Page 3 of My Best French Wedding

Hildy would probably volunteer.

His thoughts skidded backward, to the first industry event he’d ever attended. It was Hildy who’d coached him on how to dress, make small talk, and style his hair. Walter felt the phantommemory of her hands tugging lightly as they tamed the mushroom cloud on his head.

“We’re over here, Corinne.” Hildy’s voice snapped Walter back to the present in time to feel her glance slide over him like a raindrop against glass. “Gentlemen,” she said to the table at large before treating them to a view of her departing figure.

The dress dipped almost to her tailbone in back.

She sat down at the next table over, directly in Walter’s line of sight. It was no big deal. He’d seen shoulder blades before—including hers.

“Great posture,” Dean whispered.

“Like a dancer,” Oliver chimed in.

One thing they didn’t teach you in J-school was that reporters were a bunch of pot-stirring gossips.

“I hate all of you,” Walter said.

As the plates were being cleared from dinner, Walter excused himself to stretch his legs. He took his time, doing a full circuit of the lobby. A former boss had encouraged him to take up smoking so he could corner sources when their guard was down, but Walter figured he already had enough self-destructive habits—chief among them the woman who was sitting in his chair when he returned to the banquet hall.

His traitorous tablemates appeared delighted by this development.

“Walter!” Derek beamed at him. “We’re playing a drinking game.”

That explained the flushed cheeks and goofy grins.

“I’m not sure—” Walter broke off when Hildy’s dark eyes dared him to say no.

He was sitting down before he realized he’d made up his mind. As fate would have it, the only empty spot was right next to Hildy.Good thing he was wearing several layers of clothing, or their bare arms might have accidentally brushed. “What are the rules?”

“Choose a buzzword.” Oliver held up a bottle of tequila of unknown origin. Did he travel with his own bar cart? “If they say yours, the rest of the table drinks.”

“What if one of us has to go up there?” Walter angled a thumb at the stage, thinking of Hildy’s deathtrap stilettos, which he had only noticed because of their vivid scarlet hue. As opposed to a prurient interest in her wardrobe.

“Sounds like somebody’s already planning his speech,” Hildy said, not quite under her breath. She touched her collarbone, and Walter’s gaze snagged there before trailing up the column of her neck. No jewelry that he could see, but maybe you didn’t need accessories when your dress was made of starlight.

It occurred to him that he was staring, and the rest of the table was watching him do it. “Things going well at the magazine?” he asked.

“Extremely,” Hildy replied. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“The subscription someone mailed to my home address? It was hard to miss. Once I realized it wasn’t a Restoration Hardware catalogue.”

Hildy’s nostrils flared, though she had to know he was lying through his teeth. Her magazine was as sharp and stylish as its editor in chief.

“Don’t be jealous, Burns. We know we look good. It’s that tactile quality newsprint can’t match.” She skimmed a finger along her silk-clad thigh.

Derek notched an invisible mark in the air, like he was keeping score.

“Forget it,” Corinne stage-whispered. “It’s a permanent stalemate. Minus the mating.”

Walter made a desperate attempt to redirect the conversation. “Working on anything interesting?”

“As opposed to our usual drivel?” She fanned her lashes at him, an expression of innocence that would fool no one who had known her longer than ten minutes, never mind ten years.

“Yes, I was insulting you. Because what I do is so different.”

“Some would say it’s practically identical.” Hildy took a casual sip of wine. “Almost derivative.”

“And yet you’re the one who always seems to be following me.”