by Lauren Layne
“Seriously,” Riley whispered back. “It’s like a nonstop romantic comedy up in here.”
Still, she was a little surprised by Emma’s admission. When it came to men and relationships, Emma had always given off that breezy, don’t-need-’em vibe. But her tone held just the slightest trace of longing, and Riley wondered if she wasn’t the only one who was starting to feel a bit lonely in her role as sexy bachelorette.
“And it’s this success of our very own Stiletto starlets that planted the seed for the theme of our fiftieth-anniversary issue,” Camille was saying.
Riley’s attention snapped back to her boss, dread creeping up around the edges of her boredom.
For the most part, Riley had a good relationship with the editor in chief. Sure, they butted heads every other week over whether Riley’s articles were too risqué, but at the end of the day, Camille Bishop’s sense for what Stiletto readers wanted was spot-on. And more important, Camille treated her team like family. A family that threw food at the dinner table, perhaps, but beneath her immobile orange hair, affinity for Botox, and bark that would have cowed Robert E. Lee, Camille was a bit of a mother hen. And it was kind of nice.
However, that didn’t mean Riley liked the direction of her long-winded speech. She was hearing an awful lot of words that sent alarm bells off in her brain.
Personal, intimate, exposure …
“She’s not going where I think she’s going …,” Riley said to Emma out of the corner of her mouth.
“Yup,” Emma said, taking a long pull on her wine. “We should probably all invest in pink fuzzy diaries like we had when we were ten, because this shit’s about to get personal.”
“When I was ten, my diary had a lock,” Riley growled.
Camille continued undaunted, and unaware that two of her best columnists were less than enamored of the direction she was heading. “… by now you can all guess what I’m suggesting …”
Please no, please no.
“The theme of Stiletto’s semicentennial issue in December will be ‘Stiletto Gets Real: The Truth Behind the Headlines.’ ”
Oh shit.
“Catchy,” Grace said, earning a snort from Julie.
But Riley was too horror-stricken to join in even thinking about joking, especially when she heard Camille’s elaboration on the theme.
“… each of our columnists will write this issue’s story in first person. A sort of real-world account of how they live the Stiletto way in their own life.”
“ ‘The Stiletto way’?” Emma asked. “Is that a thing? I mean I know I’m new here, but …”
Riley didn’t answer. Instead she pushed her cocktail glass at a surprised Julie and headed for the bathroom, where she was quite possibly going to puke.
The truth behind the headlines.
The truth.
She’d always known there’d come a breaking point. A time when she’d either have to come clean or get laid.
The trouble was, she didn’t know how to come clean without losing her pride. And worse, she wasn’t at all sure she could get laid without losing her heart.
Because when Riley was completely honest with herself, she wasn’t celibate because of lack of opportunity, or because guys like Steven Moore carried around handcuffs in their back pockets.
When it came right down to it, there was only one man for Riley Anne McKenna, and she’d pretty much made a career out of telling herself he wasn’t interested.
But if she was going personal for the story—if she was going to tell the truth—first, she had to find out the most important truth, once and for all.
It was time to find out if Sam Compton wanted her back.
Chapter Four
“Um, Mom? Does Dad know we’re having tacos for dinner?”
“No, he does not. And neither of you will mention it until it’s too late for him to start hollering about the ways of our motherland. It’s a stubborn, rigid mind-set, if you ask me.”
Riley exchanged a glance with her younger sister, Kate, both of them wisely opting not to mention the chunks of potatoes nestled in with the meat on the stove. Her mother probably hadn’t even consciously included them. For her potatoes were like salt. Never the meal, but always an unspoken part of the meal.
Both Erin and Joshua McKenna had been born and raised in Cork, Ireland, but they had different approaches when it came to the cuisine of their homeland. Riley’s dad was a purist and rarely made it through a meal without muttering, “If my mother caught me eating this foreign slop, she’d die all over again.”
Erin, on the other hand, fancied herself a bit of a fusion cook.
Hence the tacos with potatoes. Last week it had been pasta carbonara. With potatoes. The week before that, she’d put corned beef in stir-fry.
“Always an adventure,” Kate muttered under her breath before grabbing her beer and escaping to the living room, where the guys were watching soccer.
“I like the new cupboards,” Riley said, gesturing at the dark-wood cabinetry her mother had finally convinced her father that they needed to install. It was one of the few things that had changed in the Park Slope house Riley’d been born and raised in, and she liked it that way. She liked the way everybody had a favorite chair around the kitchen table that fit their butt just right. Liked the way they all knew not to wear socks without shoes in the kitchen because the boards were getting rough and tended to snag them. She even liked her mother’s affinity for cheap watercolors, and the way the weepy landscapes covered every possible wall.
It wasn’t fancy. But it was home.
“How’s work?” her mother asked, carefully spooning a carton of sour cream into a bowl. Riley’s mother wasn’t above convenience, but she drew the line at setting a plastic carton on the dinner table. Everything store-bought was promptly transferred to a “real dish.”
“Work?” Riley asked, feeling her eyebrows creep up to her hairline. Her mother rarely asked about Riley’s job.
Probably because she hated Riley’s job.
Riley couldn’t blame her. She doubted there were very many mothers out there who would be excited that their baby girl’s career involved reviewing dildos.
Particularly conservative Irish-Catholic mothers.
“Work’s … um …” Awful? Stressful? Ruining my life?
It had been two days since Camille had dropped her little bomb about the fiftieth-anniversary issue, and even though Riley wouldn’t need to turn in a draft for the stupid semicentennial issue for at least another month, it was all she’d been able to think about.
“Work’s fine.”
“Mmm …” Her mother sucked a glob of sour cream off her thumb and wandered over to the side table, where they stacked mail and bills and magazines. “Here it is.”
Shit.
It was the most recent Stiletto article. The one in which Riley’s BDSM headline was sandwiched between “Over-the-Knee Boots Are Back!” and “Rich Autumn Makeup That Anyone Can Pull Off.”
“What about it?” Riley asked nervously.
“Have you tried this stuff you’re talking about?”
Riley nearly spit out the water she’d just sipped. And here she’d thought she and her parents had a good thing going with the don’t-ask-don’t-tell routine.
She knew that her mother collected every issue out of loyalty to her middle daughter. Maybe even read an article from time to time. But to actually talk about it?
There were vicious stomach bugs that were more pleasant.
Not to mention, this really, really wasn’t good timing.
“Ma! Come on!”
“Don’t Ma me. My friends’ daughters talk with them about sex.”
Your friends’ daughters are probably actually having sex.
“Do you talk to Kate and Megan about it?” Riley asked, referring to her two sisters.
“Yes.”
“You do?” Riley nearly fell off the ancient bar stool. What sort of craziness was this? “Why am I never included in this girl tal
k?”
Her mother set the magazine aside and began grating some cheese. “Well, dear … you are a tiny bit of a prude.”
Riley’s jaw dropped. She pointed at the headline. “Did you read that? I talked about spanking.”
There. That should rile her mother.
But Erin merely lifted a slim shoulder and tucked a stray red hair back into her bun. “Yes, yes, the article was all very edgy, but it lacked passion. That tells me the story wasn’t personal for you.”
“This is not happening,” Riley muttered, glancing at the ceiling. “My mother is not telling me my spanking article lacked passion.”
And what was with her mother’s timing? Was the entire universe conspiring to help Riley get some?
“You never texted me back. How was your date with that boy? The one you met at that bank.”
“That boy was thirty-seven years old, and he was—”
“Oh dear.”
Riley threw her hands in the air at her mother’s doomsday tone. “I haven’t said anything yet.”
“But you’re using past tense. Which means he won’t be coming over for tacos anytime soon.”
Lucky guy. “He was no good, Ma.”
Her mother was silent as the pile of grated cheese grew higher and higher.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Riley finally said, prodding. “Lecture me on how I’m too picky and I didn’t give him a chance?”
Her mother set the grater aside and moved to the fridge. “Oh, honey. When you know, you’ll know.”
Riley blinked in surprise.
What the heck is happening here? Where was the lecture? The reminder to be patient and kind and open-minded?
“Did Father Sellars give some sort of homily on being more accepting of your adult children or something?”
“No, dear. I just want my kids to be happy is all.”
A new voice joined the conversation. “Well, rest easy, Mama McKenna, because this kid is happy.”
Riley froze. Sam. Immediately her shoulders went back and her spine straightened as she armed herself for the inevitable sparring.
To say nothing of the protection she needed from the thick layer of lust that threatened to choke her whenever Sam Compton was around.
Their regular Wednesday-night dinner guest had the opposite effect on her mother, turning the usually implacable Erin into a pile of goo. It was disgusting. The woman already had two sons of her own, but to the casual spectator you’d think this semi-adopted one was her favorite.
“Sammy. You came,” Erin said, scooting around the counter to give him a hug. “I thought you had a date tonight.”
Riley didn’t turn around. She’d have to deal with him eventually—she did every week. But after the unexpected spanking conversation with her mother, she needed an extra minute to build up her defenses.
Because while she couldn’t say she’d ever really been intrigued by the spanking thing, there was no telling what her loins would do in the presence of this guy.
But quickly she was realizing that keeping her back to him wasn’t nearly enough. She could still feel him. She’d always been able to feel him, starting with that day he’d walked into this very kitchen, where she’d been sitting on this very stool.
That had been over ten years ago, and nothing had changed.
Well, except for pesky little things.
Like his marriage. And his divorce. And the fact that he’d never so much as tried to kiss her.
“Angela can’t make it,” Sam said in his low, don’t-give-a-shit growl. “She’s a nurse and had to take an extra shift at the hospital.”
A nurse. That was new. Usually they were waitresses and actresses and singer-songwriters.
“An extra shift, huh?” Riley asked innocently, pretending fascination with the cable bill that her parents had left out on the white tile counter. You’re sure it had nothing to do with her suspicion of you having genital warts?
“That’s what I said.” His voice was easy. Clearly they weren’t going to discuss her stunt with the STD pamphlets in front of her mother. Fine with Riley.
Her mother clucked. “Well, that’s a shame.”
“Yes. Shame,” Riley said.
Her mother ignored her.
Sam didn’t. “Hey, Ri.”
“Hey.”
“Saw your most recent article. Heady stuff.”
She didn’t let herself respond to the mockery in his tone.
“I’d say I liked it less than the whips-and-chains piece, but more than the one about the gin-and-tonic-flavored lube.”
Riley carefully let her eyes go sleepy and her lips pouty before giving him a slow glance over her shoulder. “Intrigued, are we?”
But Sam Compton was immune to that look. Which was ironic, considering that he was the one who had inspired her to start practicing it back when she was seventeen and just beginning to understand the power of breasts and eyelashes.
And Sam wasn’t without some looks of his own. His eyes darkened just slightly before he gave her his trademark crooked grin. “Oh, I’ve been plenty intrigued. Some of your tips have proven to be very helpful in the bedroom.”
He didn’t bother to dodge Erin’s swat on the back of the head. “Sorry, ma’am, but you know I’m just supporting your middle daughter’s career endeavors.”
Erin gave him an arch look but didn’t rant at him the way she would have at her own sons. “Did you bring the stuff?” Riley’s mom asked Sam, returning to her cooking duties.
“Yup. You sure about this? Does Josh know?”
Riley’s mother waved this away. “He’ll drink it. He’s always been more flexible with international drink than international eats.”
“What are we talking about here?” Riley asked, desperate for a topic to distract her from thinking about Sam in bed. With other women. Between her mother’s presence and his mentioning other bedmates, now didn’t quite seem the right time to ask if she could see him naked and then write about it.
“Margaritas, baby,” Sam said, coming up alongside her, resting his forearms on the counter and leaning in to see the dinner spread. If he noticed the potatoes, he didn’t say a word.
“Margaritas?” Riley said. “Holy crap, Ma, you’re going all out.”
Erin gave a smug little smile and jerked her chin in the direction of the driveway. “Go help Sam get the stuff. You two can mix a pitcher.”
“I’m sure a big strong man like Sam can carry a little tequila bottle by himself,” Riley said, giving him a cartoon flutter of her lashes.
He fluttered right back. “Yes, but then there’s the Cointreau and the coarse salt, and the limes that went rogue all over the back of my truck. Maybe you can just tuck those between your limes to keep shit perky …”
Riley looked at her mother and pointed at Sam. “Ma, you hearing this?”
“Do I hear my son’s best friend talking about my daughter’s breasts? No, I do not. But I could use a drink all the same, so hurry along now.”
“These are bigger than limes,” Riley muttered as she slid reluctantly from the stool and checked out her boobs. He didn’t bother to respond. Wasn’t even interested.
She trailed after Sam toward his truck. One didn’t need a car in the Brooklyn neighborhood where they’d grown up. She and Sam had both lived close enough to the F and G subway line that there was no need.
But a couple of years earlier, after Sam had decided that corporate life wasn’t for him, he’d gone and bought himself a distillery up in Greenpoint. Which meant that there was always a barrel of whisky riding around as Sam’s companion.
She just wished it was his only companion. Riley picked up a pale pink cardigan off the bench seat of the truck. “Doesn’t this make you look sallow?”
“Angela’s,” he said by way of response. “Get the limes and quit snooping.”
Riley sighed and began retrieving the limes that had rolled every which way in the truck. But only because she really, really needed that margarita. �
�You know, at the grocery store, they often have these clear plastic things … what are they called … oh right, bags. I’m not sure, but I think you can put fruit in there to avoid adventures like these.”
He grabbed at a lime that was under her hip, wrestling it free and tossing it in front of her face before snatching it and giving her a quick grin. “And who’d want to avoid adventures like these?”
Riley’s breath caught just a little when they made eye contact. It was ridiculous, really. She’d seen his face a million times over the years, and it never, ever got old. Never failed to elicit that usual combination of fondness and frustration and something that might have been horniness, if Riley knew what that felt like.
Not that she was the only woman to get horny from the likes of Sam Compton. It was almost a shame that he’d decided his passion was mashing grains for whisky, because he looked like one of the actors who would get cast as “the good-looking guy” in every possible movie genre.
With blond hair and blue eyes, Sam could have been a run-of-the-mill guy next door, but the genetics lottery had been kind enough to get everything just right. His eyes were such a light shade of blue that they had a sort of chronic piercing effect, made even sexier because they were framed by a set of some seriously killer lashes. And his hair was that ideal shade of golden blond with just enough wave to be, well … sexy as hell.
And the body … oh, the body.
Sam had the lean, muscled build of a man who was used to using his body. Which she supposed made sense. He’d gone straight from the football field to a freaking triathlon on a dare from Riley’s brother. And she didn’t really have a clue what he did to keep in shape these days, but he did something, because his biceps were definitely straining the fabric of those tight T-shirts he wore everywhere, and the jeans revealed nothing but sheer man-butt perfection.
“You checkin’ me out, Ri?”
“You know, I was? Just trying to figure out who caused those wrinkles around your eyes.”
“Well, you know what they say about aging. Men get distinguished and women just get old.”
She snatched the lime out of his hand even though she didn’t know how she was going to carry the ones she’d already gathered. “You’d better invest in some eye cream. Nurse Angela’s not going to like you going all old-man on her.”