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 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.

Chapter Two

“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.”