“You weren’t wrong in the things you said to her, and the friend in me appreciates it, but that whole shit show was just the tip of the iceberg, and I’m not going to let you stick around and get pulled further in. You matter.”

“You’re breaking up with me because I matter? You know there’s no trophy for that, right?”

Her words were sarcastic and her tone fierce, but then a stupid tear escaped and ruined the whole effect. Sam saw it and his lips tightened before he reached out a finger and gently collected the tear, showing it to her.

“This is why, Riley. There’s one tear now, but the longer this goes on, the more there will be when we end things, and I can’t bear that. It’s time to get real about this.”

There were plenty more tears threatening to follow the first one, but not in front of him.

There’d be time for that later with wine and ice cream and bad movies.

But for now …

Riley clawed at the door handle and shoved the door open.

“Mission accomplished, Sam. I’m leaving. Not because you want me to, but because you’re not even worth fighting for. You’re a coward.”

“Now hold on—”

But Riley wasn’t done. She jabbed her finger at his chest. “You want to get real? Let’s talk about those ROON whisky labels that I know are sitting on your worktable right now. The ones that I watched you painstakingly cut to get just right, so that they’re deserving of the bottles you carefully selected and the whisky that’s pretty damn close to perfect? Who’s going to even see that, Sam?”

He shook his head. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

Riley grabbed her purse and slid out of the truck before turning to face him. “Hey, how’s that fantastic new blend coming along? The one that you said was the best you’ve ever made? Still locked in that cabinet?”

His expression was stormy. “We are not talking about it.”

“Of course not. Bolt that shit up like you have your heart so that nothing ever hurts.”

His eyes remained shadowy as he watched her.

“Putting yourself out there doesn’t have to end badly,” she said, her tone softening slightly.

“Says the woman who didn’t have sex for eight years because she was too afraid of being judged.”

“That’s not why!” Riley exploded. “I didn’t have sex for eight years because of you, you ass! I never let anyone touch me because they weren’t you. Hell, the only reason I ever let Dan touch me was because my heart was broken after you got married.”

His eyes flashed before he turned his head sharply and stared out the windshield.

“Yup!” she muttered, digging her keys out of her bag. “That’s right. Retreat even further into your shell, because this shit’s about to get scary. See, I’ve been halfway in love with you since the day I met you, and I know you looked at me the same way. Felt what I felt. And that day you kissed me at my parents’ house? Then I went and fell all the way in love with you, and I think you fell in love with me too.”

He said nothing.

“But you won’t admit it,” she said more softly. “Because somehow you got it in your head that you’re not worthy of love and you’re too afraid of messing it up.”

“I mess everything up.”

“Oh wah wah,” she said, pretending to rub her eye like a fussy baby. “So you got divorced. It happens. And so you don’t have a good relationship with your mom. She’s bitter, Sam, and she doesn’t want your help. That’s not on you, that’s on her.”

“Hey—”

“And so you quit your cushy job to pursue your dream. That’s a damn admirable thing. You could sell ROON and go be an ostrich farmer, and the only person who would think less of you for it is you.”

“It’s easier for you—”

“It’s not.” She jabbed a finger into his shoulder. “Life’s not easier for any of us. The best we can do is choose to get through it with the right people.”

Breathing hard, Riley took a step back. “I thought you were the right person, but I see I’ve made a mistake.”

For the first time that evening, his eyes lost their defiant, defensive look, and something raw and vulnerable passed across his face.

“Riley, wait. I just …”

She gave a sad smile. “I waited ten tears, Sam. You get one more week.”

He frowned. “One week until what?”

“To figure your shit out.”

“Why a week?” he called after her as she headed toward the door.

“Because that’s when my Stiletto story is due. That’s when I tell the true story about the woman behind the headline. And the true story?” she said quietly. “That definitely involves you. It’s up to you to figure out how.”

Riley slammed the truck door closed and walked away from the only man she’d ever loved.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A week later, Riley had her answer.

Sam wasn’t coming for her.

Did it hurt? Not really. Because Riley knew if she let herself pause for two seconds and think about it, she’d die with the pain. So instead she did what every female over the age of thirteen had learned to do as a coping mechanism. She got mad.

“You’re sure you want me to run this?” Camille asked, in that voice that clearly said you should reconsider.

Riley leaned back in her chair and examined the dark gray manicure she’d gotten at lunch. The color was edgy and a little angry. A lot like her these days.

“Positive,” Riley said. “Print it.”

“Well, at the very least I think we should disguise his name,” Camille said.

Riley frowned. “I did disguise his name. I have journalistic integrity.”

Camille’s eyebrows crept up as she slid her reading glasses on and took a look at Riley’s draft. “Samuel Condon? That will really throw your family off the scent.”

“What? Sam’s real name actually is Sam. Not Samuel. And Condon has three distinct letters from Compton.”

“You’re right,” Camille said, throwing down the story and tossing her glasses on top. “He’s practically in the witness protection program.”

Riley shrugged. “The only people who would figure it out already know.”

“Even your family?”

“Yup.”

Camille’s eyes bugged out. “Oh boy.”

“I told them at dinner last night. It wasn’t so bad, actually. My sisters weren’t even remotely surprised that we’d hooked up. My mother was delighted at first, until she realized things were over and I wasn’t going to have baby Sams. My dad asked if he needed to get his shotgun but then took a nap …”

“And your brother?”

Riley ignored the pang of guilt. “Liam couldn’t make dinner last night.”

“Which was likely why you decided last night would be a good time to spill the beans?”

Riley glanced down at her hands. “I couldn’t do that to Sam. I asked everyone else not to mention it until Sam has a chance to tell Liam himself.”

“You mean Samuel.”

Riley smiled. “Right.”

“Do you think Sam will tell Liam?”

Riley shrugged. “He won’t have a choice. It’s either come clean now or risk Liam figuring it out on his own when he reads my article.”

“What do you think Liam will do?”

Riley gave her boss a look. “Are you fishing for a dramatic follow-up to my piece?”

“Hey, I gave up soap operas this year. Real-life drama is like my patch.”

Riley sighed. “Honestly? I have no idea what Liam will do. I can see him puffing out his chest a little bit. Making some nobody-hurts-my-sister noise—but he’ll settle down. He hates drama.”

“You know, I have to say, when I told you to tell him how you felt, I didn’t think you’d holler it at his mom in a temper tantrum.”

Riley shrugged. “Yeah, well … you said you wanted honesty—the truth behind the story and all that. My truth is messy.”

Camille studied her for a second. “Good girl.” She patted the article. “This is good stuff. Really good.”

“Thanks,” Riley said, caught a little off guard by her boss’s praise. To be honest, she’d thought it would be a hard sell. Stiletto was known for its advice columns, so an article about how not even the best nugget of advice could fix all problems was pushing the envelope.

To say nothing of the fact that her piece trivialized all of her own past articles.

As Julie had pointed out, Riley’s article was “downright depressing, but super badass.”

It was also honest. And heartfelt.

And she didn’t feel even the tiniest bit guilty. Sam had had his week to fix things.

But when day seven came and went without her receiving so much as a text message, the gloves had come off. Not out of revenge, but because she owed it to her readers—owed it to herself, to admit that no matter how hard you tried, no matter how many things you did right, sometimes the fairy-tale ending just wasn’t in the cards.

“We really do need to change his name though,” Camille said in her rarely used gentle voice. The one that meant no arguing.

Riley shrugged. She’d sort of figured that’d be the case. And she probably would have changed it herself before final copy edits, just out of common decency.

Sam couldn’t—shouldn’t—get mad at her for telling the truth, but he probably could get rightfully pissed about outright slander.

“Use whatever name you want,” Riley said with a little wave. “Might I suggest Chickenshit? Or Le Big Baby?”

Her boss smiled. “I’ll let the gals in marketing come up with something generic, but let us know if you think of a backup. Now we just need to come up with a title, and you can put this whole business behind you.”

Riley’s heart gave a little twist. Was Camille nuts? This was simply Riley’s anger stage. Next up would be mourning, and according to Emma, it took at least as long to get over someone as the time you’d known him.

Which was just great. She should be getting over Sam Compton just in time for her fortieth birthday.

And …

Wait. “What’s wrong with the title I suggested?” Riley said.

“It’s boring,” Camille said bluntly. “This is going to be one of our standout pieces on the cover.”

“Really?” Riley said, leaning forward a little in surprise. And maybe dismay. “I figured you’d kind of bury it. You know … a depressing filler piece.”

“Nope,” Camille said, sliding her glasses back on. “We need to show that we’re not afraid to print the hard stuff—the messy side of love. Of course we all want you to find love, and you will, someday, but for now I think it’s brave to talk about the relationships that don’t work.”

“So what are you thinking for a headline?”

“It was actually Grace’s idea,” Camille said. “We had a little brainstorming session yesterday after you left early to satiate your chicken-wings craving.”

Riley half shrugged. She had been sort of eating her feelings. “And?”

“Well … how do you feel about Lady Gaga?”

“Um, cautious?”

“We were thinking: ‘Caught in a Bad Romance.’ ”

She let the title settle over her. Pictured it next to her name. Thought about how it would splatter her heartache and frustration for all to see.

Riley smiled. “I love it.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sam had invited Liam out for drinks to celebrate.

Although, for the first time in Sam’s life, Liam hadn’t been the first person he wanted to call.

But she wasn’t an option.

So Liam it was.

He’d thought about calling his mom. Not first, of course. But after he called Liam, and then the rest of the McKennas minus Riley, he’d considered calling his mother. But he’d kept picturing the bottle of ROON he’d brought her months earlier, still sitting on the shelf where he’d left it, except now with a layer of dust. She hadn’t even tried it. Hell, she hadn’t so much as touched the bottle to look at it.

The hell of it was?

Sam didn’t care. Maybe on some level there was a twinge of regret, but he didn’t care.

Because yes, it was his mother, and Riley was right. She wasn’t a mom. Not a good one anyway. He’d appreciated the leaking roof she’d put over his head, and the stale bread she’d plopped on the counter so he could make his own sandwiches, but the truth was, after he’d turned eighteen, she hadn’t done a single caring thing, out of obligation or otherwise.

So while he’d always be there if she needed anything, and he’d always call on holidays, until she showed some interest—any interest—he was done.

The closure of his relationship with his one living relative should have been painful.

Instead it was … freeing.

His phone buzzed, and Sam glanced down to see a text from Liam. If his friend was surprised by Sam’s choice of bars, it didn’t show in his be there in twenty message, but Sam could imagine Liam was probably puzzled. A swanky gastropub in Tribeca was a far cry from Sam’s usual Brooklyn dive bars.

But then, dive bars in Brooklyn didn’t have the budget or the clientele for ROON whisky.

Payton’s Place, on the other hand, had just purchased a year’s worth of his No BS blend for twice the amount Sam had been hoping to sell it for. He’d come in high, assuming negotiation on their part, but they hadn’t even batted an eye when he’d named his price.

There had been no condescending smirks. No get-real eye rolls, or lectures about respecting the integrity of the Big Names.

Instead, the owner, the general manager, and the bartender had agreed to a tasting. Sam had refused to give any sort of sales pitch, preferring to let the flavors speak for themselves.

They’d tasted.

They’d liked.

They’d bought.

In half an hour, Sam had gone from a going-nowhere loser borrowing off a dwindling 401(k) to a legitimate business owner. Granted, he still had plenty of loans to pay back, and one tiny restaurant did not a business make.

But it was a start.

For the first time in years, Sam felt the unmistakable sensation of pride settle around his shoulders. He’d done it. All on his own, he’d had a vision, acted on the vision, and seen it through.