Julie answered slowly. “I’m all about butterflies, first kiss, getting him to call. You know, dating.”
“Mm-hmm, and how is it that a woman goes from those giddy first few dates to the comfortable, committed stuff that Grace writes about?”
Julie’s mind went blank. There was really no good way to tell the editor in chief of the country’s largest women’s magazine that you’d never bothered to think about what happened after. And sure, maybe some people might think Julie a little insubstantial. But she was willing to bet those same people were perpetually dateless. Or entrenched in yoga pants and movie nights.
“Um, well … I guess it sort of evolves?” Julie replied finally.
“How?”
“With the right person, it just happens. That’s the mystery of what makes true love so special.” Gawd, I almost made myself vomit.
Camille shook her head. “Not good enough. You’ve seen the letters from our readers. They want to know the specifics. These are women who’ve already had the third date. They’ve even been on the seventh. But then what? How do they move forward?”
Julie’s sleeveless Kate Spade turtleneck dress suddenly felt a little tight around her throat.
“If not Grace, Riley could write it,” Julie said, grasping at straws. “You know, I actually think she’s been looking for a way to broaden her focus and take a break from the sex stuff for a while. Can’t you just see it? ‘Outside the Bedroom’ or something like that.”
“Julie,” Camille said with a sigh, “Grace and Riley have their stories figured out for the next few issues. I’ve already okayed them.”
“If you want a schedule of my future story ideas, I’d be happy to—”
“My mind’s made up.”
Okay, so Camille wasn’t going to be persuaded with reason. Time to go for the editor’s soft spot: Stiletto itself.
“I’m not sure this is what’s best for the magazine,” Julie said demurely. “I just don’t have any experience with the … you know … long-term stuff.”
But Camille wasn’t biting. “So? You think every writer in this office has personal experience with everything they write about?”
I do, Julie thought. Or at least I did.
“Julie, look around. What does this look like to you?”
“Um, an office?” More accurately, a high-tech, state-of-the-art, killer corner office with a view of Central Park South.
“Exactly. It’s an office of a magazine company. This is journalism, not your pink fuzzy diary,” Camille snapped. “If you haven’t been there yourself, talk to women who are going through that stage. Do what you always do—dive into our readers’ heads and answer the hard stuff for them.”
Julie bit back a sigh, knowing the battle was lost. Temporarily. Camille was one of those scary women who had made her way to the top of the food chain by having steel ovaries and a penchant for making people cry. Julie had always figured that if they’d made a movie about Camille’s life she’d be played by either a stern Katharine Hepburn type or an intensely scary Robert De Niro on crack. She was about as soft as a hammerhead shark and half as friendly.
Still, Camille was right about one thing: this article could be done with a little bit of strategic networking. A major in journalism from the University of Southern California had taught Julie that media was more about whom you knew than what you knew. But Julie had developed her own type of journalism over the years, one that involved a distinctly personal voice. And she hated the idea that she couldn’t speak personally to a topic.
“So we’re good?” Camille asked, standing to indicate that the conversation was over.
Not even close. “Definitely,” Julie replied with a confident smile.
Camille had already picked up her cellphone and was yelling at her dry cleaner. Something about white stains on a black dress. Awwwwwwk-ward.
Julie slipped out the door and was immediately surrounded by the sounds of Stiletto on a Friday afternoon. The mood in the Manhattan office was crackling even on a slow day, but by the end of the week the vibe was positively electric.
The office staff was made up almost entirely of women, with a handful of fashion-forward men. Everywhere she looked, there were skinny hips perched on a colleague’s desk, gossip about evening plans, and lip gloss exchanges over cubicle walls as office makeup transitioned to happy-hour makeup.
Normally Julie would be making the rounds, figuring out if anyone had heard of something happening that she hadn’t. It was more of a habit than anything else; Julie couldn’t think of a time when she’d been the last to hear about a party. Being at the top of Stiletto’s ladder also meant you were at the top of New York’s social ladder. The girls of the Dating, Love, and Sex department didn’t have to fish for an invitation.
Julie made a detour into the kitchen, where Camille kept a few bottles of champagne stocked for celebrations and promotions.
Today Julie had another need for it—therapy.
If she had to write about taking things to the next level, she at least needed a drink first. And Riley and Grace were always game for a little in-office happy hour. “Oh, Julie, I’m glad you stopped by.”
Julie made a silent gagging motion at the fridge. Kelli with a freaking i. Julie should have hit the bottle sooner. Much sooner.
Julie had often marveled that fate had blessed her with a nemesis-free childhood. There was no schoolyard bully, no junior high rival, no high school drama. But all fate had really done was help her preserve her energy to deal with her adult nemesis: Kelli Kearns.
Although Julie and Kelli’s sordid history belonged in the tabloids, for the most part they tried to keep it out of the office and ignore each other at all costs. But every now and then Kelli’s size negative-two body seemed incapable of containing all of its venom, and some spewed out—usually in Julie’s direction.
“What’s up, Kelli?”
“First of all,” Kelli said, holding up a skinny finger, “is that company wine? I was always under the impression that consumption had to be authorized by Camille.”
Julie glanced down at the bottle in sham regret. “A valid point, Kelli. How about this: you go tell Camille my secrets, and I’ll tell her yours. Sound good?”
Kelli’s lips pressed together in disdain, and Julie resisted the urge to gloat. Kelli wouldn’t breathe a peep about the champagne. Not that Camille would care, anyway. All she wanted from her employees was that they meet deadlines and keep their columns sassy and snappy, all while fitting the stylish Stiletto mold. Camille didn’t care if they needed a little wine to get there.
“Was there something else?” Julie asked. “Other than your concern over my liver and company funds?”
“Actually, yes,” Kelli said, flicking her long blond ponytail over one bony shoulder. “I’ve been asked to clean out the fridge—”
“You know that you’d be a lot less on edge if you actually ate the food, right?”
“—and as I was cleaning I noticed this funny-looking sandwich. It has your name on it.”
Julie glanced down at the plastic-wrapped sandwich in Kelli’s hand. “Yup, mine from last week. I ate half and forgot about it.”
Kelli shook her head in condescension. “It’s wasteful, Julie. And I think I speak for the entire office when I say we’re tired of you abusing your power.”
“My power? What is it that I’m out to destroy with a half-eaten turkey sandwich? Thanksgiving?”
Kelli sighed. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”
My ass, you’re not.
“I’m just saying we all have to share a kitchen space, and it would be nice if even the senior columnists could clean up after themselves,” Kelli said.
“Okay,” Julie said, shoving the champagne bottle under her arm and snatching the sandwich from Kelli. She took a half step to the side and dropped it in the garbage. “We good? Is there a coffee mug I didn’t position just right, or a pen I left somewhere?” Maybe up your ass?
Kelli snapped her f
ingers. “You know, I just thought of something else. I was wondering if maybe you could keep me updated on your notes for August’s article.”
Julie snorted. “And why would I do that?” And why bother asking? We both know you just steal my notes when it suits you.
Kelli’s eyes went wide. “Camille didn’t tell you?”
Julie stilled. “Tell me what?”
“Your assignment for August? The relationship story? Camille’s worried you might not be up for it.”
“And this is your business because …?”
Kelli gave a sweet smile. “I’m your alternate. If your story doesn’t cut it, Camille will print mine instead.”
Oh, hell no.
With a violent twist of her hands, Julie uncorked the champagne and took a long swig as she marched out of the kitchen, her head reeling from Kelli’s bomb.
There was only one thing worse than having to write this story.
And that was having Kelli-with-an-i write it for her.
Movie night, here I come.
Read on for an excerpt from Elisabeth Barrett’s
Slow Summer Burn
Chapter 1
“Sweet office,” a tall, dark-haired man wearing a pair of hipster glasses and a well-cut suit said as he stepped inside and leaned his broad shoulders back on the door frame. “Why don’t you spend more time in it?”
Val Grayson looked up at his brother, put down the pen he was holding, and rubbed his eyes. “Because when I’m here, I actually have to work. You know how much I hate work.”
Theo smiled, the corners of his green eyes crinkling at the edges. “Liar. You just hate being indoors.”
Val inclined his head in agreement. “That, too. Looks like you got through security all right. Marion escort you in?” He could always count on his secretary, Marion Heeps, as a gatekeeper.
“Yeah,” Theo said. “This place is like Fort Knox, though. Thought they were going to give me a full-body search.”
“What did you expect? It’s the Feds.” Not just the Feds—the Drug Enforcement Administration, the premier drug enforcement organization in the world. For more than a decade, Val had been putting his life on the line to dismantle major drug-trafficking operations up and down the Eastern Seaboard. But because it was the government, there was always a hell of a lot of paperwork to get through.
Papers were piled everywhere. Each pile represented a separate ongoing drug investigation that he was either supervising or organizing. His whole life’s work, neatly laid out. He placed a few sheets on top of the nearest stack. No matter how messy things got during the day, they were always organized when he left. “Is it time to go?”
“Yes,” Theo said, taking a quick glance at his wristwatch. “The event starts at six, but from what I’ve heard, it’s going to be a late night.”
“I’ll definitely be working from home tomorrow,” Val muttered, standing up and retrieving his own suit jacket from the back of his chair.
“Which one?”
“Boat,” he said. His refurbished houseboat in Star Harbor was his home base. If he could, he’d work there every day, but special agents were encouraged to work from the office anytime they weren’t in the field. Val came in a few times a week, and to keep his boss happy, he rented a bare-bones studio apartment in Boston as a place to crash when he was in town.
“You don’t have to come,” Theo said, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s not that big a deal.”
Val swung his jacket over his shoulders and regarded Theo. “Yeah, I do. It’s a huge honor for you.” Tonight, his younger brother was receiving a Kirkland Award for his series of local, historical seafaring novels. And if watching Theo get one of the state’s highest artistic awards wasn’t enough of a reason to attend, someone being investigated by his office was expected to be there. It was the perfect excuse, even if the ceremony and reception at the Commonwealth Club wasn’t really his type of thing.
Theo cocked his head and muttered something.
“What?” Val asked.
“You should wear nice clothes more often. You look good.”
Val just snorted. He was far more comfortable in worn jeans and a henley. But he knew how to dress the part when the situation required.
“If you’re ready, we’d better leave,” Theo said. “Avery’s meeting us there.” Avery Newbridge, a kindhearted social worker with fiery red hair, was Theo’s fiancée. She’d been good for his brother, both grounding and inspiring him.
“I’m ready,” said Val, flicking off his office lights. As he escorted Theo through the building, he gave a wave to his secretary. “Night, Marion.”
“Good night, Agent Grayson,” the middle-aged woman replied. “Have fun tonight.” She dipped her head down to her desk, but not fast enough for Val to miss the teasing look in her eye.
“ ‘Agent Grayson,’ are we?” Theo said, laughter coloring his voice as they passed through the double glass doors to the elevator lobby.
“Only when I have guests in the office. Otherwise I’m just Val.”
“Sure you are,” Theo said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Val let it lie. If his brother wanted to think he was some bigwig at the DEA, let him. But with dozens of successful missions completed, with an increasing number of junior agents under his command, and with every passing year, he had gained some serious experience. And some serious age. Damn, he wasn’t that old. Just thirty-five.
But his success at work had come at a cost. He spent so much time working, he’d neglected his personal life. At night, instead of a woman and children to come home to, he returned to an empty place. He had a few too many gray hairs and some days, an aching back from all the gym time he had to put in to keep fit for his fieldwork. Some things never changed. As the oldest of four brothers, he’d given up his youth to help his mom care for the family after his dad died on his boat in a freak hurricane two decades ago. High school weekends hadn’t consisted of parties and football games; they entailed helping his younger brothers with their homework and then scrambling to finish his own. And when their mom died of a stroke, eight years after their father’s death, every ounce of Val’s energy went into making sure his brothers were doing all right, both personally and professionally.
Over the past year, all his brothers had found happiness with good women, and he was glad for it. Of course he was. But he hadn’t found a special woman of his own, and so he’d filled that void with work, work, and more work.
Val held open the lobby door as they stepped out into the early summer evening. Though they were many blocks from the water, he still caught a waft of the harbor, salty and musky.
“Really glad you’re coming tonight,” Theo said, as they began to walk down Cambridge Street. “Lately I’ve been wondering if you do anything but work. It’s good for you to get out.”
Val made a noncommittal noise in his throat.
Theo paused for a second, then laughed. “This is work, isn’t it?”
“Of course not,” Val said smoothly. “I’m coming to support my brother. A Grayson is about to receive a Kirkland Award. You bet your ass I’m going to be there.” No way could he tell Theo about his latest case—or the man he was shadowing.
“Uh-huh,” Theo said, sounding unconvinced. “All the same, I’m glad you’re joining me. Seb is back in New York again and Cole couldn’t take the time off.” Sebastian, Theo’s twin, was a famous chef who owned a popular restaurant in Manhattan. He’d met his match in Lexie Meyers, a firecracker of a cook who was his equal, both in and out of the kitchen. And Cole, Star Harbor’s sheriff and a war veteran, had found peace with Julie Kensington, a beautiful doctor with a backbone of steel.
“I thought Seb was coming back to Star Harbor this summer.”
“He is,” Theo said. “In a week or two. He told me he had to get his schedule squared away before he opens up his new summer place in town.”
“Damn, he’s really pushing this, time-wise.”
“He’s not as
organized as you are,” Theo said with a smile. “But you know Seb. He thrives under pressure. He’ll pull it together.”
“Hope so,” Val said, just as they reached the parking lot.
After paying the cashier, they hopped into Theo’s Jeep. “Tell me again why we aren’t taking the T?” Val asked.
“Because after the ceremony, I want to get back to my hotel as quickly as possible. Avery and I are taking the next week off from work to explore Boston.”
“Forgot you weren’t driving back to Star Harbor afterward,” Val sighed. “Guess I’m crashing in my apartment.” It probably wasn’t such a bad thing. If he was able to make contact with his target, he’d have plenty to write up at the office the next day.
“Maybe you’ll find a good reason to stick around the city,” Theo said, starting the vehicle.
“Maybe,” Val said as he settled into the seat and strapped on his seat belt. Doubtful.
A trickle of perspiration dripped down Cameron Stahl’s neck and lodged right between her breasts. Though it wasn’t that hot outside—or even inside, for that matter—she was sweltering. “I have to get out of here,” Cameron whispered to her mother, who was seated next to her in the ballroom of Boston’s Commonwealth Club.
“Must you leave now, Cameron?” Clarissa whispered back through clenched lips, the inclination of her silvery head the only physical indication that she might be speaking.
“Yes,” Cameron answered, tilting her head away. She was embarrassed to show her mother the pleading look on her face, a look Clarissa Endicott Stahl would only see as weak. But if she had to spend another second in this airless room with her filmy evening gown sticking to her damp skin while they listened to the club’s president drone on and on about the benefits of the arts and the importance of the Kirkland Awards, she was going to scream.
Granted, she had promised her mother that she would attend a certain number of social engagements each season, but this one was turning out to be intolerable. There had to be close to four hundred people in attendance, all members of Boston’s elite and all dressed to the nines.
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