At seven the following Friday, Brit tucked a bottle of champagne under her arm, tugged off her glove, and knocked on Alex Cassidy’s door.

The door opened to a wave of sound and a gorgeous brunette. Not Cassidy, and not Cassidy’s wife, Emma, either.

This was Riley Compton, the stunning sex columnist from Stiletto magazine. “Brit!” Riley exclaimed happily, pulling her in for a warm hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever. You look fabulous.”

Riley pulled back, her bright blue eyes giving Brit an assessing once-over. “New hair,” she proclaimed.

Brit winced just slightly. “Really new. Like, an-hour-ago new. Be honest, I can take it. What do we think?”

“I’m super good at honest,” Riley declared, “and I love it. Love. It. The light blond suits you.”

Light blond was perhaps an understatement. Brit’s new hair color was pretty darn close to platinum.

She wasn’t sure what had come over her, aside from the fact that she’d felt the need to change something after a decidedly mediocre (and final) date with Ross Alford on Tuesday.

The inspiration had come yesterday when Brit’s cousin posted a picture of the two of them as kids playing naked in a kiddie pool, Bridget Jones–style. Brit had always been blond, but she’d forgotten that she was nearly white-blond as a little girl.

It had darkened as she’d gotten older to a sort of blah light brown, which she lightened every month to a sunny yellow shade. And then she got to thinking . . .

If she was lightening her hair anyway, why not lighten it all the way?

Her stylist had been thrilled with the idea, though she’d nixed Brit’s idea of cutting it. Instead, she’d suggested letting it grow and running a straightener through it to cut down on some of Brit’s natural body (a polite, stylist way of saying poof).

The result was . . . well, startling.

In a good way. Gabrielle, the stylist, had refused to let Brit look in the mirror until she was done with her “magic,” and for a strange split second, Brit hadn’t recognized herself.

In addition to the hair being several shades lighter and smoother than it usually was, her skin had seemed brighter, her eyes bigger. . . . She’d looked—and felt—new. Confident. Not in a crazy major-makeover kind of way, just a subtle shift that said, It’s time to change it up, Robbins.

It didn’t hurt that before coming over to Emma and Cassidy’s party, she’d changed out of her work blouse and into the black top that Hunter had been so fond of during her wardrobe overhaul.

She’d also told herself on the entire ride over that her decision to wear it had nothing to do with the fact that Hunter had been a fan of it.

Or that he’d mostly ignored her all week, other than when work necessitated communication.

“Come in, come in,” Riley was saying. “Emma and Cassidy are around here somewhere, but I don’t think they heard your knock.”

Not a surprise. Cassidy and Emma’s apartment was good-sized by Manhattan standards, but it was packed with people. Mainly the Stiletto and Oxford crews.

Cassidy was Oxford, Emma was Stiletto, and their relationship was sort of legendary. Brit had been delighted to get an invitation to their just because party, because as Cassidy had pointed out, a party was just about the only way to survive January in New York.

Brit put the champagne in the fridge, though it clearly wasn’t needed—yet. The counter was covered in every possible wine, beer, and cocktail option available.

“Riley, who’s your hot friend?” Sam Compton asked, dropping an arm around his wife’s shoulders and winking at Brit.

“Doesn’t she look amazing,” Riley gushed.

“Um, oh my gosh, so amazing.” This from Mollie, Jackson Burke’s girlfriend, a sparkly blonde who was as whip smart as she was cute. “I love it. It completely suits you.”

Brit gave a self-conscious laugh as she shrugged out of her coat. “Thanks.”

She scanned the room for a place to put her coat, and Cassidy walked over, taking it out of her hand and pecking her cheek. “Hey. Nice hair.”

“Nice hair?” Riley said in exasperation. “That is such a guy thing to say.”

Cassidy looked at Sam and Jackson, who’d joined their group. “What the hell did I say wrong?”

Brit patted his arm. “Nothing. Thank you for the compliment.”

“What are you drinking?” he asked. “I can happily volunteer Sam or Nick to make you a cocktail, or I’m pretty decent at pouring wine and opening beer bottles.”

“White wine.” She glanced at the assortment of white wines chilling in an ice bucket. “Surprise me.”

Brit had just accepted the wineglass from Cassidy when she felt a tug on her arm.

It was Julie Greene, Riley’s fellow Stiletto columnist, a bubbly blonde who tended to be the life of every party.

“So glad you’re here,” she said, air-kissing Brit’s cheek. “I’ve been dying for you to meet someone. A guy.”

“Um, what?” Brit asked, feeling a stab of panic.

“I know, I know. Blind setups are the worst, but the second I met him, I knew you guys would hit it off. He works with Mitchell, but I promise he’s not one of the asshole Wall Street types. He’s hilarious, and good-looking, and a total gentleman, and wait until you see his arms. And his jawline, OMG, I could die—”

“I’m confused.” Mitchell Forbes interrupted his wife’s barrage of compliments in his usual dry, unruffled tone. “I could have sworn you were married. To me.”

Julie blew him a flirty kiss, then turned back to Brit. “You are still single, right? If you’re seeing someone I can totally abort my mission.”

Brit thought of Ross and the blah date. Then she thought of Hunter, the way he’d barely looked at her this week.

“Yeah, I’m still single.”

“Excellent.” Julie scanned the crowded room until she found who she was searching for.

Brit took advantage of the moment to take a big sip of wine.

Sexy is a state of mind. Sexy is a state of mind. . . .

Julie pulled her forward again, and a second later Brit was being introduced to the best-looking guy she had ever seen.

“Julie, this is Jon Cook. Jon, Brit Robbins. She works on Cassidy’s team.”

“Cassidy’s the one drinking the pink cocktail?”

“Nope, that’s Lincoln.”

“Ex-football player?” Jon tried again.

“That’s Jackson. Cassidy’s an ex-soccer player.”

“The host,” Brit added, throwing the guy a bone. “Probably the one to offer you a drink?”

“Yes,” he said in relief. “Sorry, everyone’s great, it’s just . . .”

“I know,” Brit said with a laugh. “Trust me, I so know. Sometimes I can’t keep everyone straight. Don’t even get me started on trying to figure out who has kids, who’s pregnant—”

“Who’s pregnant?” Julie demanded.

“Nobody. I don’t think,” Brit said. “Hypothetical.”

“Damn. I’ve finally gotten good at buying baby gifts.”

“Really?” Mitchell said, joining them. “You gave Taylor and Nick a bottle of Sam’s whiskey.”

“That was for them,” she pointed out. “Not the baby. I got the baby . . . Crap. Did I get the baby something?”

“So, Brit, what do you do?” Jon asked, drawing her attention away from Julie’s panicked musing.

“I’m on Oxford’s digital-operations team. I basically figure out how to get all of the various stories and advertisements and images up onto the website at the right time. It sounds boring, but I promise I love it,” she said with a smile. “Julie said you’re on Wall Street?”

He nodded. “Yep. I could give you the really boring details, or we could skip over that part for now and talk about something more interesting. Favorite superhero, desert-island chip, that sort of thing.”

She laughed. “I’ve always had a soft spot for Spider-Man. Scrappy and underrated. As for chip . . . oh man, tough choices. Sour-cream-and-onion potato chips, maybe?”

He winced. “Oooh, I’m sorry. The correct answer was Iron Man and Cool Ranch Doritos.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you that Robert Downey Jr. is delightful, but Iron Man’s backstory is sort of blah.”

“As opposed to Peter Parker, who got bit by a bug?” he said with a smile, stepping closer to her to let someone move past them.

The person passed, but Jon didn’t step away, staying just a little bit closer to her. Intentionally.

Damn, she and Hunter hadn’t gotten to this point in their lesson. They’d done the post-date routine but not the pre-date routine.

Brit smiled up at him, remembering not to flutter her eyelashes, as Hunter had told her she was prone to doing in a bad way. Instead, she took a sip of her wine and held his gaze just a moment longer than necessary.

Jon smiled back.

He said something else. Something about Marvel movies or the Avengers, and Brit nodded along, but her attention wandered as the crowd shifted slightly, and her gaze landed on . . .

Hunter. He was dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt, dark jeans, and was talking to a gorgeous, petite black-haired woman with an hourglass figure, perfect red lipstick application, and her hand resting possessively on Hunter’s arm.

Brit’s stomach dropped, and she sucked in a quick breath of surprise at how much the sight hurt.

That was new. And unwelcome. She’d seen Hunter flirt with hundreds of women. She’d watched him date. Watched him leave a party with a woman on his arm, knowing they’d probably end up in bed.

She’d never thought a thing of it.

She was thinking about it now. Jealousy, pungently bitter, seemed to grab at her.

Hunter was completely absorbed with whatever the woman was saying to him. At least it seemed that way to Brit.

Without warning, his gaze snapped off to Brit. Not searching, as though sensing someone’s gaze on him, but knowing. He knew exactly where she was and, judging from the dark look on his face, exactly who she was talking to.

Scratch and lean, the way you do when you’re not interested, she silently begged him. Do that thing you do when you want an escape route. Give me some indication you want me to come save you from her. . . .

His eyes locked on hers for a long moment before he deliberately shifted his attention to his pretty companion, bending down to whisper something in her ear that made her tilt her head back and laugh, her hand climbing even higher up his arm, practically caressing his biceps.

Brit whirled around to Jon, shocked that in addition to feeling jealous, she felt suspiciously like crying. There was a little anger mingled in there too, though she didn’t know why. She didn’t understand any of this.

“You okay?” Jon asked politely, giving her a concerned look.

“Yeah, sorry,” she said, giving a shake of her head. “Actually, it’s a little warm in here. I think I’m going to grab a glass of water.”

“Sure. I’ll be around,” he said, thankfully not seeming to take her excuse as a brush-off but not overstepping and following her either.

Brit smiled appreciatively and headed to the kitchen, finding a clean glass and helping herself to one of the carafes of what someone had labeled H20 with a sticky note and a Sharpie.

She’d just poured the water when someone stepped behind her, close enough that she could feel him. And she knew it was a male.

She also knew which male it was.

Brit turned around and looked up into her best friend’s face. Only he didn’t seem like her best friend right now. There was none of the calm safety she usually felt around Hunter. Instead, he seemed like someone infinitely more dangerous, and she felt nervous.

And also exhilarated.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

Her gaze flitted across the room to Jon, who was talking with Mitchell. “Actually, Julie introduced me to this guy. I think—”

Hunter interrupted her by grabbing her wrist and pulling her across the apartment, through the crowds of people. He walked past the bathroom and, giving a quick knock on a closed door, opened it and pulled her inside.

Then he shut the door.