Just One Night: Sex, Love & Stiletto Series

B
Y
L
AUREN
L
AYNE

After the Kiss
Isn’t She Lovely
Love the One You’re With
Just One Night

There comes a time in every single woman’s life when the man who was once
eh, not bad
gets promoted to
good enough
.

For Riley McKenna, that moment happened at age twenty-eight at a pretentious new French restaurant in the East Village with weird blue lighting, snooty servers, and entrées the size of a pack of gum. A pack of gum.

Which was sort of par for the course in Riley’s dating world. Guys had quit taking her to comfortable places like McSorley’s or Patsy’s, with their big old pasta dishes, right about the time she’d gotten hired full-time by
Stiletto
magazine and traded in her hoodies for wrap dresses and platform shoes.

But now was not the time to reminisce about Brooklyn Riley and the big food portions she’d once been served. She was
Manhattan
Riley.

And Manhattan Riley dated guys like … what was his name?

Steven.
Right
. Steven Moore. And to be totally fair, Steven Moore was truly, well … 
not bad
.

He was tall. Tall was good. In fact, Steven might be a tad
too
tall, if a girl was picky. But Riley didn’t have to worry about that now that she’d entered into a self-imposed quit-being-so-judgmental rehab program.

And it was because Riley was done being critical that she could
also
overlook that his hairline was all wrong for his face shape. As well as the fact that his hair color was a boring,
whatever
shade of brown.

After all, Steven’s eyes were just fine. Nicely shaped. Granted, he did tend to blink a little too long, but that didn’t bother Riley. Nope. The new easygoing Riley was just
fine
with that sort of thing.

Too bad nobody was around to take notes on all this fine self-improvement and report back to Riley’s mother. Erin McKenna would have been thrilled to learn that all of her beggars-can’t-be-choosers mating lectures were paying off.

Not that Riley was a beggar. Not even close.

In fact, if one were to read New York’s society pages, which Riley did (religiously), one might even surmise that Riley McKenna was one of the most sought-after women in the city.

Those kind of assumptions happened when your picture appeared with the caption “The country’s hottest sex expert.”

Hot? Yes.

Or at least
she
liked to think so when she was wearing her highest suede Alexander McQueen platform sandals and skinny jeans that looked like they would require margarine to remove.

As for the sex-expert part …

She was working on that.

Steven ended whatever boring story she’d been struggling to fake interest in and excused himself to the restroom.

Riley discreetly fished her cellphone out of her purse. It was bad form to be on her phone in a restaurant. Especially in a swanky place like this. But it served them right for serving her the pathetic morsel they’d dared to declare a chicken breast. It was a chicken nugget, at best.

The first message was from her mom.
How’s your date? Don’t do that thing
.

Riley scowled. What
thing
? Scratch that. She didn’t want to know. And she’d
told
her sister that teaching their mother to text was a catastrophically bad idea. But then, Meg didn’t have to worry about these types of texts from Erin McKenna, because her older sister was married. Meg must not have a
thing
.

The next message was from Julie Greene, one of Riley’s best friends and a colleague at
Stiletto
.

Having a late dinner with Mitchell’s parents tonight. Is my silk turquoise top too slutty?

Mitchell’s parents were from Snobbytown, Connecticut. So
everything
was probably too slutty. But to be safe …

Dunno. Ask Grace. Her middle name is Decorum
.

Julie wrote back immediately.

Grace’s middle name is Elizabeth. And she’s on that weekend getaway with Jake. As much as she talked about that two-person jetted tub, I didn’t want to interrupt
.

Right
. Riley had pushed Grace’s trip out of her mind to forget about the fact that
both
of
her best friends were in blissfully happy relationships. Julie with a sexy Wall Street guy and Grace Brighton with the city’s sexiest male journalist.

She typed out a quick response to Julie.
Go with the black turtleneck. That way his mom can’t accuse you of luring Mitchell in with your boobs
.

Julie:
Even though I did
.

Riley smiled, and after making sure Steven was still in the restroom—what the heck was he doing in there?—she went to the next and last message.

Sam
.

Her stomach flipped, but Riley chalked this up to the Happy Meal–sized dinner. Because after ten very
platonic
years, there was absolutely no reason why a simple text message from Sam Compton should give her butterflies. No
good
reason anyway.

Sam:
I know it was you
.

She rolled her eyes. Typical Sam—vague and grumpy.

Riley:
Woah! Is the taciturn-caveman routine back in style? Because nobody told us womenfolk!

Sam:
The pamphlets in the glove box. I know you put them there. Probably last week when you tricked me into driving you and the girls to the outlet mall
.

She let out a little choked laugh. Oh,
those
pamphlets. She’d almost forgotten about that spur-of-the-moment stunt.

Riley:
I’m a sex columnist. It’s my responsibility to spread the word about safe sex
.

Sam:
This had nothing to do with safe sex, and everything to do with you making sure I didn’t HAVE any sex
.

True, true. The man did know her well.

Riley:
Well then clearly Angelica didn’t read the pamphlets. It says VERY clearly that there are multiple treatment options
.

Sam:
Her name is ANGELA, and she didn’t stick around long enough to read the pamphlets, and I DO NOT HAVE GENITAL WARTS
.

She snickered. Riley could just picture him angrily punching the keyboard on his touch screen while cursing her name.

Admittedly, sticking the
Dealing with Genital Warts
pamphlets she’d swiped from the gyno’s office into his glove box had been a bit juvenile, but it meant he was alone tonight instead
of feeling up Angelina.

She couldn’t even bother to hide the grin.

Gotta go, Sammy
, she typed as Steven returned to the table.
On a date
.

Riley dropped the phone back into her purse and beamed at Steven, feeling happier than she had all night.

“Everything all right?” he asked politely.

“Oh, sure,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Just an old friend needing some relationship advice.”

“Well, they’re lucky to have a career relationship expert as a friend, then.”

Riley gave a distant smile as she felt her purse vibrate slightly against her calf. It would be Sam again.
Don’t pick up that phone. Do not pick up that phone
.

“You know, Steven, would you mind if I check this, just one last time,” she asked, already reaching for the phone. “It’s just he’s so—”

“He?”

Oops
. Steven’s smile had slipped.
Crap
. She seemed to remember Grace writing an article about this once.
No mentioning other guys early on in the dating process
.

“Just my brother’s best friend,” she hurried to explain. “We grew up together. Practically siblings.”

They weren’t
all
lies. Sam really was best friends with her older brother, Liam. And she and Sam
had
grown up together, if you counted the late-teen years. And as for the siblings part …

She glanced down at his message.
A date with whom?

Whom
. Damn it. Didn’t he know that there was nothing sexier to a journalist than proper grammar?

Steven. I think this one might be a keeper
, she typed back.

She waited. And waited some more, flashing an apologetic smile at an irritated-looking Steven.
Come on, Sam. Get jealous. Just a little
.

Finally, Sam responded.
Can’t wait to meet him. Have fun
.

And just like that, Riley deflated. She did this to herself every damn time, holding on to the hope that she and Sam would actually cross that line between bickering and flirting, curiosity and jealousy. Between friends and lovers.

But it had been a decade. Sam had had a freaking
decade
to stake his claim on her.

He hadn’t. He wouldn’t.

No more waiting, Riley
.

She took a deep breath and switched her phone off altogether before giving her date a warm smile.
Congratulations on your promotion, Steven Moore. You’ve just become Mr. Good Enough
.

She waited for a little thrill of anticipation to shiver down her spine.

Nothing.

Not that she’d been expecting it.

Lucky for both of them, Steven’s personality was slightly more appealing to her than his looks. Slightly. Granted, he didn’t have Sam’s dry humor, or …

Stop it. Sam Compton does not want you
.