Just One Night(10)

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.”

“Nope,” Julie said happily, taking a sip of her red wine. “You instructed us never

to speak of that. We all nodded and crossed our fingers behind our backs.”

Emma was the newest member of the Love and Relationships group and had

done a damn fine job of hiding the fact that she’d once been engaged to the very

luscious, very sexy editor in chief of Stiletto’s brother magazine.

Oxford was to men as Stiletto was to women, and with Alex Cassidy recently

taking over the reins, the magazine’s readership had exploded.

Had it not been for the fact that Mitchell Forbes did a lot more listening than talking

(a bonus, considering he was planning to marry Julie), they’d never have learned

that the oh-so-perfect Emma had a not-so-perfect past. But thanks to Mitchell’s

unintentional espionage, they’d recently learned that Emma’s closet wasn’t

without skeletons.

However, despite a failed engagement being the ultimate in girl-talk fodder, they’d

had a heck of a time getting Emma to discuss it.

But they would. Because it’s water under the bridge did not count as an answer.

Not when it came to friends.

Or the deliciousness that was Alex Cassidy.

There was an awkward tapping of the microphone, and after exchanging a look

of resignation, the three women slowly turned to face the front of the room, where

their boss had climbed onto some sort of box and was teetering dangerously.

“Here we go,” Grace said, appearing at their side and completing their foursome.