Sale Blitz: The Trouble with Love – Lauren Layne

“Emma, a moment?”

Emma looked up from her monitor. She and the other Love & Romance girls had been in their usual pre-lunch “zone.” It was one of the few times of day when they put chatting and gossip aside long enough to get work done.

She pulled off her headphones and looked at Camille. “Um, sure. Now?”

Camille made it a point to meet regularly with all of her senior columnists on a one-on-one basis, but Emma’s scheduled time was Monday afternoon; today was Wednesday. It was never a good sign when their boss went off book.

“It’ll be fast,” Camille said, before her head disappeared from the door.

Emma pulled off the glasses she used when working on the computer and rubbed her eyes. “It won’t be fast. It’s never fast.”

“That’s what she said,” Riley muttered.

“That phrase doesn’t really work in this context, Ri,” Julie said distractedly.

“That phrase always works in any context,” Riley responded.

“Hey, Ems, see if you can get the inside scoop,” Grace said, leaning back in her chair as Emma stood and stretched. “I’m dying to know what the heck this sabbatical is about. Three months?”

“I can’t ask,” Emma said, moving toward the door. “She said it was personal.”

“Right. Which translates to interesting,” Julie said, pulling her hair into a pony.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Emma jabbed a finger toward her laptop. “And don’t touch my edits. I know it was one of you that tried to sneak the word penis into my last headline.”

“Um, yeah. Because you need some penis in your life,” Riley said.

“I’ll have you know that I had some penis in my life . . . last week,” Emma said. “No, last month. Maybe . . .”

Her three friends looked at one another, and although the shared glance was more good-natured than it was poor Emma, it didn’t stop the irritation from rippling through her.

Emma was happy that her friends were all blissed out with their painfully good-looking men. Really. Good for them.

But that didn’t mean they had to lure her into their little club. Emma had tried the happily-ever-after route, and knew that for every woman who rode off into the sunset on a white stallion, another one got kicked in the face by that very same horse.

She’d been there. Done that. Moved on.