“And what’s that?” Sam asked warily.

His friend’s eyes met his over the puppy’s head, and they were both sympathetic and curious. “Happiness.”

Sam’s chest tightened. His best friend was right, and the realization filled him with terror.

For the first time since he and Riley had slept together, Sam let himself face the inevitable: The deeper he and Riley got, the more it was going to hurt when it ended.

And if there was one thing Sam was sure of, it was that all good things definitely ended.

Chapter Twenty

“Wait. So your brother saw your bra?” Julie asked, spinning around in her office desk chair like a restless third-grader.

“Yeah. But he didn’t know it was mine,” Riley said as she tossed the red pen on top of Grace’s article, which she’d been reading.

“It weirds me out that you seem so dejected about that fact,” Emma said as she took a bite of something that looked like birdseed.

Riley reached for the donut she’d stolen from the IT guys, noting the way Grace eyed it lustfully before sighing and returning to her low-fat peach yogurt. Riley didn’t feel even remotely guilty. Grace had a gorgeous man who’d professed his love for her in front of news cameras.

All Riley had was a man who refused to come to family dinners and who couldn’t even tell his best friend about the two of them.

She’d earned her good metabolism, damn it.

“It’s not that I want my brother to see my bra. Ever,” she said around a mouthful of sugary fried dough. “But it pisses me off that Sam told him the bra belonged to ‘just some girl.’ ”

Julie winced.

“I am not just some girl. Am I?”

“Of course not,” Grace said, daintily licking her spoon clean. “But you’ve known all along that Sam’s got a major hang-up over the whole sleeping-with-the-best-friend’s-sister thing.”

“Which is stupid,” Riley said.

“It is. But it’s also classic. The same way a woman can never look at a man her best friend once had a half-second crush on in eighth grade, a man doesn’t touch his best friend’s little sisters.”

“It’s true,” Julie said practically. “It’s in a bunch of books and movies.”

“And if it’s in a movie, it must be true,” Emma said with an eye roll.

Riley held up a hand. “Okay, let’s just pretend for a second that Sam’s not being an idiot. That his whole hang-up is justified. What do I do about it?”

“Well, you could distract him by getting him a dog he didn’t want. Oh, wait …”

“He did want the dog,” Riley protested. “I gave him plenty of time to take Skippy back. He loves that dog.”

“True. I bet he didn’t tell Liam that Skippy’s toy belonged to ‘just some other dog,’ ” Grace mused.

“Not. Helping,” Riley ground out.

“How about this,” Julie said, leaning back in her office chair and tugging her long blond hair out of its ponytail as she thought about it. “See, Sam had his chance to come clean face-to-face with Liam. He chickened out. Maybe what we need here is a less confrontational approach. Like, say, if Liam just happened to see you two together …”

“Yes,” Emma said, rubbing her hands together. “Because manipulation is so much more adult than confrontation.”

Riley flicked a hand at Emma. “Save it. When you’re head-over-heels in love, then you’ll get to talk about doing things on the up-and-up.”

All three of her friends immediately grew still and stared at her, their expressions ranging from delighted (Julie) to dismayed (Emma).

“Love?” Grace said in a casual tone as she looked at her fingernails.

Riley barely managed to swallow her donut as she realized what she’d said. “Um.”

“You owe me twenty bucks,” Julie said out of the corner of her mouth to Grace.

“You bet on my love life?” Riley asked.

“Of course. And thank God we didn’t bet on your sex life. That apparently would have been boring.”

Riley felt a dopey little smile creep across her face. “Worth the wait though.”

“Jesus. She really is in love,” Emma said, slumping back in her chair.

Riley considered. Truthfully? The L word had just popped into her head. There were no fireworks, no uh-ohs, no falling off the chair in surprise.

It was almost like love had always been there when it came to Sam. Simmering beneath the surface. Or perhaps in this case it was a little na*ed time that had caused it to flourish.

“I guess I’ve always been a little in love with him.”

“You say that so easily,” Julie said. “I almost crapped my pants when I realized I was in love with Mitchell.”

“That’s because you fell for Mitchell in less time than it takes most women to pick out a new lipstick,” Grace said.

“You and Jake didn’t exactly take the slow-and-steady track yourselves,” Julie shot back. “I mean it was how long before you started simpering? Two months?”

Emma cleared her throat. “Um, ladies?”

But Riley didn’t even notice their squabbling. She was too busy letting being in love with Sam settle over her.

It was terrifying.

It was strange.

And yet … perfect.

“Well, crap,” she muttered. “Now what do I do?”

“Tell him.”

Riley snorted. “Yeah, right. It took me more than ten years to get him into my bed. If he thinks I’m trying to coax him down the aisle, I’ll never see him again.”

“So he doesn’t feel the same, then?” Grace asked, her voice soft.

“He cares about me,” Riley said carefully. “I’ve never doubted that. But sometimes he looks at me with this expression on his face, like—”

She broke off.

“Like …?” Emma prompted.

“Like he doesn’t deserve me,” Riley said hesitantly. “Which is ridiculous. He’s easily the best guy I know, but he holds himself back somehow. And when we’re together, things are great, but there’s something almost frenzied, even in the quiet moments.”

“Explain.”

Riley dug a candy bar out of her drawer. “You know how when you go on a really perfect beach vacation? When each day is better than the last and you can’t ever remember feeling so amazing?”

“Sure, although I’m more of a pool girl myself,” Julie said. “I don’t like sand in my crack.”

Another throat clear from Emma.

“Well, it’s like that when Sam and I are together,” Riley continued. “We’re happy—beyond happy. But it’s as though we’re both bracing for it to end.”

“What makes you think that it has to?”

She studied the smooth chocolate of her candy. “You guys didn’t see Sam after his divorce. He totally blamed himself for the failed marriage. Plus Liam told us Sam swore he’d never get married again.”

“I think all people probably say that right after a divorce,” Grace said kindly. “There’s no reason to think he still feels that way.”

“And if anyone can change his mind, it’s you,” Julie said, leaning forward and squeezing Riley’s knee. “Anyone who’s ever looked at the two of you knows you’re made for each other.”

“Plus, you went almost a decade without sex because you were so hung up on the guy,” Emma said. “Nobody does that unless it’s the real thing.”

“Now, this is interesting.”

All four women’s heads snapped around toward the door of their shared office to see one very intrigued-looking boss standing in the doorway.

“Hey, Camille,” Riley croaked.

How much had she heard?

“Riley, honey, what say you and me go have a little one-on-one chat at MoBar,” Camille said, referring to one of the local hotel bars.

“Now?” Riley asked, looking at the clock on her computer screen. “It’s two o’clock.”

Camille tilted her head. “You really want to be sober when you explain to me why my sex columnist isn’t having sex?”

Riley jumped up and grabbed her purse. “A drink sounds great.”

* * *

“Well, I have to say, I’m impressed. I’ve read every single one of your articles line by line, multiple times, and it never occurred to me that I was reading the work of a virgin.”

“I wasn’t a virgin.”

“Might as well have been,” Camille said with a hand flick. “Clumsy encounters in college dorm beds barely count.”

Having encountered the difference between sleeping with a nervous boy and sleeping with Sam, Riley couldn’t argue.

“So you’re not mad?”

“Nah,” Camille said. “It’s not as though you ever lied. It’s like I told Julie and Grace, Stiletto’s not a diary. Our job’s to tell stories, not experience them.”

Riley took a drink of her afternoon Manhattan. “Except for the upcoming issue. ‘The Truth Behind the Headlines’? That might as well be a diary.”

Camille took a sip of her whisky. “Ah, so that’s why you haven’t turned in your story yet.”

“I’m thinking of sitting this one out,” Riley said quietly. “Or maybe writing about shoes or something.”

“Coward,” Camille said with a grim little smile.

Riley knew her boss said it to be inflammatory. To ignite Riley’s competitive spirit, blah blah blah. But the truth was, she’d rather be a coward than exposed.

If anything, whatever was happening with her and Sam made her less sure of a story idea. She couldn’t write about what was going on between them.

Because she didn’t know.

What was she supposed to write about, “Bedroom Rookie Mistakes Sex for Love”?

Her reputation as Manhattan’s sex goddess would be in the toilet.

“What if I did something a little different?” she said in a rush. “Like, I could talk about the friendships I’ve made while talking about sex. You know, like, part of the story behind the headline is my friendships with the girls?”

Camille shook her head as she munched on an ice cube. “Emma beat you to it: ‘How Writing About Love Taught Me About Friendship.’ ”

“Damn it.” Riley tapped her fingernails on the bar top. “Okay, what about something more generic on how helping other women find themselves helped me find myself?”

“Unless you’re talking about mast**bation, it won’t work. You write about sex, Riley. You’ve never once strayed from the topic in all the years you’ve been here.”

In other words, your own omission painted you into this corner.

“I can’t talk about Sam,” Riley said dropping her forehead into her hands.

“So don’t.”

“But you just said—”

“That you should write about sex. But sex ultimately has to be about self before it can be about the other person, right?”

Riley gave Camille a look. “Are you talking about mast**bation again?”

Her boss tapped a maroon fingernail against the back of Riley’s hand. “I’m talking about the difference between being a girl and a woman.”

“Wonderful,” Riley muttered. “Whisky makes her deep.”

“Go ahead and sass,” Camille said. “But I’ve accumulated some wisdom along with the hot flashes and sagging tits. You think that sex is all about the right position and the flexibility?”

“Um …”

“Wrong,” Camille retorted. “It’s about knowing yourself enough to know which positions work for you, and to know that you like your men with a little paunch around the belly, and about leaving the blindfolds and the feathers to the other ladies if you don’t like it.”

Riley looked around desperately. “Is there, like, a safe word I can use to escape this conversation?”

Her boss shrugged. “Hey, not my fault you’re taking tiny sips of that drink.”

Riley lifted the cocktail glass and took a healthy gulp.

“So you’re good on the story, then?” Camille said, gesturing to the bartender for the check.

Riley stared at her, flabbergasted. “How would I be good on the story? I told you what I wanted to write, you said no. Then you started talking about sagging boobs and hot flashes, and I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”

Camille patted her hand as she dropped her corporate card into her billfold. “Sure you do. You’re just pretending you don’t know, because you don’t want to do what you have to do.”

“Which is …”

“You tell him. How you feel.”

Riley nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I kind of knew you were going to say that.”

She tossed back the rest of her drink.

Chapter Twenty-One

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.” Riley leaned forward to turn up the heat that he’d turned down five seconds earlier. His eyes flicked from the road down to his truck’s thermostat, but instead of giving the expected my car, my rules lecture, he merely turned his eyes back to the road with a resigned look.

Riley didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Come to think of it, she wasn’t liking the way he’d been acting the past few days. He wasn’t quite distant. He wasn’t quite grumpy. But he was different.

He was careful. And no matter how much she smiled—no matter how hard she tried to get him to smile—she was desperately afraid that things were shifting in the wrong direction. She sensed he was pushing her away, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

And desperate measures meant going with him to visit her.

“Did you tell your mom I was coming?” Riley asked, turning to stare out the window.

“Nope. Because until you climbed into my car an hour ago, I didn’t know you were coming.”

She turned to look at him. “I told you yesterday I would.”

“And I told you yesterday that I didn’t want you to,” he snapped.

Sam still wouldn’t look at her, but it didn’t take a genius to see he was pissed. His jaw was tight, his knuckles were white, and his tone was curt.

She reached across the car, her hand landing on his upper thigh. “Look, it’ll be good for her to get to know me. In all the years she lived just a couple of streets over, I only met her a handful of times, and—”