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Ah. There was the crab cake lady.
Riley made her move, stacking three of the appetizers onto her cocktail napkin when best friend number two appeared at her elbow. “Don’t get aioli on your dress. Camille will have a fit.”
“No she won’t. She’ll be too busy lecturing you for being late.”
Julie blushed. “Mitchell and I—”
Riley held up a hand. “Nope. I’m officially off listening duty for all sexy-talk for the next week.”
Julie nodded. “I heard. So Steven wasn’t the one?”
“Not even close. Remind me of this next time I let some guy try to pick me up at the bank.”
And also, remind me to never let myself think of Sam Compton when I’m out with another guy.
But she’d been losing that battle since she was seventeen.
Julie mad
e a sympathetic noise as she scanned the room. “Have you seen the boss? I can’t believe how many people are here. I thought it was just Stiletto staff and plus-ones.”
“Nope, it’s the whole Ravenna gang,” Riley said, referring to the media conglomerate that owned Stiletto and a couple of dozen other magazines.
And thank God this wasn’t one of those small, intimate affairs. Riley would rather go on a kale-juicing diet than be stuck in a room with only her coworkers and their plus-ones. There was a word for that: annual Christmas party.
More commonly known as single person’s hell.
But Julie had a point—this whole affair was a little over the top, especially for a Monday night. It wasn’t even the official Stiletto fiftieth-anniversary party, it was just the announcement of the party and the corresponding issue.
But their editor in chief had gone above and beyond, as always. Camille had reserved one of the private rooms at the top of a new, swanky midtown hotel, complete with an open bar, finger foods, and a freaking champagne fountain.
And the booze was key, because there was bound to be a speech in there somewhere about the theme of the semicentennial issue.
Shudder.
Riley loved Stiletto—she loved the team, the readers, the very pages of the magazine itself.
But for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how this anniversary issue was supposed to be any different. According to Camille, every issue was “revolutionary,” but as far as Riley was concerned, every issue was simply more of the same.
Unless they were going to have this anniversary issue spit out condoms or chocolate, she couldn’t imagine how they were going to make it stand out.
“Where’s Mitchell?” Riley asked, belatedly noticing that Julie’s fiancé wasn’t affixed to her side as usual.
“Talking to Alex,” Julie said with a wave. “I heard the word soccer and bailed.”
“Ah, well, if Alex is here, Emma must be—”
“Drinking heavily at the bar,” came the husky drawl from behind them.
They turned and greeted the fourth member of their little Love and Relationships club. As always, Emma Sinclair looked impeccable. Both she and Grace had that cool, perfect thing going on, but whereas Grace was more of an East Coast prep princess, Emma was all southern drawl perfection. Although not in the clichéd, made-for-TV-movie kind of way. There was no big hair or constant talk of fried chicken. And there wasn’t a bless-your-heart to be heard from Emma. But the tidy, smooth layers of her light brown hair, the never-clumped mascara and endless supply of pristine white button-downs weren’t just for show. That sort of groomed perfection was ingrained in Emma right down to her bones.
Riley had done a Pilates class with the woman and had the occasional impromptu slumber party after an enthusiastic happy hour, and she could vouch that Emma always looked like that.
She doubted Emma Sinclair had ever had so much as a pimple.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” Riley said, linking arms with the shorter woman. “Don’t want to have a tête-à-tête with your ex-fee-ance-say?”
Emma’s brow furrowed just slightly. “Not a sober one. And I thought we agreed never to speak of that.”
