Love the One You're With (Sex, Love & Stiletto 2)

“And here I thought you and Grace were both my relationship gurus.”

“We are,” Julie agreed quickly. “It’s just that we each have our own expertise. Anything having to do with long-term relationships is Grace’s.”

Camille pursed her lips, painted today in a rather shocking coral. “And how would you describe yourself?”

Julie’s heel jittered beneath the desk in frustration. Camille knew full well what Julie’s expertise was. Everyone at the Stiletto office did. Heck, half the women in Manhattan knew Julie by name. Knew what she stood for. Stiletto was the magazine to work at. The Dating, Love, and Sex department was the department to work in. And Julie, Grace Brighton, and Riley McKenna were Dating, Love, and Sex, respectively.

Julie answered slowly. “I’m all about butterflies, first kiss, getting him to call. You know, dating.”

“Mm-hmm, and how is it that a woman goes from those giddy first few dates to the comfortable, committed stuff that Grace writes about?”

Julie’s mind went blank. There was really no good way to tell the editor in chief of the country’s largest women’s magazine that you’d never bothered to think about what happened after. And sure, maybe some people might think Julie a little insubstantial. But she was willing to bet those same people were perpetually dateless. Or entrenched in yoga pants and movie nights.

“Um, well … I guess it sort of evolves?” Julie replied finally.

“How?”

“With the right person, it just happens. That’s the mystery of what makes true love so special.” Gawd, I almost made myself vomit.

Camille shook her head. “Not good enough. You’ve seen the letters from our readers. They want to know the specifics. These are women who’ve already had the third date. They’ve even been on the seventh. But then what? How do they move forward?”

Julie’s sleeveless Kate Spade turtleneck dress suddenly felt a little tight around her throat.

“If not Grace, Riley could write it,” Julie said, grasping at straws. “You know, I actually think she’s been looking for a way to broaden her focus and take a break from the sex stuff for a while. Can’t you just see it? ‘Outside the Bedroom’ or something like that.”

“Julie,” Camille said with a sigh, “Grace and Riley have their stories figured out for the next few issues. I’ve already okayed them.”

“If you want a schedule of my future story ideas, I’d be happy to—”

“My mind’s made up.”

Okay, so Camille wasn’t going to be persuaded with reason. Time to go for the editor’s soft spot: Stiletto itself.

“I’m not sure this is what’s best for the magazine,” Julie said demurely. “I just don’t have any experience with the … you know … long-term stuff.”

But Camille wasn’t biting. “So? You think every writer in this office has personal experience with everything they write about?”

I do, Julie thought. Or at least I did.

“Julie, look around. What does this look like to you?”

“Um, an office?” More accurately, a high-tech, state-of-the-art, killer corner office with a view of Central Park South.

“Exactly. It’s an office of a magazine company. This is journalism, not your pink fuzzy diary,” Camille snapped. “If you haven’t been there yourself, talk to women who are going through that stage. Do what you always do—dive into our readers’ heads and answer the hard stuff for them.”

Julie bit back a sigh, knowing the battle was lost. Temporarily. Camille was one of those scary women who had made her way to the top of the food chain by having steel ovaries and a penchant for making people cry. Julie had always figured that if they’d made a movie about Camille’s life she’d be played by either a stern Katharine Hepburn type or an intensely scary Robert De Niro on crack. She was about as soft as a hammerhead shark and half as friendly.

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.