After the Kiss (2 page)

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 fingers. “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
.

“She assigned me an alternate, Grace. An
alternate
.”

Grace Brighton snagged two champagne flutes off a passing tray and handed one to Julie. “You say that like it’s a dirty word. What’s the big deal? She assigned me an alternate back in February. It’s just a precaution.”

“She assigned
you
an alternate because you were having Lasik surgery one week before deadline, and she told everyone that your eyes were going to fall out. I am perfectly healthy.”

“You do know that champagne isn’t meant to be taken as a shot, right?” Grace asked, watching Julie chug the sparkling wine.

Julie lifted a shoulder, careful to suppress a small burp. “What can I say? We can’t all channel Jackie Kennedy.”

But Grace could. Grace Brighton was class through and through. She had one of those effortlessly feminine bodies perfectly suited to cashmere cardigans and sundresses, with wide hazel eyes and long chestnut hair so shiny it could double as a mirror. It would have been easy to hate her, but Grace was so damned
good
that you couldn’t help but keep her close in hopes some of her perfection would rub off on you.

“Have you seen Riley?” Grace asked, glancing around for the third member of their trio. “She said she’d meet us here ten minutes ago.”

Here
was the Museum of Modern Art, better known as MoMA. Frankly, it was the last place Julie wanted to be, but attending this type of fund-raiser was an unwritten part of the job description. Camille was fond of trotting her Date, Love, and Sex girls around like prize ponies, impressing potential advertisers and investors with their party tricks.

New Yorkers loved talking about their sex lives almost more than they loved the sex itself, and their little threesome had made a name for themselves among the socialite set. As a result, most every evening was filled with some sort of social obligation where they were expected to appease advice-seeking women while warding off horny men who wanted to see if the women’s actions matched their articles.

“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.”