by Lauren Layne
“There she is,” Julie said, nodding toward Riley.
Grace gave a low whistle. “She realizes this is an education fund-raiser, right? Not a Playboy bunny convention?”
“She can’t help it,” Julie said, taking another sip of champagne. “She could wear a tent and still give off sex vibes.”
Julie liked to think that she and Grace were a couple of good-looking broads, but Riley McKenna was a whole other level of gorgeous. Tonight she’d apparently decided to play up the bombshell routine, because her red silk dress pushed the envelope of decency. Her long raven hair had been pulled into some kind of postcoital updo, and her smoky makeup made her ice-blue eyes smolder.
“Jeez, I think even I’m getting warm looking at her,” Grace muttered.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Greg.”
“Are you kidding? I’m sure the thought would give him a perpetual boner.”
Julie was careful to keep the distaste off her face. Grace and Greg Parsons had been dating since, like, puberty and were one of those nauseating couples who finished each other’s sentences. Even their names, Greg and Grace, made them sound like characters from some horrible fifties sitcom. Not to mention they were the king and queen of movie nights. Julie had seen the permanent butt indentations on their couch.
All of which would have been fine if Greg were good enough for Grace.
He wasn’t.
Julie would never say so to Grace, but in Julie’s self-proclaimed expert opinion, Greg Parsons was a total swine. She didn’t like the way he forgot to say thank you for the way Grace managed his life. Didn’t like the way he checked out the waitress’s ass every time Grace went to the restroom.
And she really didn’t like the way Greg had once propositioned Riley for a one-night stand after Grace had gone home from a party early with a headache.
Riley had insisted they forget about it. That it had just been a bad joke after too much booze.
Julie wasn’t so sure.
But neither was she about to get in the middle of her best friend’s love life. Much safer to get in the middle of everyone else’s love life via her Stiletto articles.
“Hello, my pretties,” Riley said, giving them both air kisses, careful not to spill a drop of her champagne. “Anyone seen Camille?”
“Not yet,” Julie said. “I think we have a few minutes until show time.”
“Thank God—I need a drink first. So what are we talking about?”
“Julie was about to whine about the bum story idea from Camille,” Grace said.
“Oh, yeah?” Riley asked. “What are we dealing with here? Herpes? Butt plugs? Necrophilia?”
Necrophilia? Julie stared at her best friend. “What is wrong with you? I said it was awful, not completely creepy.”
Riley shrugged. “You say potato, I say poh-tah-to.”
“Actually, nobody says poh-tah-to,” Grace muttered.
“Seriously, Jules, what’s the story?” Riley pressed.
Julie dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m supposed to talk about taking things to the next level.”
Riley stared at her for several seconds before shooting a puzzled glance at Grace, who shrugged. “That’s it? Why are you in such a tizzy? That’s the journalistic equivalent of Wonder bread. You can write that in your sleep.”
Julie tossed back the rest of her champagne. Apparently she had to spell it out for them. “I don’t know how to write about it because I’ve never actually done it.”
“Done what?”
“Taken things to the next level.”
“Sure you have,” Riley said with a dismissive wave. “You’re the queen of relationships. Just in the past year there’ve been Erik, Graham, Jason, Matt, and Ben. And last year there were Stephen, Dan, Brett, and let’s see, who else …”
Julie held up a finger. “Now hold on. You make me sound like a common hussy. Just because I dated all of those men doesn’t mean I slept with them.”
Riley wiggled her eyebrows. “Most of them?”
Julie took another sip of her champagne and tried to look sexy and mysterious. Riley gave a disappointed sigh. “You didn’t sleep with any of them, did you?”
The way Riley said it made Julie feel like a prude. But then, Riley was Stiletto’s sexpert in residence. Julie was more hearts and flowers, and, well … Let’s just say I’m a little particular about the men I sleep with.
“I slept with Graham after the fifth date,” Julie protested. And it had been laaaaaame. But the girls didn’t need to know that. “I never dated any of them for more than a couple of weeks, and I liked it that way. You see where I’m going with this? I can’t talk about the next level because I’ve never been there.”
“So?” Riley said, wiggling her fingers at a tuxedo-clad server who practically sprinted over to deliver another round of champagne. “Go there.”
“I can’t just pull a relationship out of my butt, Ri. How am I supposed to add a personal touch to a story about something I’ve never experienced?”
“Interview women who have been through it,” Grace said practically, sounding exactly like Camille.
“Go undercover,” Riley said at the exact same time.
Julie paused with the newly refilled champagne flute halfway to her lips, eyes fixed on Riley. “Keep going with that. Undercover. What are you thinking?”
“What about my idea?” Grace asked.
Julie ignored her. A bland interview-focused article wasn’t on her radar. She hadn’t spent years building up the personal aspect of her articles only to let it all fall apart now.
“Go undercover,” Riley repeated. “If you’re not interested in actually taking a relationship to the next level, fake it.”
“Tell me you’re joking,” Grace said. “That’s just wrong. Pretending to fall in love would be bad enough, but pretending to actually be in love? That’s cruel.”
“It wouldn’t have to actually be love, per se,” Julie mused, warming up to the idea. “I could just sort of dip my toe into the world of commitment. Find some nice, reliable, wife-seeking guy and see what happens.”
“Exactly right,” Riley said with approval. “You just pull the plug before it goes too far. It wouldn’t be unlike normal dating. You’d just be trying a guy on for size, seeing if it might work out.”
“Except it wouldn’t,” Julie said. “Work out, I mean.”
“Maybe not. But he doesn’t know that.”
Grace groaned. “I can’t believe I’m listening to this.”
“This could really work,” Julie mused. “Maybe I could truly find out firsthand what all those boring couples do after the butterflies-and-fun stuff has worn off.”
“Hey!” Grace said.
“Not you and Greg, of course,” Julie amended. “You guys aren’t boring.”
Except they were. Just a little.
“So how do I do this?” she asked, turning her attention back to Riley. “Where do I start?”
Riley rubbed her hands together. “Ah, the tigress hunts her prey.”
“Not that I want any part of this charade,” Grace said slowly, “but tonight might actually be an ideal time to find such a man.”
“Tonight?” Julie’s stomach clenched. She’d thought she’d at least have a few days to prepare.
“Sure!” Grace said, as though they were discussing nothing more dicey than a fifth-grade scavenger hunt. “It’s an education fund-raiser. I’m thinking many of the men here will be more family-minded than we might find on an average Friday night out.”
Riley nodded in agreement. “Baby call instead of booty call. I like the way you think, Brighton. We can for sure find a dull, committed kind of guy here. Assuming this is for our August issue, you’ll have over a month until you have to get a draft to Camille. If you keep this moving, that’s plenty of time to get serious.”
Julie chewed her lip. “You guys really think I should go man hunting at an education fund-raiser? Isn’t this a little … depraved?”
&
nbsp; Grace shrugged. “For the record, I think this whole thing is depraved. But if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it right.”
Julie’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the sheer number of conservative suits. Grace had a point. Tonight was as good a night as any to find a fake boyfriend. But could she do this? Should she do this?
Then she pictured Kelli’s gloating face. If she didn’t do this, it would be Julie who’d be assigned to fridge-cleaning duties, while Kelli moved her tiny butt into Julie’s office.
Not happening.
“So how do we do this?” Julie asked. She tried to keep the trepidation out of her voice. She’d never really paid much attention to the length of her previous relationships, but now she couldn’t seem to think about anything else. Once they’d run out of quips and banter, and after the sex haze had worn off … what did people do?
“Let’s split up,” Riley said. “We’ll cover more ground that way. Everyone keep an eye out for the quiet, rich, husband-material type.”
“Yeah, that should be a breeze,” Julie said. “Not like ninety percent of the women here aren’t looking for one of those.”
But Riley was already gone.
“I hate it when she does that,” Julie muttered. Grace started to glide away, but Julie grasped her arm. “Don’t leave me. Not yet.”
“Sure,” Grace said, sending her a curious look. “Camille’s over there. Shall we say hello?”
Oh, by all means. Let’s go see the woman who got me into this mess.
“Nah, let’s dodge her for a while. I’m not in the mood to be talking about how wonderful love is.”
Grace grabbed for Julie’s wrist so quickly that Julie’s champagne sloshed.
“I think I’ve got him.” Grace sounded positively giddy.
“Got who?”
“The guy. The one you’ve been looking for!”
“Oh, you mean Mr. Movie Night,” Julie said, looking around for one of the cute tuxedo-wearing gentlemen carrying the trays of booze.
“What?” Grace wrinkled her nose in puzzlement.
“Never mind,” Julie mumbled. “And what do you mean, you’ve found him? The plan has been in existence for all of ten minutes. How did you come up with my pseudo-boyfriend in the last fifteen seconds?”
But Grace ignored all of this, looking incredibly proud of herself. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of him earlier. I just talked to him this past weekend, and he mentioned that he’d broken up with his girlfriend of a couple of years. Trust me, this guy is definitely the type to be seeking a relationship.”
“That’s just great,” Julie said, glaring down at yet another glass of champagne. Didn’t this joint have any vodka? “I have an idea—how about you go talk to him? Then you guys can start picking out a first course for your wedding reception and names for your Stepford babies. Meanwhile, I’ll be over at the bar exploring new cocktails and enjoying a variety of men.”
Grace didn’t look the least bit impressed with Julie’s speech. “Don’t you snap at me, Greene. This is your idea. I’m just here to help.”
Help? Help with what, selling my soul? Julie sighed. “Okay, you’re right. Where’s the guy?”
“You can’t look now. He’s facing this way and it’ll be obvious.”
“So I’m just supposed to bump into him, spill wine on his shirt, and then make my move?”
Grace glanced at her in approval. “Not bad!”
“Grace, it’s horrible! It’s the most obvious ploy in the book. I might as well go for the whole ‘You look familiar’ cliché.”
“Oh, come on. Guys don’t care how original you are as long as you’re hot.”
Julie opened her mouth to argue but was forced to concede. Grace did have a point there. Most men put originality somewhere between knitting skills and snoring on the list of must-haves.
Grace snapped her fingers in front of Julie’s face. “You got this. You can do it. Just keep your eye on the ball.”
Julie batted her hand away. “Okay, coach, I’m ready. What do I need to know about this guy?”
Grace pursed her lips. “I’m trying to remember something interesting.”
Julie groaned. Not a good sign.
“Actually, all I really know is that he works with Greg. And according to Greg, he’s kind of a workaholic. Not big on the social stuff. But he’s been nice enough at those stuffy Wall Street functions Greg’s always dragging me to.”
Julie choked on a bacon-wrapped fig. “Wall Street? You want me to date a guy from Wall Street?”
“Not date. Woo. And what’s wrong with guys from Wall Street? Greg works on Wall Street.”
Exactly.
Julie pictured her best friend’s boyfriend: his navy suits, his slicked-back hair, that sharky smile, and his inability to talk about anything other than stocks and golf. Not to mention his insistence that argyle would never go out of style. Julie tried not to shudder.
Still, she had to admit that Grace’s reasoning was sound. Most Wall Street men she’d encountered were of the trophy-wife set. They needed someone young and shiny to show off along with their high-rise condos. Julie could be young and shiny. Granted, the first one was getting further and further out of reach, but she made up for it with a push-up bra and an affinity for trendy cocktails.
You can do this. It’s no different from any other dating expedition. Smile. Keep your lipstick off your teeth. Don’t slur.
Easy peasy.
“Okay, where is he?” Julie asked.
“Over by the chocolate fountain. He’s talking to Allen Carsons.”
Julie’s eyes bugged. “Allen Carsons of the New York Tribune? As in Camille’s ex-husband? As in Stiletto’s enemy number one?”
Grace gave a rueful smile, and Julie rolled her eyes. Great. This just keeps getting better and better.
Schooling her face in a casual, indifferent expression, Julie oh so slowly turned in the direction Grace had indicated. Almost immediately her eyes landed on Allen Carsons’s distinctive bald head. There were rumors going around that he shined it up with duck fat before special occasions, but Julie was inclined to think that was a Camille-fabricated detail. Apparently their divorce had been spectacularly messy.
Her eyes moved to Allen’s companion, a tallish man in a pinstripe suit.
Pinstripes. Good lord. Ten bucks says he has a pocket protector.
“Grace,” she said desperately, “I don’t think—”
“Give him a chance.”
Julie took a deep breath and looked at him again. Maybe she was underestimating him. Julie braced herself and waited for it. The zing, the sizzle.
And she felt … absolutely nothing. He was like dry toast.
Julie could have identified this guy as a broker even without Grace’s introduction. He was fit but not bulky. His brown hair was just on the chocolatey side of mousy, and while she couldn’t see the color of his eyes from here, there was nothing to suggest that they’d be any more interesting than the rest of him.
And the man wore glasses. Call her judgmental, but she couldn’t imagine getting hot over a dude with glasses.
Then again … She tilted her head and took in the serious expression, the polished shoes, and the perfectly shaven jaw. Grace had been dead right. A man like this was just screaming for a little woman by his side.
If she played her cards right, he’d be eating out of her hand by midnight.
“Name?” Julie asked distractedly.
“Mitchell something. Ford? Forbes?”
Mitchell. It was so … yawn.
The man in question gave Allen a bland smile that did absolutely nothing to her lady bits. This man was a movie night waiting to happen.
Julie allowed herself a small victory smile.
Mitchell Ford-slash-Forbes was absolutely perfect.
Chapter Three
A bored-looking bartender pushed glasses across the makeshift bar, and Mitchell resisted the urge to ask if he could get something stronger than wate
red-down whisky. As if reading Mitchell’s thought, the bartender dumped another scoopful of half-melted ice into the glasses.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Out of habit, Mitchell fished a five out of his wallet for a tip, then grabbed the two glasses. He handed one to his ever-jovial colleague, Colin.
Halfheartedly Mitchell clinked his glass against Colin’s. “Here’s to fucking fund-raisers. And thanks, by the way. I owe you one for rescuing me.”
Colin Trainor took a sip of whisky and nodded in acknowledgment. “Just promise you’ll do the same for me someday. I’d rather listen to my aunt Yvonne discuss proper enema technique than get caught in a conversation with Allen Carsons. That man’s one Los Angeles bush away from becoming a stalkerish paparazzo. What did he want with you, anyway?”
Mitchell shrugged. “About what you’d expect. Details on my breakup with Evelyn.”
“Guess that’s what you get for dumping the daughter of our country’s most popular senator.”
“I didn’t dump Evelyn. We just went our separate ways.”
“Irreconcilable differences and all that?” Colin asked.
Extreme boredom, actually. “Something like that,” he replied noncommittally. Mitchell wasn’t often inclined to spill his guts. Not to lowbrow reporters, and not to gossip-prone colleagues. Not that Colin was a bad guy. They were even friends of a sort. But the occasional after-work beer didn’t exactly warrant personal confidences. At least not in Mitchell’s book.
Colin drained his whisky and frowned at the glass. “What was in this, whisky essence? And remind me again what we’re doing here. I don’t get art on the best of days, but this weird modern shit is over my head. I’ve taken dumps more attractive than some of these displays.”
Silently Mitchell agreed. He enjoyed museums. Even art museums. But MoMA in all of its sleek, modern splendor was his least favorite museum in the city. He’d take the quiet dignity of the Frick Collection on Fifty-Ninth Street over the flash of MoMA any day.
“At least this should fulfill our quota for the year,” Mitchell said.
Robert Newman, CEO of Newman and Chris, the firm where Colin and Mitchell were senior partners, insisted that the company have representation at all charitable functions for which Newman and Chris was a sponsor. Mitchell had chosen tonight as his contribution only because the Yankees had a travel day. And because he could get behind educational charity more than some of the fluffier causes Robert supported.
