Just One Night(2)

Riley: Woah! Is the taciturn-caveman routine back in style? Because nobody told

us womenfolk!

Sam: The pamphlets in the glove box. I know you put them there. Probably last

week when you tricked me into driving you and the girls to the outlet mall.

She let out a little choked laugh. Oh, those pamphlets. She’d almost forgotten

about that spur-of-the-moment stunt.

Riley: I’m a sex columnist. It’s my responsibility to spread the word about safe

sex.

Sam: This had nothing to do with safe sex, and everything to do with you making

sure I didn’t HAVE any sex.

True, true. The man did know her well.

Riley: Well then clearly Angelica didn’t read the pamphlets. It says VERY clearly

that there are multiple treatment options.

Sam: Her name is ANGELA, and she didn’t stick around long enough to read the

pamphlets, and I DO NOT HAVE GENITAL WARTS.

She snickered. Riley could just picture him angrily punching the keyboard on his

touch screen while cursing her name.

Admittedly, sticking the Dealing with Genital Warts pamphlets she’d swiped from

the gyno’s office into his glove box had been a bit juvenile, but it meant he was

alone tonight instead of feeling up Angelina.

She couldn’t even bother to hide the grin.

Gotta go, Sammy, she typed as Steven returned to the table. On a date.

Riley dropped the phone back into her purse and beamed at Steven, feeling

happier than she had all night.

“Everything all right?” he asked politely.

“Oh, sure,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Just an old friend needing some

relationship advice.”

“Well, they’re lucky to have a career relationship expert as a friend, then.”

Riley gave a distant smile as she felt her purse vibrate slightly against her calf. It

would be Sam again. Don’t pick up that phone. Do not pick up that phone.

“You know, Steven, would you mind if I check this, just one last time,” she asked,

already reaching for the phone. “It’s just he’s so—”

“He?”

Oops. Steven’s smile had slipped. Crap. She seemed to remember Grace writing

an article about this once. No mentioning other guys early on in the dating

process.

“Just my brother’s best friend,” she hurried to explain. “We grew up together.

Practically siblings.”

They weren’t all lies. Sam really was best friends with her older brother, Liam.

And she and Sam had grown up together, if you counted the late-teen years. And

as for the siblings part …

She glanced down at his message. A date with whom?

Whom. Damn it. Didn’t he know that there was nothing sexier to a journalist than

proper grammar?

Steven. I think this one might be a keeper, she typed back.

She waited. And waited some more, flashing an apologetic smile at an irritated-

looking Steven. Come on, Sam. Get jealous. Just a little.

Finally, Sam responded. Can’t wait to meet him. Have fun.

And just like that, Riley deflated. She did this to herself every damn time, holding

on to the hope that she and Sam would actually cross that line between bickering

and flirting, curiosity and jealousy. Between friends and lovers.

But it had been a decade. Sam had had a freaking decade to stake his claim on

her.

He hadn’t. He wouldn’t.

No more waiting, Riley.

She took a deep breath and switched her phone off altogether before giving her

date a warm smile. Congratulations on your promotion, Steven Moore. You’ve

just become Mr. Good Enough.

She waited for a little thrill of anticipation to shiver down her spine.

Nothing.

Not that she’d been expecting it.

Lucky for both of them, Steven’s personality was slightly more appealing to her

than his looks. Slightly. Granted, he didn’t have Sam’s dry humor, or …

Stop it. Sam Compton does not want you.

The thought hurt. The thought had been hurting for years. But the man hadn’t

once tried to move them out of the “squabbling sibling” zone they’d been in for

more than a decade. And while Riley liked to consider herself bold in most areas

of her life, she drew the line at going out on that limb with Sam all by her

lonesome.

Her pride had limits. So did her heart.

Steven topped off her wineglass with the last of the rather excellent Chablis he’d

ordered. She was more of a whisky girl herself, but fancy white wine did the trick

too.

“So you’re good with splitting crème brûlée?” he asked after his ten-minute

perusal of the dessert menu.

Good with crème brûlée? Yes. Splitting? Not so much.

“Sounds perfect,” she said, giving him a steamy look.

For a second, Steven looked just the slightest bit dazzled at her smile, and Riley