by Lauren Layne
Riley frowned. “They had paper back then? You didn’t etch shit in stone?”
Camille used the envelope in her hand to give a warning point at Riley. “Funny. And I forgot to mention it earlier, but I’ve selected one of the letters to the editor I want you to respond to.”
Four pairs of annoyed eyes gave her a death glare.
Camille shrugged and dropped the envelope into Riley’s lap. “Here you go, dear.”
“Thanks for not giving this to us an hour ago,” Julie hollered after her.
“I hope it’s another one of the Bruce-pushed-me-off-the-mechanical-bull letters,” Grace said, leaning forward and plucking up the letter.
Riley snatched it back. “This is Stiletto, not Rodeo Times.”
“Rodeo Times,” Emma mused. “Is that a real magazine? Because I’ve always thought I could go for a cowboy … there’s something about those boots and tight jeans.”
“I bet Alex Cassidy looks uh-mazing in tight jeans,” Julie said in a singsong voice. Emma threw a paper clip at Julie, which got caught in Julie’s mess of curls, so that Grace had to fish it out.
But Riley wasn’t paying attention to any of this.
The letter Camille handed her wasn’t like the rest.
For starters, the writing was distinctly masculine. She flipped the envelope over. No postage, and no return address. It had been hand-delivered, which was creepy.
What the hell was Camille up to?
She began to read.
Dear Ms. McKenna—
I read your article on Bruce Dinkle with great interest. This Bruce character seems to be a fool and a coward. And unfortunately, I can relate all too well to your situation.
Even more unfortunately, I can relate to Bruce.
You see, years ago, I fell in love with a girl who was, and is, about a hundred times too good for me. I spent a torturous decade keeping her at a distance when all I wanted was to pull her toward me and ask her to be mine. I tried to lose myself in other relationships, but nobody came close. Nobody will ever come close.
When I finally got the courage to be with her, it was both wonderful and excruciating. Wonderful because it was her, and because nothing I’ve ever done felt as important as making her smile. Excruciating, because I didn’t think it could possibly last. So I ended it.
I thought I was doing the right thing by letting her go, but what I really was doing was pushing her away before she could push me away.
But I pushed too hard, and she’s gone.
It’s what I wanted.
But that’s a lie. What I really want is to see her face again. To hold her, and hear her laugh. I want the sunset walks in the park and arguments over what movie to see. I even want her tantrums and her sarcasm. But most of all I want the love that I threw back in her face like it didn’t matter. I’d do anything for that.
So here’s my question. If your Bruce came to you and told you that he’d made the worst mistake of his life—that he’s ready to be brave and love you … would you give him the chance?
Can you still love the man who can’t stop loving you?
In anticipation—
S. Condon
“Wow,” Riley said, blowing out a long breath. “Wow.”
Julie must be rubbing off on her, because she felt tears welling at a stranger’s letter. And not a few dainty drops. Like one of those honking, slobbery type of cries. “Does anyone have any chips?”
Emma traded the chips for the letter, and Riley tore open the bag. They were the baked, unsalted kind, but she barely noticed as she munched them three at a time.
“Oh my,” Emma said in a croaky little voice.
“Oh jeez, even Emma is getting weepy. What is it, like, a poem or something?” Grace asked.
“So much better than a poem,” Julie said as she snatched the paper from Emma and skimmed it. “It’s a love letter.”
“Let me see this.” Grace ripped it out of Julie’s hands. Not that Julie noticed, because she was crying. Again.
“I think I’d leave Jake for this guy,” Grace said, becoming sobering as she read it.
“I wonder how Camille got it,” Julie said, pulling herself together and dabbing her eyes. “Why wasn’t it with the rest of the letters?”
“No postage,” Emma said, peering at the envelope. Then her eyes narrowed. “Grace, give me that.”
Grace handed over the letter, and Emma stared at it for several seconds before she lifted her eyes to Riley. “Ri, how many people know about your original fake name for Sam?”
Who cares?
“I don’t know. You guys. Camille. Maybe one of the copy editors, if they made a pass at it before I changed it to Bruce?”
Wordlessly, Emma handed the letter back to Riley.
Riley felt the blood drain from her face as she saw what Emma wanted her to see.
Condon.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?
But how …
“How are you going to answer it?” Grace asked softly.
“I’m dying to hear the answer to that myself.”
All four women turned to stare at the man in the doorway.
But he was staring only at Riley. And his eyes were full of …
Everything.
Wordlessly the other three stood. Well, Grace and Emma stood. Julie had to be coaxed out of her chair, and luckily Grace had the forethought to grab the box of tissues on the way out.
“Nice one, Samuel,” Emma muttered as the three women slipped past.
“I want to watch,” Riley heard Julie say.
“And I want Ryan Reynolds for my birthday,” Emma snapped. “Get it together.”
Riley barely heard any of this.
She couldn’t believe he was here. Couldn’t believe …
She shakily rose to her feet, holding up the letter. “You?”
He blushed and looked at the floor. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I wrote a different one that was a little less Byron, and it was even Liam-approved, but last night I couldn’t get these words out of my head.”
She pressed her lips together. “Did you mean it?”
His head snapped up, and his blue eyes were desperate. He took a half step toward her before catching himself. “Every damn word.”
“How did Camille end up with it?”
“I meant to mail it, but my, um, drafting took too long. So Liam looked through your contact list at dinner and got Camille’s number.”
“The sneak,” she muttered.
“Liam, or Camille?”
“Both.”
Several moments of tense silence passed between them until Sam finally closed his eyes and broke the eye contact. “I have to know, Riley. I have to know the answer.”
He sounded tortured, and a tiny part of her wanted to feel smug about that, but the atypical huskiness of his voice killed her.
Riley swallowed. She knew what her heart wanted. Her heart had always wanted it. But her head was begging her to be smart.
This was a man she’d practically begged to love her, and he’d let her walk away.
Now their situations were reversed, and she just didn’t know …
She glanced down at the beautiful words on the paper, and wanted so badly to trust them.
“I sold my whisky,” he blurted out.
Huh?
“To four restaurants, and more are interested. I’ve sold everything I’ve already made, and I’ll have to expand and hire more people if I want to keep up with demand. And I talked to my mom. Told her I’d always be there for her, but I was done being her whipping boy. I told her to either learn how to be proud of me or get the hell out of my life.”
“Sam—”
“Skippy’s potty-trained,” he interrupted. “And I finally bought him a collar with me listed as the owner. I’m committing.”
“To the dog,” she said, just to be sure she was following.
“And to you,” he said, his control breaking as he moved awkwardly forward and grabbed f
or her hands.
Riley pressed her lips together.
Can you still love the man who can’t stop loving you?
“You were right to write the article, Ri. And I know what you were trying to do. You were being brave and facing the hard facts that sometimes things don’t work out, no matter how badly you want them to.”
She nodded.
“But those aren’t our facts, Riley. Our story isn’t over. Not even close.” His hands went to her face, his forehead resting on hers. “Tell me it isn’t over.”
Riley searched his eyes. “How do I know you won’t chicken out again when things get hard?”
His lips brushed hers. “You don’t. Just like I don’t know that you won’t get tired of a whisky-brewing scrub who doesn’t know Armani from D&G—is that a thing?—but isn’t that what love’s about? Taking the risk? And I do love you, Riley. I’ve always loved you.”
She’d waited an eternity to hear him say the words.
They were worth the wait.
Riley pressed her mouth to his. “Does this mean I can call you Bruce?”
“You can call me whatever you want if you tell me you love me.”
Her fingers burrowed into the softness of his T-shirt as she held him close, never wanting to let him escape again. “I love you, Sam.”
He closed his eyes as his breath came out in a shuddering rush. “So, um—what about issuing a retraction of that article? Because true or not, I looked like a total schmuck—”
“Not a chance. It was an important teachable moment. For both of us.”
He shrugged and smiled down at her. “At least I won the important part of the battle.”
She lifted her eyebrows in a question.
“You.” And then he kissed her, long and hard, until their breath was coming hot and fast, until there was a very distinctly feminine giggle.
They pulled apart long enough to look at the doorway, where Julie, Grace, and Emma stood beaming at them, and Riley could have sworn she saw a flash of Camille’s orange bob.
“Julie’s idea,” Emma and Grace said in unison, pointing at the weepy blonde.
“You’ve sure got that kissing thing down, Bruce,” Emma said thoughtfully, stroking her chin. “If you ever want to be with a woman who doesn’t eat more than you do—”
Riley reached around Sam’s shoulder to slam the door shut in her friends’ faces. “Now. Where were we?”
“On the way to forever, I think.”
She rolled her eyes, even as she melted. “All that letter writing has turned you into a total cornball.”
“Yeah, it’s not my thing. But you know where I really excel?” His hands skimmed up her back. “The bedroom.”
“Oh yeah?” she purred. “I’ve been told I could be great at sex if I’d only play the field.”
He frowned. “Who told you that? Sounds like a moron.”
“You’ve got a better idea?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, pulling her closer. “Same guy, every night, until death do you part.”
Riley’s heart flipped over in her chest. She flung her arms around his neck. “Let’s do it.”
He lowered his mouth to hers. “You’ll make a fantastic Mrs. Dinkle.”
Indeed.
Epilogue
“I thought part of the appeal of a beach wedding was that the groomsmen didn’t have to wear suits,” Sam muttered, tugging at his light blue tie.
Mitchell, looking completely unruffled and at home in his own suit despite the swampy St. Lucia heat, stared at Sam in mild horror. “What are we, savages?”
Julie took another sip of her champagne, looking impossibly pretty in her blue bridesmaid dress, her blond hair pulled back into a beachy bun. “Sam, just consider yourself lucky I talked Mitchell into black tie optional for our wedding.”
Mitchell gave her a steady look. “It’s at the Plaza. We’re going to look like hobos without it.”
Sam groaned. “How long do I have to prepare for that one?”
“Four months and twelve days,” Julie said, patting him on the arm. “But you should probably start fretting now. As a groomsman, your black tie isn’t so optional.”
Riley slid her hand over the back of Sam’s neck, letting her fingers toy with his hair. “I think you’ll look hot in a tux.”
Emma sipped her mojito. “All guys look hot in a tux.”
Alex Cassidy, Oxford editor in chief and Jake’s best man, gave her a hooded look. “Even me?”
She didn’t even bother to glance at her ex-fiancé. “Hard to say. The whole effect is kind of ruined by your ego.”
The approach of Grace and Jake put a halt to another one of their ice-cold verbal wars, although Riley noticed that Alex’s eyes stayed on Emma long after she’d turned away.
Interesting. Very interesting.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sam muttered quietly in her ear.
“Think about what?”
“Matchmaker. You’re bad at it.”
“I matched up us.”
“Something I might start to regret if your dog destroys one more pair of my shoes.”
“What can I say?” Riley said, patting his cheek fondly. “Pippy has a fondness for old sneakers from 1987.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Did you put her up to it?”
Riley hid her smile as she stood to hug the bride and groom. “Grace, if you weren’t my best friend, I’d hate you. You’ve ruined weddings for the rest of us, because nobody will look as good in white as you do.”
Grace smoothed the skirt of her slim empire-waist dress. “Why, because I’m so virginal?”
Jake snorted and earned himself a jab in the ribs.
“I’m thinking of getting married in green,” Riley said as she fixed the flower in Grace’s hair. “Or maybe black. Ooh, or leopard print.”
“That should go nicely with the classic lilies we picked out,” Emma said, resting her chin on her hands.
“Don’t get lilies,” Alex drawled. “Bad luck.”
Emma turned to glare. “They are not.”
“Yeah? How’d those carefully selected centerpieces work out for us?” Alex asked, his voice every bit as cool as Emma’s.
“That’s not going to happen to us when we finally get to wedding planning, right?” Sam asked, pulling Riley against him.
“Get to wedding planning?”
“The major stuff, I mean,” he hurriedly corrected.
“Oh, the major stuff. So the venue I’ve reserved, and the save-the-date cards I’ve ordered … those were just, what? Trivial little details?”
“Abort. Abort,” Mitchell said through a cough.
Sam held up his hands in surrender. “If you want me to help, I will.”
“Say no, Ri,” Grace said, “You should have seen the cake Jake tried to sneak in here. It was shaped like a whale. Literally.”
“Hey, it was huge. And more cake never hurt anyone,” Jake said.
“Hear, hear,” Riley said, raising her glass with genuine enthusiasm.
Julie gently put a hand on Riley’s wrist, forcing her arm down. “If we’re going to do a toast at our best friend’s wedding, it needs to be about something other than cake.”
“Why?” Riley asked.
Julie glared. “Get it together, McKenna. Despite all your fussing about being the flower girl, you’re the maid of honor.”
“We’re all maids of honor—”
“Which I can tell was such a great decision,” Grace said sarcastically.
“I’ve got this,” Emma said, standing and giving the rest of the group a pointed look until they all stood as well. “We’ll do the public toast later, but let’s do a quick private one now. Fast, before Camille makes her way over here and makes good on her promise to sing ‘On the Wings of Love.’ ”
“We’ve got some time,” Cassidy said. “I saw her asking one of the servers for late-night swim lessons. And then her hands wandered.”
“Never mind the cake,” Riley muttered. �
�I just lost my appetite.”
“First time for everything,” Sam said.
Emma cleared her throat pointedly. “Ahem. Here’s to Jake and Grace. I can think of no two better people better suited to the sham—”
Alex pinched her upper arm.
“To the miracle,” Emma corrected, “that is marriage.”
“And to Grace,” Julie took over, “who is the best friend any of us can possibly imagine, even if she has better boobs than the rest of us …”
“And to Jake,” Riley added. “Who actually does have some brains lurking behind—above?—his overly white teeth.”
Sam slid an arm around Riley’s waist as he chimed in. “To you two: for showing me that I might not want to marry this one and her whale cake after all—”
Jake lifted his glass to interrupt. “And to all of you, for being the best wedding party, with the absolute worst toast.”
Laughing, they all raised their glasses, but it was Mitchell, in his quiet, get-to-the-heart-of-the-matter way, who perhaps said it best:
“To Stiletto—for showing three different couples they were made for each other.”
Riley’s eyes landed on Emma and Alex and the way they weren’t looking at each other. She’d bet her favorite Manolo Blahnik boots that there was a fourth story there.
Then Sam’s hand found hers and squeezed, and she forgot all about everyone but him. He was hers.
And he’d been worth waiting for.
Acknowledgments
It seems like it was just yesterday that the Sex, Love & Stiletto series was little more than a hankering to write a New York–based series about women who wrote about men. Almost two years later, Stiletto isn’t just an idea. It’s a living, breathing series, complete with three stories, an online magazine, and a fan base that I am grateful for every day.
LAUREN LAYNE graduated from Santa Clara University with a B.S. in political science that she has yet to put to good use. After a few years in Manhattan, Lauren is now a recovering city girl, adjusting to a slower pace in the Pacific Northwest. She lives with her husband and their badly behaved dog, both of whom get neglected for days at a time when she’s drafting a new book. Lauren will, however, happily break for wine.