Just One Night(32)

halter top.

And some very decadent black lingerie.

Too bad the lingerie didn’t have a Valium dispenser for her nerves.

This was about sex. Just sex. She needed to keep it clinical. Just phalluses and

wombs, and …

“Oh for God’s sake, McKenna. Get it together,” she muttered, grabbing her purse

off the chair and heading out the door.

She was just locking up when she remembered that she hadn’t washed the

sheets. Hell, she hadn’t even made her bed. And there might or might not be a

candy bar wrapper …

But maybe that was better. If it didn’t look like she was trying too hard—or at all—

maybe he wouldn’t catch on to the fact that she didn’t know what the hell she was

doing.

Fifteen minutes later she paid the cabdriver and stepped into the Lower East Side

bar he’d picked out. She’d never heard of it and had been half terrified that he’d

choose some snotty, upscale place that was all wrong for him just because he

thought she wanted it.

But the bar was perfect. The worn wood floors kept it approachable, and the

minimal lighting made it sexy without being over the top.

It was the ultimate first-date spot.

Oh God.

She was on a first date with Sam Compton. The thought almost had her backing

out the door.

Then she saw him.

Sam sat at the far end of the bar, wearing his usual jeans and the black sweater

her sister had bought him for Christmas. He was nursing what she assumed to

be some sort of whisky, looking completely at ease and not at all like he was

about to make a run for the bathroom the way she wanted to.

He shot a look over his shoulder, and then his mouth kicked up in the corner

before he turned back to his conversation with the bartender.

Riley instantly relaxed.

It was Sam. The same old Sam. She could do this.

“You look surprised to see me,” he said, pulling out a bar stool for her as she

settled next to him. “Did you think I was going to chicken out?”

“Nah, but I was a little terrified you were going to show up in a borrowed suit while

ordering fancy champagne.”

He snorted. “You overestimate your charms, McKenna. However, I did put on

deodorant. You’re welcome.”

Riley fanned herself with the bar menu she’d snatched up. “You must have to

beat the women off.”

She froze as soon as the words escaped. “Oh God. You’re not seeing anyone,

are you?”

Sam gave her a dark look. “You really think I’d agree to your stupid sex plan if I

was seeing someone else?”

“You mad I ruined things with Angela?”

“Nah. Wasn’t really going to work out anyway, you know?”

“Um, yeah. I’ve had one or two of those,” she said dryly.

“Brent?” he asked.

She shifted nervously. “Um, Brent was …”

“A tool to make me comply with your plan?”

“I knew you knew,” she muttered, before turning to order her drink. She wasn’t

exactly thrilled to have used Brent, but she’d assuaged her conscience slightly

by setting him up with one of Stiletto’s copy editors.

One of Stiletto’s very cute copy editors, who was just vain enough to not mind

that Brent occasionally checked his reflection in silverware.

It didn’t really surprise her that Sam had figured out her plan. What did surprise

her was that he’d known about it the whole time, and still let himself go along with

it.

Interesting.

“So you’re not seeing Brent, and I’m not seeing anyone,” he said as the bartender

placed the Manhattan in front of her.

Riley tapped the tip of her nose with her finger. “Nothing gets by you.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m glad to see that you’re not any less difficult

to get along with when you’re about to sleep with a guy.”

Her pulse skipped into overdrive. She’d sat with Sam so many times like this over

the years, that she’d almost—almost—forgotten the reason they were here.

She felt him studying her.

“You’re jumpy,” he said. “For someone who does this for a living …”

“Now hold on there,” she snapped. “I don’t do this for a living. I write about sex

for a living, I don’t have sex for a living. There’s a huge difference.”

“Is there?”

You have no idea. “Yes. One’s a journalist and one’s a hooker.”

“You’d make a terrible hooker,” he muttered.

“Taking that as a compliment.”

“Wasn’t meant as one. You’d be an awful prostitute because you’re too mouthy.”

She gave him a hooded look. “Mouthy’s a bad thing?”