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.
She rolled her eyes. Typical Sam—vague and grumpy.