Across the River of Yesterday (21 page)

After getting her laptop and returning to the bar, she loaded the pictures from her camera as she got a fork and napkin. She sat down at the bar, food and laptop in front of her. She had taken over 3,000 shots of the Assassins which meant she had lots of work ahead of her. She inhaled her frozen pasta meal. She realized she was hungrier than she thought as she looked over the pictures. They were good shots, really good. Only a few were crappy. But with Photoshop, she could fix them with no problem.

As she went from picture to picture, Elli kept going back to Shea Adler’s pictures. Gosh, he was so stinking gorgeous. He had the most amazing eyes she’d ever seen. They were such a dazzling shade of blue: so bright, and so happy. He probably had a beautiful girlfriend, a dog and a nine bedroom house with all the fixings. He just looked like he was happy. When she came to the pictures of him in the suit, he took her breath away. The suit was black, with a purple vest underneath. The hockey stick that he held was so slick looking. But you really didn’t look at the stick or the suit, you looked at his eyes.

Good golly, they were mesmerizing.

Not that Elli would admit this to anyone, but while she worked that night, she kept flipping back to the pictures of Shea, looking at his beautiful eyes, his hard body. She wished that she was the girlfriend at his house waiting for him to get home so they could sit on the couch, cuddling as they watched highlights from the games that night, while Adler lay beside them.

Elli smiled at the thought, and then rolled her eyes.

As if that would ever happen.

“Not only did I run into the goal, but the wall too!”

Shea Adler sat with the side of his face in his hand. His glasses were crooked but he didn’t care. He was beyond embarrassed about what had happened at the Assassins’ photo shoot earlier that day.

“I can’t stand it when I get new contacts. They affect my eyes all to hell. God, it was so embarrassing, Grace. So embarrassing.”

His twin sister laughed on the other end of the phone as Shea rolled his eyes, dropping his hand from his face to get up for a drink of water.

“I don’t know why you’re so embarrassed, Shea. It was only the guys.”

“And the staff!”

“Okay, and the staff. So what?”

“And the photo people!”

“So? You’re never embarrassed about anything. What aren’t you telling me?”

Shea didn’t say anything. He wasn’t telling Grace about the beautiful brunette with the biggest and brightest green eyes he had ever seen. She had the kind of eyes that took his breath away when he looked into them; something that had never happened to him before.

“Who is she?” Grace asked with a knowing voice, “Hopefully not some dumb blonde bimbo who will suck you dry.”

“Hey, no one has sucked me dry!” Shea said defensively.

“They tried.”

“Now you know that’s not true. I won’t even let them close enough to suck me dry.”

“Whatever. You bought the last chick, Marie, a diamond necklace!”

“Because I unknowingly slept with her sister. I felt bad and since I had no intentions on starting anything with her, it was a sorry present before I stopped talking to her.”

“Oh, yeah. Well she should have told you anyway, so who is this new girl?”

“How do you know it’s a woman?”

“Because, like I said, you don’t get embarrassed. So shut up and tell me.”

“I don’t know who she is. She was the photographer today.”

“Okay, and?”

“And she was beautiful.”

“Did you ask her out?”

“No, she is kind of different,” he said sheepishly.

“What the hell, Shea? You are not making sense. Who am I talking to?” she said teasingly, “This isn’t my brother, big scary Captain Adler, because my brother’s motto is ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ ”

Shea let out a booming laugh, which caused her to laugh.

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. She was shy, cute.”

“Hmm, sounds like a winner in my book,” Grace said.

“Maybe.”

“So, anyway, the party for this weekend is almost done, planning-wise.”

“Great!”

“I’m excited. The guys are gonna have a ball.”

“That’s why I hired the best party planner in Nashville.”

Grace giggled and went on with the details, as Shea stood in his stainless steel kitchen. Grace had decorated the whole condo for him when they came to Nashville four years ago. He had just gotten traded to the Assassins from the Flyers and couldn’t be happier to be moved to a team that was going to pay a hell of a lot more than the Flyers ever did. Plus, Grace
had hated Philadelphia. Probably as much as Shea did. Luckily, they both loved Nashville since Grace would never go anywhere without Shea, and he wouldn’t go anywhere without her.

The joy of being twins!

Grace had helped pick out the condo, and even lived with him for a while to finish decorating, before looking for her own. Then she met James Justice. After only being together for a couple of months, she got pregnant. Now Grace lived ten minutes from Shea in a beautiful 1.2 million dollar house, blissfully married, with two of the greatest kids in the world, Ryan and Amelia, while running the biggest party planning business in Nashville. Shea couldn’t be happier for her, but he always got nervous at the thought that one day he might be leaving her, if he got traded again.

“Does that sound okay?” Grace asked, bringing him back to the conversation.

“Of course. Do you have a photographer?” Shea found himself asking. Grace started laughing.

“No, you never said you wanted one.”

“Well, maybe it would be a good idea. With all the new players and their families, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Do you have a certain photographer in mind, Shea?”

“Oh hush, and get her.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know, but find her and get her. Offer her a price she can’t refuse.”

“You have no idea what her name is?”

“I think I heard Elli, but I’m not sure. Call Melody, she would know.”

“Fine. I’ve got three days to find this chick. Jeez, Shea.”

“I love you, Gracey,” he cooed. She laughed.

“I love you, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He hung up his phone, tucking it into his pocket with a grin on his face. He went to his fridge, smiling at his niece and nephew’s pictures before opening it to get a beer. He popped the top as he walked to the dimly lit living room. He sat down on his leather couch and turned on the TV to catch some of the highlights before turning in for the night. He had an early practice in the morning. Plus, he was volunteering with the team tomorrow afternoon over at Vanderbilt’s Children’s hospital.

As Shea drank his beer, he found himself grinning. If Grace came through, he would be seeing the beautiful photographer by this weekend.

And this time
,
he would conquer.

Read on for an excerpt from Lauren Layne’s

After the Kiss

Julie Greene had built a career out of falling in love. Staying in love? Not so much.

Julie’s boss apparently hadn’t gotten the memo.

“I’m confused,” Julie said slowly, leaning forward with a placating smile. “You want me to write what?”

Translation:
You’re
confused. I don’t write that shit.

Camille Bishop leaned back in her chair and studied Julie with puzzled eyes. “I’d have thought you’d be jumping at the chance to have such a simple assignment after last month.”

Julie pursed her lips together and considered. Last month’s assignment
had
been exhausting. Documenting the seven kinds of first kisses had required a lot of research.

Pleasant
research.

But this? A two-page spread, to be called “How to Take Relationships to the Next Level”?

What was Camille thinking? This was
Stiletto
magazine, not Dr. Phil.
Stiletto
was sex and high heels, not companionship and freaking clogs.

The rocky post-honeymoon period just wasn’t Julie’s scene. Which is not to say she didn’t have plenty of other skills.

The first date? She had men begging for it.

The first kiss? An art form she’d long since mastered.

The first time you lost your panties in his sheets? Soooo not a problem.

This wasn’t to say that Julie had perfected only the major, most obvious dating milestones, however. She also knew how to finesse the subtler moments—those key moments where the breath caught and you thought,
Yes
,
this.
Julie could explain every single nuance, from the toe-curling euphoria when his hand brushed yours to the tingle when eyes held for just a beat too long. And then there was her personal favorite moment: the bone-deep satisfaction when you made him laugh for the first time—a
real
laugh.

Most women thought these moments just happened. Julie Greene knew better. These moments were created.

As for what happened
after
all that good stuff?

Julie couldn’t care less. She had no need for the first fight, no desire to meet the parents. No interest in finding dirty boxers in her hamper or making room in her bathroom for a man’s razor. That was all a one-way trip to Julie’s personal vision of hell: couples movie night.

Julie had found that the women of New York City erroneously used movie night as a
yardstick of how close to the altar he was. After all, if he was satisfied to spend a Friday night at home instead of at a strip club, he must be whipped, right?

Wrong. So wrong.

Movie night was just another way of saying that you didn’t want to bother dressing up for him and that he didn’t care. Julie lived in fear of the moment when fancy dinners and cocktail parties would be a thing of the past, and the highlight of the weekend would be lounging in yoga pants and watching car chases or beautiful people making out on-screen.

The sexiest part of
that
scenario was the butter on the popcorn.

She shuddered. Julie Greene didn’t
do
movie night.

“Camille, look,” she tried again. “It’s not that I don’t respect your suggestions …”

“Oh?” Camille tilted her head, making her chemically straightened bob sway ever so slightly, and Julie froze. Over the years, Julie had come to think of Camille’s usually immobile hair as her “tell”—when it moved, someone’s life was about to get really messy.

Up until now, it had never been Julie’s life.

In the six years that she’d been working for Camille as a full-time columnist, this was the first time Julie had received a direct order on a story topic. Even when Julie had been fresh out of college with nothing but a handful of internships under her belt, Camille had given her wide latitude on what to write about.

Julie knew that Camille trusted her judgment. So what was with the sudden power trip?

It didn’t make sense. Julie was one of
Stiletto
’s best columnists, and they both knew it. And Camille had always encouraged her writers to play to their strengths. Julie’s niche was the single readers with the dream of falling in love. After that, they were on their own.

Julie sat up straighter. Wait, no. That wasn’t entirely true. Readers
did
have someplace to go once they got past the fun part of dating.

Grace Brighton.

“Why not have Grace do it?” Julie asked excitedly. “She’s your relationship guru.”

“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.

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.