by line, multiple times, and it never occurred to me that I was reading the work of
a virgin.”
“I wasn’t a virgin.”
“Might as well have been,” Camille said with a hand flick. “Clumsy encounters in
college dorm beds barely count.”
Having encountered the difference between sleeping with a nervous boy and
sleeping with Sam, Riley couldn’t argue.
“So you’re not mad?”
“Nah,” Camille said. “It’s not as though you ever lied. It’s like I told Julie and
Grace, Stiletto’s not a diary. Our job’s to tell stories, not experience them.”
Riley took a drink of her afternoon Manhattan. “Except for the upcoming issue.
‘The Truth Behind the Headlines’? That might as well be a diary.”
Camille took a sip of her whisky. “Ah, so that’s why you haven’t turned in your
story yet.”
“I’m thinking of sitting this one out,” Riley said quietly. “Or maybe writing about
shoes or something.”
“Coward,” Camille said with a grim little smile.
Riley knew her boss said it to be inflammatory. To ignite Riley’s competitive spirit,
blah blah blah. But the truth was, she’d rather be a coward than exposed.
If anything, whatever was happening with her and Sam made her less sure of a
story idea. She couldn’t write about what was going on between them.
Because she didn’t know.
What was she supposed to write about, “Bedroom Rookie Mistakes Sex for
Love”?
Her reputation as Manhattan’s sex goddess would be in the toilet.
“What if I did something a little different?” she said in a rush. “Like, I could talk
about the friendships I’ve made while talking about sex. You know, like, part of
the story behind the headline is my friendships with the girls?”
Camille shook her head as she munched on an ice cube. “Emma beat you to it:
‘How Writing About Love Taught Me About Friendship.’ ”
“Damn it.” Riley tapped her fingernails on the bar top. “Okay, what about
something more generic on how helping other women find themselves helped me
find myself?”
“Unless you’re talking about mast***ation, it won’t work. You write about sex,
Riley. You’ve never once strayed from the topic in all the years you’ve been here.”
In other words, your own omission painted you into this corner.
“I can’t talk about Sam,” Riley said dropping her forehead into her hands.
“So don’t.”
“But you just said—”
“That you should write about sex. But sex ultimately has to be about self before
it can be about the other person, right?”
Riley gave Camille a look. “Are you talking about mast***ation again?”
Her boss tapped a maroon fingernail against the back of Riley’s hand. “I’m talking
about the difference between being a girl and a woman.”
“Wonderful,” Riley muttered. “Whisky makes her deep.”
“Go ahead and sass,” Camille said. “But I’ve accumulated some wisdom along
with the hot flashes and sagging tits. You think that sex is all about the right
position and the flexibility?”
“Um …”
“Wrong,” Camille retorted. “It’s about knowing yourself enough to know which
positions work for you, and to know that you like your men with a little paunch
around the belly, and about leaving the blindfolds and the feathers to the other
ladies if you don’t like it.”
Riley looked around desperately. “Is there, like, a safe word I can use to escape
this conversation?”
Her boss shrugged. “Hey, not my fault you’re taking tiny sips of that drink.”
Riley lifted the cocktail glass and took a healthy gulp.
“So you’re good on the story, then?” Camille said, gesturing to the bartender for
the check.
Riley stared at her, flabbergasted. “How would I be good on the story? I told you
what I wanted to write, you said no. Then you started talking about sagging boobs
and hot flashes, and I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”
Camille patted her hand as she dropped her corporate card into her billfold. “Sure
you do. You’re just pretending you don’t know, because you don’t want to do what
you have to do.”
“Which is …”
“You tell him. How you feel.”
Riley nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I kind of knew you were going to say that.”
She tossed back the rest of her drink.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You don’t have to do this.”