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“No, I mean about Alex’s thoughts on lady grooming.”
Emma’s perfectly shaped eyebrows crept up. “You know, it’s been a few years since I’ve cared about Cassidy’s preferences for female pubic-hair arrangements.”
Grace winced. “When you put it that way, it sounds a bit like landscaping.”
“Hurts a hell of a lot more than landscaping,” Riley said as she began fishing the buttery croutons out of the salad bowl. “And I just want to point out that none of you were any help in any of those phone calls.”
Grace reached across the couch and patted Riley’s knee. “But we’re here now. Talk to us.”
Riley swirled her wine and stared into her glass as she contemplated exactly how much of her guts to spill. She knew they’d support her no matter what. That’s what girlfriends were for. And as much as she adored her sisters, it had always been Grace and Julie who knew exactly the right thing to say over the years, and Emma’s level head was the perfect complement to their little group.
But telling them about her sexual inexperience was tantamount to confessing that she’d been lying to them for years.
And yet the thought of continuing the lie was almost unbearably heavy.
“So you know the fiftieth-anniversary issue?” she began slowly. “The women behind the stories and all that.”
“We do,” Julie said patiently. “Being your colleagues and all.”
“Right, right. It’s just … I don’t have a story.”
“So? We have some time before we even need to turn in a draft.”
“No, it’s worse than that. I mean I don’t have a story. At all. No long-term relationships, no recent relationships, no interesting relationships … and considering that our section is relationships, I’m a little bit at a loss.”
The three other women exchanged a glance. “Well, sweetie,” Julie said, “I really hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t have to write about any sort of deep love relationship. You could stick with what you know, which is—”
“Sex?” Riley provided.
“Yes,” Julie said with a little sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to spell it out. “And there’s no shame in that. Just write what you always write, but give it a little personal spin. I mean, don’t sell out any of the guys by name or anything, but what if you did, like, the ten best sex tips you’ve learned over the years at Stiletto? Like personal favorites, or whatever.”
“Or you could write about which of your stories had the worst impact on your sex life—maybe like a failed research attempt or something. You could keep it funny instead of soul-baring.”
Riley pursed her lips. “All good ideas, except …”
They were hollow.
She was all for flippant and fun, but lately it hadn’t been enough. On quiet Thursday nights when you had a sore throat, fun didn’t bring you hot tea and tuck you in. Fun didn’t pet your hair after a bad dream.
Fun wouldn’t move Sam Compton out of his carefully constructed “friend zone.”
“Hold on a sec,” Emma said, raising a hand. “Can we do the work brainstorm later? I want to hear the good parts. Like how it came to be that yummy Sam Compton came to see you naked?”
“Almost naked.”
“But one doesn’t wear tiny black panties unless they’re meant to be seen.”
“Not entirely true,” Riley said, her hand going to her jeans. “See, I always—”
Grace grabbed her wrist. “I’m sure whatever’s covering your nether regions right now is stunning, but stay on topic. How was it that it was Sam who came to see your black panties?”
Riley took a big gulp of wine. “I propositioned him.”
She waited for the gasps of surprise and the ohmygodyoudidn’ts, but none were forthcoming. Riley glanced at her friends. “Nobody looks surprised.”
“Oh, we’re surprised. Surprised that it took this long.”
Riley slumped back against the couch. “It was that obvious?”
