Love the One You're With (5 page)

All the shit that would have worked on her at one time. Hell, all the shit that
had
worked on her back when Greg was pulling her into his slimy web.

But Grace 2.0 knew better. Grace 2.0 didn't trust compliments, didn't trust smiles.

Didn't trust men.

She gave a slow smile. She didn't care if Jake Malone was usually the Dalai Lama of dating. There was no way he—or
any
guy—was getting her number. Literally or figuratively.

“Grace, you know you're doing your piranha smile, right? That scary face you do when some guy's about to be emasculated?”

“Don't worry,” Grace said, taking a satisfied sip of her cocktail. “I'm not going to kick his balls, just his dignity. For
Stiletto
's sake, of course.”

“Of course,” Julie muttered. “Because I'm
sure
Jake Malone isn't going to pay the price for Greg Parsons's wandering dick.”

“Hey!” Grace exclaimed, stung. “Is that what you think is happening here? That I'm only
doing this article as a way of getting back at Greg?”

“No,” Julie said carefully. “But I
do
think you're motivated by your pride. You want the world to know that just because you failed to see through one man doesn't mean you'll fail to see through all of them.”

“Is that so bad? Wouldn't you do the same?”

“Probably,” Julie granted. “But—”

“I've found him!” Riley interrupted, triumphantly waggling her phone in their faces.

“Found who?”

“Jake Malone. I thought you'd want to know who you're dealing with.”

“Please. It's not like we're dealing with Cary Grant,” Grace said. But she leaned forward to look at the picture on Riley's phone anyway. Couldn't hurt to be a little prepared.

The cocktail that seconds ago had tasted perfectly balanced turned bitter on her tongue as she took in the perfect male features.

But it wasn't the fact that he was perfect that bothered her. Although he was. Perfect, that is.

It was the fact that he was
familiar
that made her want to puke.

Grace had lied when she said she'd never seen Jake Malone. She
had
seen him. Just not in a professional capacity.

No, Grace's interaction with Jake was more recent.

And more personal.

Jake Malone was none other than the guy from the taxicab that morning.

Her friends were right. She was in trouble, because this
was
a guy who could read women.

But far more alarming … Jake Malone had been able to read
her
.

That wouldn't do. In order to win this thing, she needed to be predictable and mysterious. She needed to throw him off balance at every turn.

In other words, she needed to be everything Grace 1.0 had not been. Sexy. Enigmatic. Magnetic.

“Girls.”

At her serious tone, they both abandoned their discussion about the newest Kate Spade line and gave Grace their full attention like the best friends that they were.

“About this date … I need a new dress.”

Julie clapped her hands together in delight.

“And not my usual fare,” Grace continued. “Something—”

“Tight? Low-cut? Ass-hugging?” Riley asked.

Grace tapped a finger against her lips, picturing Jake Malone's face when she showed up wearing something other than the dowdy corporate uniform he was expecting.

“You know, Ri,” she said slowly, “I'm thinking all of the above.”

Jake Malone liked to think he was an easygoing guy.

He didn't get overly worked up over sports. (Well, except the Packers, but that wasn't a sports team so much as a way of life.)

Jake didn't mind when a woman ordered a salad, low-fat dressing on the side, and then proceeded to polish off his onion rings. He actually thought that was kind of hot.

He didn't even mind crying women. He never understood men who were terrified of a few female tears. Maybe it was a side effect of having four sisters, but Jake wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd never been able to walk away from a woman whose chin was doing that pre-cry wobble.

And the sight of long female lashes spiky with tears made him want to fight the whole world and make it better.

Not that Jake Malone was a softy. No. If he were, he would have capitulated when those same female tears were intended to maneuver him one step closer to the altar. He knew enough to hold a woman when she cried. He also knew enough to walk away when tears turned to anger and manipulation.

But all things considered, Jake was a pretty tolerant guy.

Case in point? He didn't even mind when the company he'd worked for for six years brought in a new editor in chief who was all of eighteen days older than Jake. (Thank you, Google.) Well he didn't mind
much
.

What he
did
mind was said boss issuing orders on what stories Jake should be writing.

Particularly when the story was completely bogus.

“I'm not following,” Jake said, drumming his fingers against his leg in irritation. “If you want to get in good with Camille Bishop, why don't you buy her whatever cigarettes she's always smoking like a damned chimney? Or a case of whatever turbo-strength product keeps her orange hair in place?”

Alex Cassidy leaned back in his cushy chair and folded his fingers over his torso, looking more like the star college soccer player he used to be rather than the high-powered magazine
executive he was now.

It wasn't that Jake wanted Cassidy's position. Editor in chief had never been his goal. Too many politics. Too much ass kissing.

But that didn't mean Jake was content being a run-of-the-mill reporter to be bossed around by Mr. Wunderkind here.

Jake had every intention of
being
somebody.

The trouble was, everyone
else
expected that too.

It all started when his third-grade teacher (probably pleased by the suck-up apple he'd brought her earlier that day) had told his parents he was “as talented as he was driven.”

His parents had already known this, of course. They told him all the time.

They told him when he made the all-star baseball team, when he was top of his reading group, and when he'd been asked to solo in their church's children's choir group.
You're going places, Jakey
.

His teens had been a muddle of varsity sports, student council, honor roll, and prom king. Topped off nicely with the usual yearbook crap: Jake Malone, Most Likely to Succeed.

No pressure.

But he
had
succeeded. At least at first.

He'd graduated at the top of his journalism class from the University of Florida and taken his Hearst Journalism Award Finalist plaque all the way to New York City with every intention of taking the journalism world by storm.

For the first few years, he'd gone out of his way to remain a free agent, preferring the flexibility to write for whomever he wanted, to say nothing of the amazing travel opportunities.

And although he'd never admit it out loud, Jake had loved telling his parents that he was off to Hong Kong or Kiev or Rio almost as much as his parents had loved bragging to their friends about it. Almost.

Jake Malone was indeed going places.

But then he'd taken a local gig, just for a couple of months. It had been weird at first, waking up in the same bed every morning and eating breakfast somewhere other than an airport. But it had been temporary—just long enough for him to really sink his teeth into New York City.

Except it
hadn't
been temporary. The two-month stint had been quickly followed by a six-month gig kissing up to the New York Yankees and attempting to cater to the players'
enormous collective egos.

It had been half a year of documenting hairline finger fractures, reporting multimillion-dollar deals, and trying to find a positive way to spin a dugout brawl over who ate whose sunflower seeds.

It had been the worst kind of journalism. Repetitive, slightly distorted, and completely predictable.

In other words, his nightmare.

To this day, Jake refused to set foot in Yankee Stadium. Not that he'd mention that little quirk in the office. Anti-Yankee sentiment was the worst kind of treachery in the
Oxford
office. Forget about cash Christmas bonuses. It was all about season tickets.

Following the bullshit Yankee gig, Jake had every intention of jumping on the next plane to anywhere, but then he'd met Bill Heiner. Jake hadn't been looking for a mentor, but Bill had the type of personality that sucked people into his vortex.

And Bill's vortex was
Oxford
magazine.

It wasn't that Jake didn't admire
Oxford
—he did. Any magazine that could claim the title of best-selling men's magazine for more than sixty years deserved a nod.

The magazine itself had never been the problem.

It was everything that had come with it. The nine-to-five. The suits. The like-clockwork deadlines. The uptown office building that never changed. Ever.

Ultimately, though, Jake had caved out of loyalty and admiration for Bill. The old editor in chief had been a friend in addition to being a kick-ass mentor. Being a member of Bill's team had been worth the desk job and multiyear lease on his apartment. And it wasn't without perks. The 401(k) and health insurance were handy. And responsible.

And boring.

But Bill was gone now, probably sitting on a beach in Barbados.

And Jake was realizing too late that he didn't want to be just another NYC salaried columnist scrambling up the journalism ladder.

It was time to get back on the
going-places
track. Preferably somewhere that involved a plane ticket. Jake was creeping up on thirty-four, and while he loved New York, he'd been here for over six years.

It was starting to feel a lot like
the rest of his life
.

He wanted to reclaim the
old
Jake. The fly-by-night, who-knows-what's-next kind of guy that all of his friends and family had expected him to become.

He wanted to be the version of himself that his parents could brag about, and he knew exactly how to get there.

After years of Jake's badgering,
Oxford
was finally,
finally
adding a Travel section to the magazine.

Jake was the perfect person to take it on. He was the most senior columnist, had no wife or kids to keep him in New York, and was willing to try anything, eat anything, live anywhere.

He was the best man for the job. He knew it. Bill Heiner had known it.

And then Bill had retired.

Now Jake just had to make sure that newbie Alex Cassidy knew it.

So far, they weren't off to a good start. Cassidy had gotten it into his well-groomed head that Jake would be the perfect candidate to do some fluffy “let's cooperate with the girls” joint article with one of the
Stiletto
women.

Over his dead body.

He loved women. On a personal level. He loved the way a woman's eyes went dark when he pinned her hands above her head. He loved the way no two women applied perfume in the exact same way. He loved the rarity of finding a woman who could make him laugh—
really
laugh—although the numbers on that were low enough to be depressing.

But professionally? He'd already done his time writing the tawdry sex advice and the insipid when-to-let-her-pay-for-dinner bullshit.

“Look, I know you're new in the business …,” Jake started.

Cassidy's gaze sharpened, and Jake quickly reversed. Wrong tactic.

He started over. “I hear what you're saying. I do. Women have always hated
Oxford
, and men hate
Stiletto
. Each side is objectifying the other sex, yada yada.”

Cassidy's eyebrows lifted. “I don't get the sense that you're losing sleep over this.”

“No. Because it's what we do,” Jake said, leaning back in his chair. “I'm not writing for chicks any more than the gals over at
Stiletto
are writing for men. There's no reason to complicate shit.”

Cassidy silently leaned down and pulled an impressive stack of envelopes onto his desk. “See this pile? This is about two hundred reasons why we absolutely need to ‘complicate shit.'
The readers have spoken. The way it's always been isn't working.”

Touché.

Score one for the new guy.

But it didn't mean
Jake
was going to be the one to bend over.

Journalism wasn't about spoon-feeding your readers. Well, okay, sometimes it was. But mostly it was about having grit. It was about good writing, and going with your gut. And Jake's gut told him that pussyfooting around with some short-skirted writer wasn't going to help his resume any.

Jake Malone was a good journalist. A good team player, he was not.

He understood Cassidy's situation. Really, he did. Times were changing, and there were probably a decent number of guys who swiped their girl's magazine off the nightstand for a shitter read. Just like there were plenty of women who probably snuck a peek at their brother's
Oxford
subscription to try to discern what men were “really thinking.”

But the way Jake saw it, both sides were bound to be disappointed.

Men didn't want to hear that putting the toilet seat down was now considered nonnegotiable, any more than women wanted to know that yes, he
does
look at your tits first, and no, he probably
doesn't
actually think you have “great eyes.”

However, Jake recognized the look on Alex Cassidy's face. There was no way he was going to be talked out of his
play-nice-and-write-a-joint-article-with-a-woman
idea.

Jake switched tactics. “Cole should do it.”

“Cole Sharpe doesn't even work here.”

Jake shrugged. “Have you told him that?”