bringing a plus-one to the event.”

“What?”

“A plus-one. Do you have a date lined up for the event?” I can’t look at him, so I consult the file folder of women’s profiles. Potential dates for the event. I’m sure every single one of them would offer to make it a happy ending too.

“Why does it matter?” he asks.

I look up, but focus on his chin. It’s better than looking him in the eye because that reminds me of the almost-kiss, and then my heart starts racing. That damn dimple winks, taunting me. I want to bite his chin. Suck that pouty bottom lip. Dammit. I focus on his forehead. That should be safe. I clear my throat and try to sound unaffected. “If you have a plus-one lined up, I’ll need to perform a background check to ensure there aren’t any potential issues.”

“Potential issues?” he parrots.

“We’ll need to know if your date has a history of unsavory behavior.”

“I don’t have a date lined up, so I guess there’s nothing to worry about.”

I nod woodenly. “Your mother has intimated that a date would look good for optics. I have a list of profiles you can browse.”

“A list of profiles?”

I wish he would stop repeating things back to me. This could not be any more awkward than it already is. I set the file folder on his desk and flip it open. “These women have already been vetted and approved.”

Lincoln looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read. I don’t know if it’s disbelief, or possibly anger, or maybe even disgust. “You’ve vetted potential dates for me?”