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Chapter One
There comes a time in every single woman’s life when the man who was once eh, not bad gets promoted to good enough.
For Riley McKenna, that moment happened at age twenty-eight at a pretentious new French restaurant in the East Village with weird blue lighting, snooty servers, and entrées the size of a pack of gum. A pack of gum.
Which was sort of par for the course in Riley’s dating world. Guys had quit taking her to comfortable places like McSorley’s or Patsy’s, with their big old pasta dishes, right about the time she’d gotten hired full-time by Stiletto magazine and traded in her hoodies for wrap dresses and platform shoes.
But now was not the time to reminisce about Brooklyn Riley and the big food portions she’d once been served. She was Manhattan Riley.
And Manhattan Riley dated guys like … what was his name?
Steven. Right. Steven Moore. And to be totally fair, Steven Moore was truly, well … not bad.
He was tall. Tall was good. In fact, Steven might be a tad too tall, if a girl was picky. But Riley didn’t have to worry about that now that she’d entered into a self-imposed quit-being-so-judgmental rehab program.
And it was because Riley was done being critical that she could also overlook that his hairline was all wrong for his face shape. As well as the fact that his hair color was a boring, whatever shade of brown.
After all, Steven’s eyes were just fine. Nicely shaped. Granted, he did tend to blink a little too long, but that didn’t bother Riley. Nope. The new easygoing Riley was just fine with that sort of thing.
Too bad nobody was around to take notes on all this fine self-improvement and report back to Riley’s mother. Erin McKenna would have been thrilled to learn that all of her beggars-can’t-be-choosers mating lectures were paying off.
Not that Riley was a beggar. Not even close.
In fact, if one were to read New York’s society pages, which Riley did (religiously), one might even surmise that Riley McKenna was one of the most sought-after women in the city.
Those kind of assumptions happened when your picture appeared with the caption “The country’s hottest sex expert.”
Hot? Yes.
Or at least she liked to think so when she was wearing her highest suede Alexander McQueen platform sandals and skinny jeans that looked like they would require margarine to remove.
As for the sex-expert part …
She was working on that.
Steven ended whatever boring story she’d been struggling to fake interest in and excused himself to the restroom.
Riley discreetly fished her cellphone out of her purse. It was bad form to be on her phone in a restaurant. Especially in a swanky place like this. But it served them right for serving her the pathetic morsel they’d dared to declare a chicken breast. It was a chicken nugget, at best.
The first message was from her mom. How’s your date? Don’t do that thing.
Riley scowled. What thing? Scratch that. She didn’t want to know. And she’d told her sister that teaching their mother to text was a catastrophically bad idea. But then, Meg didn’t have to worry about these types of texts from Erin McKenna, because her older sister was married. Meg must not have a thing.
The next message was from Julie Greene, one of Riley’s best friends and a colleague at Stiletto.
Having a late dinner with Mitchell’s parents tonight. Is my silk turquoise top too slutty?
Mitchell’s parents were from Snobbytown, Connecticut. So everything was probably too slutty. But to be safe …
Dunno. Ask Grace. Her middle name is Decorum.
Julie wrote back immediately.
Grace’s middle name is Elizabeth. And she’s on that weekend getaway with Jake. As much as she talked about that two-person jetted tub, I didn’t want to interrupt.
Right. Riley had pushed Grace’s trip out of her mind to forget about the fact that both of her best friends were in blissfully happy relationships. Julie with a sexy Wall Street guy and Grace Brighton with the city’s sexiest male journalist.
She typed out a quick response to Julie. Go with the black turtleneck. That way his mom can’t accuse you of luring Mitchell in with your boobs.
Julie: Even though I did.
Riley smiled, and after making sure Steven was still in the restroom—what the heck was he doing in there?—she went to the next and last message.
Sam.
Her stomach flipped, but Riley chalked this up to the Happy Meal–sized dinner. Because after ten very platonic years, there was absolutely no reason why a simple text message from Sam Compton should give her butterflies. No good reason anyway.
Sam: I know it was you.
