by Lauren Layne
Julie’s arms wrapped around her middle as though he’d punched her in the stomach. She’d known this confrontation would hurt, but she hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected cruelty. His jaw twitched as if in regret, but he didn’t take back his words.
Neither had she missed that she’d been the only one so far to deliver anything close to an apology. She clung to her anger as a way of staving off the hurt and inched closer, her eyes locked on his.
“You never had any intention of letting me be your girlfriend, did you?” she asked. “You only wanted to get me in bed, maybe have a few laughs, just so you could discard me in time to watch your damned baseball games.”
Mitchell gave a derisive snort. “As if you cared whether or not I thought of you as my girlfriend.”
“I cared.”
“Sure, so you could hit your word count!”
She flinched. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Yeah?” he asked, softly, dangerously. “What was it like, sweetie? Were you just going to lead the poor dull Wall Street broker along by the balls until you could get back to pineapple vodka shots with your collection of wannabe actors?”
“At least those wannabe actors want something more out of their life than baseball!” she shouted.
For the first time something hot and guilty flashed across his face, and Julie zeroed in on it. “This was never even about baseball, was it? This all comes down to some ridiculous sense of male pride. Evelyn kept your balls locked up in her jewelry box, and you thought you could get them back by getting me into bed, only to shove me back out again when you were bored.”
Mitchell lifted a shoulder, bored mask back in place. “You came willingly enough. Pun intended.”
“You’re disgusting.” Julie was all but hissing now, wondering how she ever could have cared about this cold man. Wondering how she ever could have thought he cared about her.
He took a half step closer. “Go ahead, babe, get all up on your high horse, because writing a column in a magazine about lipstick and blow jobs is such a moral cause. You’re right up there with Red Cross and cancer runs.”
“I wasn’t going to write the story!” she exploded.
He blinked, and for a moment she thought she saw something raw flare in his navy eyes, but the shutters slammed down just as quickly and he resumed his insolent glare. “No? And when did you decide that? Right after our friend Allen exposed you?”
She wanted to tell him that she’d decided before any of the shit had hit the fan. But he didn’t deserve that knowledge. Not now.
“At least I had intentions of calling it off,” she said instead. “What were you doing talking to your friend here, collecting?”
Kelli’s boyfriend stepped forward, looking earnest but nervous as hell. “Actually—”
“Shut up, Colin,” Mitchell said coldly.
“Were you ever planning to tell me about the bet?” she pressed on. “Or were you just going to sweep it under the carpet?”
His silence was answer enough, and she felt the knife dig just a little deeper. “Jesus, Mitchell. At least I was going to come clean.”
“Yeah, after you got what you wanted.” His arms folded over his chest, making him look completely closed off. Completely unreachable.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Mitchell,” she said, some of the fight going out of her.
“Don’t worry. You didn’t.”
Translation: He didn’t care enough to be hurt. Wouldn’t let himself care enough.
She lifted her hands helplessly before letting them fall back to her side. “So that’s it? We’re done? Just like that?”
“One could argue we never started.”
“But we did,” she said. Okay, so she was on the verge of begging, but damn it, she knew whatever they had was worth fighting for. Knew that it hadn’t all been about the bet. At the start, maybe, but not last night. And not this morning. That had been real.
“Babe, I was just seeing how far I could take you.”
Liar.
“But I love you,” she choked out, allowing all of her pride to puddle at her feet as she laid herself bare.
Mitchell’s dimples flashed as a gentle hand came up to stroke a finger over her cheekbone before he leaned in close. “Well done, Jules. That’s a great touch for your story.”
Without a backward glance, he walked out the door.
Julie’s knees buckled and she sank to the floor, her chin tucking into her chest as she grabbed her stomach, as though if she could just hold herself together tightly enough, the pain would stop.
But the pain wouldn’t stop. It just kept growing and growing until it felt like it would swallow her. And even as her pride demanded that she get up off the floor of Kelli Kearns’s foyer, a small dry sob slipped out.
Then a second, and a third.
A soft female hand settled on her arm, and Julie glanced up into Kelli’s face, which looked almost as ravaged as Julie felt. Kelli whispered, “I’m sorry,” and then Julie began crying for real, big, racking sobs that felt like they would never end.
Because nothing said things were over like your worst enemy feeling sorry for you.
And when Kelli crouched beside her, letting Julie sob on her shoulder, Julie knew things were worse than over.
They were utterly, irrevocably hopeless.
Chapter Eighteen
Julie wouldn’t talk about it.
Not to Grace.
Not to Riley.
Not to the dozens of friends and acquaintances who had been calling nonstop with a morbid combination of curiosity and sympathy. Grace had even gone so far as to reach out to Julie’s aunt and uncle to let them know what was going on, and they had phoned, but Julie had dodged those calls too.
And she certainly hadn’t given the time of day to the handful of reporters panting for her side of the story.
Because her side of the story was so not for sale. Not ever again.
Still, Julie’s attempted avoidance of the issue hadn’t stopped the society pages from blasting the whole sordid affair. Making matters worse was the way the tabloids had glamorized the entire thing.
Instead of painting Julie as a heartless tramp, they’d dug up every picture they could find of a smiling Julie in designer cocktail dresses, stilettos, and glossy lips. These pictures were laid alongside pictures of an unsmiling Mitchell in subdued suits on his way to work.
She should have been pleased with the spin. It wasn’t a case of the man-eater crushing the wronged boyfriend. It was Manhattan’s favorite party girl outsmarting a Wall Street dud.
Instead she felt like crap.
Mitchell’s side of the story had never made it to publication. Julie had refused to look at the Tribune the day after her and Mitchell’s showdown, but Julie and Grace had told her that Allen Carsons’s part two had never been published. Julie figured Mitchell had threatened a libel suit, but she didn’t know for sure. Didn’t really care.
Yet, despite the ongoing drama, Julie had refused to say a word about it. Hadn’t confided in Grace. Hadn’t moaned to Riley. Hadn’t told her family, hadn’t bought a diary, hadn’t babbled to strangers on the subway.
Hadn’t called Mitchell.
But there was one person who wasn’t going to accept Julie’s silence on the matter for much longer.
Camille.
Her boss had set up a one-on-one meeting and had made no secret about the agenda. August’s story outline had been due on Monday. Julie hadn’t turned in so much as a Post-it note.
It was time to pony up.
With an anxious glance at her watch, Julie grabbed her notebook and braced herself for the inevitable interrogation. She made her way to Camille’s office, barely noticing that nobody called out to her. Coworkers who had once demanded her company avoided eye contact. Laughter and chatter turned to feigned concentration on their monitors as she walked by.
She didn’t blame them. She felt dull, listless, and irritable. And while a part of her longed to fix a s
mile on her face and fake her sparkle, the other part of her was tired of putting on the show.
She felt like she didn’t have a single genuine sparkle left.
Camille was on the phone when Julie knocked, but she waved Julie in with an impatient hand.
Julie sat and waited, and for the first time in weeks, she felt like laughing at the incredibly awful full circle she’d just completed. Just a couple of months ago she’d sat in this very office, in this very chair, on top of the world, so damned sure of her life.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
“Sorry,” Camille muttered, hanging up her phone.
Julie mustered a wan smile and waited for the interrogation to start.
Where are your notes?
How’s the story coming?
Will it be any good?
“Kelli quit,” Camille said. “And good riddance, eh?”
Whoa. Julie sat up a little straighter. She hadn’t seen Kelli all week, but she’d figured she was just playing sick until the worst of the storm had blown over.
“Oh? Did she say why?” Stiletto had been everything to Kelli. She couldn’t imagine she’d leave it intentionally.
Camille arched an eyebrow. “Let’s just say her resignation was strongly encouraged.”
Ah. “You knew?”
“That she sold us out? Yes. Not that she showed any integrity and ’fessed up. But Allen couldn’t wait to let me know that one of my own was responsible for that trash he wrote.”
Julie looked more closely at Camille and noted the dark circles under her eyes, the chips on her fingernails, and the hair that was just a little less shiny than usual. Most telling of all, her lips were completely devoid of red lipstick, and she’d forgotten to draw on her eyebrows. As a result, she looked … human.
Apparently Julie hadn’t been the only one doing penance for Stiletto’s undercover-girlfriend gig.
“I’m sorry the story got out that way. It hasn’t exactly been flattering publicity for the magazine,” Julie murmured.
Camille waved this away. “Are you kidding? My phone’s been ringing off the hook. I wouldn’t be surprised if this issue is one of our best-selling of all time. In typical fashion, shortdicked, shortsighted Allen didn’t have the brains to understand that in our world, any publicity is invaluable. His stupid attempt at sabotage blew up in his bloated face.”
“Well, I’m glad,” Julie said, meaning it. She didn’t want Stiletto to suffer on top of everything else.
“Allen’s fool stunt did hurt you, though,” Camille said, her voice softening.
Julie quickly dropped her gaze to her notebook. She hadn’t shed a tear since Mitchell had walked away, but sympathy from the ever-crusty Camille might be more than she could stand.
The older woman let out a sigh. “You know, Julie … I’m not a soft woman.”
Naaah, Julie thought sarcastically.
“But I’ve always liked you. Favored you, perhaps. Thought of you as a daughter.”
Julie blinked in surprise. This was new. And kind of scary.
“Not a biological daughter, of course.” Camille literally shuddered. “I’d never do anything so vulgar as to subject myself to stretch marks and that horrid breast-feeding, of course.”
“Of course,” Julie agreed.
“I see myself in you,” Camille continued. “I love your spunk, your drive, your humor.”
“Thanks.” Where the hell is this going?
“But the truth is, Julie, I’ve done you a disservice over the years. I’ve let you create a very effective niche for yourself in your professional life, to the detriment of your personal life.”
Julie tried to follow. “I don’t understand.”
Camille sighed and fiddled with her computer mouse, clearly out of her element. “Well, let’s take your reputation as the first-date girl. You’ve cultivated that. I’ve cultivated that. And it’s been very effective. This city loves you, men adore you, women want to be you. But you’ve always been so … alone.”
Ouch. Hold on a sec, boss. Let me just remove my spleen and let you stab at that too.
Julie’s hand went up to fiddle with her necklace, almost as though she could protect her vulnerabilities from Camille’s too-shrewd observations.
Then realization dawned. “That’s why you assigned me this story. You normally only ever assign topics to the new kids, but you ordered me to write this one.”
Camille nodded. “I thought it would be good for you. I wanted you to allow yourself to open up. To connect with a man on a more meaningful level.”
Julie didn’t know if she was touched or completely appalled. “Camille,” she began carefully, “it’s true that I’ve always been a bit … shallow when it’s come to relationships. But that’s been my own choice. Not because of my role at the magazine. I shaped my stories to fit what I was, not the other way around.”
Camille pursed her lips. “It probably seems that way. But you started writing when you were twenty-two, very early into your professional and personal development. I think the two shaped each other. And as long as you were writing about the easy stuff in relationships, that’s all you were going to experience.”
“I really wish you hadn’t interfered,” Julie whispered.
“I know that now. I wanted you to experience something meaningful. Something real. But this …” She waved a hand over Julie in dismay. “Your outfit clashes, your roots are showing, your brows are a mess—”
“Gosh, the useful revelations just keep coming.”
“My point is, I shouldn’t have stuck my cosmetically enhanced nose in your business. I just wanted you to have a chance at a real relationship. Maybe even a chance at love. Instead I handed you a broken heart.”
Julie didn’t bother denying it. “You couldn’t have known how it would turn out.”
“No, but I should have put my foot down when I heard about your fool-headed scheme to manufacture a relationship. That wasn’t my goal at all. But then Kelli was champing at the bit, and I was stuck between delivering a blow to the magazine and letting you suffer a more personal blow of having your position usurped. I should have chosen differently.”
“It was my choice to make. It was the wrong one, clearly. But I had to make it for myself.”
Even if it cost me everything.
Camille nodded, but her expression was still troubled. “So you still plan to write the story, then? Because I’ll understand if you don’t want to.”
Julie hadn’t seen that coming. She’d been planning to write the article. She didn’t have the energy to come up with a fresh idea, and the city was practically panting for it. And it wasn’t as if she had anything to lose at this point.
But Camille’s attempt at mothering was unexpected. And knowing that Camille was willing to sacrifice magazine sales for her employee’s well-being? Unheard of.
Julie chose her words carefully. “You just said that the publicity from Allen’s article would make this one of our best-selling issues. I need to write it. Without my article, people will be pissed.”
“So let them be pissed,” Camille said with an indifferent shrug. “No magazine is worth a heart.”
Julie swallowed. “I think it’s a little late for that.”
Camille leaned forward. “So you did care? About him, I mean.”
“Very much.”
“Then write about it.”
Julie resisted the urge to rub her temples. This conversation was getting exhausting. “I thought you just told me I shouldn’t.”
“I don’t mean write about that abstract idea we came up with two months ago. I mean write about what you learned. Write about your heartbreak. Write about him.”
Julie exhaled slowly through her nose. “Camille, with all due respect, I’ll write what I said I’d write because I’m a professional. I’ll write about the subtle difference between dating and being with someone. I’ll even sprinkle in some of my own observations. But I’m not going to spill my guts to strangers. Yo
u’re the one that told me that Stiletto isn’t a diary. Please don’t ask me to turn it into one.”
Camille gave a small smile. “A good speech, Julie. And I can tell you mean it. But somewhere in the midst of this train wreck, you unintentionally tapped into something we don’t cover often enough at Stiletto.”
“What’s that? Manipulation and skanky journalism?”
This time Camille let out a full-on laugh. “No. If I wanted all that, I’d ask Kelli to write a farewell piece. But I meant your heartache. As a magazine, we’ve never paid tribute to an inevitable part of many relationships: the breakup.”
Julie opened her mouth to protest, but instead, she let the truth of Camille’s observation run over her.
Her boss was right.
The Dating, Love, and Sex department rarely tackled the messy bits. Sure, they talked about how to patch up squabbles, how to get the right leverage in reverse-cowgirl position, and whether men prefer women to wear lip gloss or lipstick. But they didn’t take on the hard stuff.
They didn’t touch the end of relationships. After being through one, Julie understood why.
“Writing about it might help you,” Camille said thoughtfully. “I understand it’s uncomfortably personal, but you could omit names, and of course keep the most sacred moments to yourself. But other women are out there hurting from breakups. Write this story for them.”
Julie opened her notebook without realizing it, and tapped her pen thoughtfully against her knee. “A breakup article. I could do that.”
Camille smiled sadly. “Yes, you can. I hate that you can.”
Julie closed the book without writing a single note. She needed to think.
Could she really do this?
Yes. She could, and she should. She wanted to tell the truth. And the truth about what had happened between her and Mitchell—the real truth—wasn’t about the facade under which it had started. It was about what happened after all that. About the slow, unnerving process of falling in love, and the ripping moments when that love was taken away.
Julie gave Camille a nod and a promise to have notes delivered by the end of the day tomorrow.
