A man who’s living a lie—until his dream woman takes away the pain.
SOMEONE LIKE YOU
Oxford #3
Lauren Layne
Loveswept
Lauren Layne’s bestselling Oxford Series continues with the poignant, heartwarming story of New York’s most eligible bachelor, Lincoln Mathis, a man who’s living a lie—until his dream woman takes away the pain.
Lincoln Mathis doesn’t hide his reputation as Manhattan’s ultimate playboy. In fact, he cultivates it. But behind every flirtatious smile, each provocative quip, there’s a secret that Lincoln’s hiding from even his closest friends—a tragedy from his past that holds his heart quietly captive. Lincoln knows what he wants: someone like Daisy Sinclair, the sassy, off-limits bridesmaid he can’t take his eyes off at his best friend’s wedding. He also knows that she’s everything he can never have.
After a devastating divorce, Daisy doesn’t need anyone to warn her off the charming best man at her sister’s wedding. One look at the breathtakingly hot Lincoln Mathis and she knows that he’s exactly the type of man she should avoid. But when Daisy stumbles upon Lincoln’s secret, she realizes there’s more to the charming playboy than meets the eye. And suddenly Daisy and Lincoln find their lives helplessly entwined in a journey that will either heal their damaged souls . . . or destroy them forever.
Praise for Someone Like You
“Fun and flirty, sassy and steamy, with a deep emotional pull that will keep you turning the pages.”—Kelly Jamieson, author of Top Shelf
“An unsung hero with a story that touched my heart. Emotional and gripping. A top favorite of 2016 for me.”—New York Times bestselling author Melanie Moreland
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“Lincoln,
you know that I love you like a brother, but if you make a move on my sister, I
will
end you.”
Lincoln
Mathis took a slow sip of his cocktail as he studied the fierce bride-to-be. “I
hope Cassidy knows how lucky he is. You’re so delicate and gentle.”
Emma
Sinclair, soon to be Emma Cassidy as of this time tomorrow, lifted one
elegantly manicured fingernail and flicked his chest. “Promise,
Lincoln. No hitting on Daisy.”
“I
don’t hit on women.”
Emma
gave him a look.
He
held up his free hand in surrender. “I don’t. They come to me. I’m like the
stamen.”
Emma
stared at him with wide, slightly accusatory brown eyes. “The what?”
“The
stamen. The pollen-producing part of a flower, Sinclair. Don’t you watch the
Discovery Channel? Animal Planet? I just saw a fascinating
documentary on bees. See, when the bees land on a flower, their little feet
pick up pollen from the stamen— “
“Mathis.
Are you talking to my fiancée about semen?” Alex Cassidy asked, coming up
beside Emma and setting a possessive hand on her waist.
“Stamen,”
Lincoln clarified. “Not semen. Honestly, is sex all you people
think about?”
“Yes.”
This came from Riley Compton, a brunette bombshell whose status as New York’s
foremost “sexpert” meant she had zero qualms about discussing sex at her best
friend’s rehearsal dinner. “And you know, actually, the stamen is rather
sexual. I saw that bee documentary too, because these are the sort of things
you do when you’re nursing a never-satisfied baby, by the way, and the stamen
is a flower’s male reproductive organ. Sexy, right?”
Emma
inserted the arm not holding her champagne flute between the two of them.
“Guys, it’s my wedding weekend. Can we not talk about flower boners?”
“Fair
enough, Bride,” Lincoln said. “What do you want to talk about? Cassidy’s
boner?”
Alex
Cassidy choked into his champagne.
“There
will be no boner discussion,” Emma said. “Lincoln and I were just having a chat
about how Lincoln will be maintaining his distance from my sister.”
“Speaking
of flowers, where is Daisy?” Riley asked, scanning the
room.
“Running
late. Knowing my sister, her dress had a slight crease from the suitcase, and
she won’t make an appearance until every wrinkle’s banished, every hair’s in
place, and there’s not a speck of lint anywhere.”
“Gosh,
however will I keep my hands to myself?” Lincoln muttered.
“Lincoln,
I swear to God—”
“He’s
messing with you, Em,” Cassidy said, carefully tugging his fiancée away from
Lincoln. “Don’t let him press your buttons. And Lincoln, man, what is with that
drink?”
Lincoln
glanced down. “It’s called a Jasmine. Gin, lemon, some Campari—”
“It’s
pink,” Cassidy observed.
“Right?
You want one?”
Cassidy
rolled his eyes. “I’ll stick with wine, thanks. Ah shit, there’s my grandma
waving us over. Emma, you up for talk about the state of your uterus?”
Emma
groaned. “Oh no. I thought she’d agreed to wait until after the wedding to talk
about my eggs.”
“I’ll
go with you,” Riley said. “As the only one in our little group of friends who’s
ever pushed a human skull out my—”
“Okay,
I’m going to expand my taboo list,” Emma said. “No talking about boners,
flowers, or vaginas.”
“Fine,”
Riley said, as she entwined her arm in Emma’s and started leading her toward
Cassidy’s grandma. “But if Grams starts talking about fertility, just follow my
lead . . . ”
Lincoln
smiled as he watched his friends walk away. He could follow, certainly, help
run interference, but new mom Riley was a far better choice for this particular
bridal-party duty.
Besides,
as best man, Lincoln had enough to worry about. The ring, reconfirming
transportation to the church tomorrow, the speech that he was going to slay
tomorrow, the—
Lincoln’s
best man to-do list scattered as his eyes landed on a woman standing in the doorway
to the private event room. He did a double take. When had Emma found time to
change? Generally speaking, he didn't consider himself particularly in tune
with his friends' clothes. Especially the women, because, well . . . he didn’t really give a crap. But he was pretty
damn sure Emma had been wearing a white dress just ten seconds ago.
Now
she was wearing a short yellow dress, with fussy, flowy sleeves, high-necked
and a bit demure—
No,
not
demure, Lincoln amended as she turned. Hot. The dress was backless, showing a
smooth expanse of lightly tanned skin from the small of her back all the way up
to long dark blond hair.
.
. . Blond hair.
Emma
had shoulder-length brown hair. A wardrobe swap, he might be able to buy, but
the hair?
You
idiot.
He
was looking at none other than Daisy Sinclair, the forbidden fruit, in the
flesh.
He’d
forgotten that Daisy wasn’t just Emma’s sister—she was Emma’s identical twin.
Other
than the fact that she was, apparently, not to be hit on, Lincoln didn’t know
much about her.
Well,
he supposed he now knew that she dyed
her hair blond.
Or
maybe Emma dyed hers brown?
Whatever.
Girl stuff he didn’t care about one way or the other.
And
yet he didn’t look away, captivated somehow. He racked his brain for everything
he’d heard about Daisy Sinclair.
He
knew that she and Emma had grown up in North Carolina. But Emma left for New
York City shortly after college, and Daisy had stayed. He thought he remembered
talk of a recent divorce, although he didn’t recall the details.
Didn’t
need to, really. Lincoln knew better than anyone that not all relationships had
happy endings.
Lincoln
watched as Daisy hesitated just inside the doorway, unnoticed yet by the rest
of the bridal party and out-of-town guests.
Making
people comfortable was a particular skill of his. Normally he’d be over there
in a heartbeat with a glass of wine and some of his best banter until her
shoulders relaxed and he’d coaxed a smile from her pretty face.
But
he wasn’t entirely
convinced Emma wouldn’t make good on her castration threats, so instead Lincoln
merely studied Daisy. The woman was beautiful. No surprise there, since Emma
was gorgeous. Yet, though their features were identical, they were attractive
in entirely different ways.
Emma
was all polished confidence, stunning in an untouchable sort of way.
Daisy
was softer somehow. Gentler. She seemed . . . touchable.
Lincoln’s
cocktail froze on its way to his mouth as the forbidden rocked him back on his
heels. Daisy Sinclair was not for him to touch for reasons that
had nothing to do with Emma’s threats.
As
though sensing a man’s brooding thoughts on her, Daisy turned slightly, her
eyes locking on his. Eyes that he’d known would be dark brown like Emma’s, and
yet eye contact with Emma had never felt like this.
Lincoln
felt something akin to panic, because for a heart-stopping moment, it felt like
Daisy Sinclair was seeing him. Not seeing the Lincoln he wanted
everyone to see.
The
real him.
He
gave himself a little mental shake. Get it together, Mathis. The woman doesn’t even know you.
None
of them did.
Not
really.
He
saw the moment of answering shock in her own gaze, sensed that for a split
second, she considered turning and running. From him, from the party, all of
it.
Then
he saw something else. Something familiar, because he’d done it a thousand
times himself. She squared her shoulders, and he watched as a mask slid into
place.
He
knew even before she approached that Daisy was exactly like him—good at being
around people only because she chose to be. Knew that perhaps once it had been
second nature, and now it was nothing but a deliberate attempt to make sure
everyone thought she was okay.
Daisy
began making her way toward him, and he tensed for reasons he couldn’t identify
before ordering himself to chill out.
It
was just his friend’s sister. The maid of honor to his best man.
She
stopped in front of him, and he caught just the faintest whiff of her perfume,
a surprisingly elegant scent for someone named Daisy, before she extended her
hand.
“You
must be Lincoln Mathis, The Manwhore of Whom I Should Beware?”
Her
voice was a surprise. It had the same low huskiness as her sister’s, but years
in New York had all but erased the Southern from Emma’s whiskey-raspy voice.
Daisy’s drawl was very much intact—a mint julep on a hot day.
He
grinned and took her smaller hand in his. “Which would make you Daisy Sinclair,
Delicate Flower to Whom I’m Not to Speak.”
She
grinned. “Nailed it.”
Lauren
Layne is the USA Today bestselling
author of more than a dozen romantic comedies. She lives in New York City with
her husband (who was her high school sweetheart--cute, right?!) and plus-sized
Pomeranian.
In 2011, she ditched her corporate career in Seattle to pursue a full-time
writing career in Manhattan, and never looked back.
In her ideal world, every stiletto-wearing, Kate Spade wielding woman would
carry a Kindle stocked with Lauren Layne books.
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