Stiletto Sisterhood

Chapter One

"And?"

"I said basic."

"It's a solid." Caitlin dipped her chin, sunglasses sliding to the tip of her pixie nose. "No pattern. No texture. No fun. Basic."

"Didn't you have anything in black?" Priya sputtered as the cab pushed back onto the street, careening toward her certain demise. "Or navy? Charcoal?"

"What makes you think any of those exist in my wardrobe?"

"Oh my God."

"It's June, Priya, and with your complexion? This color is confident. Striking. This commands attention."

"Cait, this isn't a fashion editorial spread. It's an interview." Head in her hands, Priya groaned. "You had one job. One!"

"Okey dokey." Shrugging, Caitlin reached for the zipper. "Then don't wear it."

"No! Give me the pants . . . I'll make do."

Caitlin removed the trousers from the garment bag and handed them over. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

Kicking off her heels, Priya slipped her feet into the pant legs and delicately shimmied the trousers on, careful to keep her skirt over top. "I went to the soft opening of that new Manhattan bar everyone's talking about. The one owned by that hot artist from Toronto."

"Pathos?"

"Yeah."

"Bitch!" Caitlin tossed Priya a glare sharp enough to kill a man at three paces. "We were supposed to go together when they officially open next month."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, but I got an invite from that guy from Stikemans I went to dinner with last week."

"Greg?"

"No, Matthew."

"Whatever. Stop talking before I shove you out of this cab."

"We'll go there for their brunch event—all-you-can-drink mimosas. My treat, okay?"

Caitlin's scowl softened. Marginally. "Fine."

"Anyway. After inhaling enough tequila to flatline a frat boy, I got an email notifying me that my Monday morning interview was being shifted to Sunday at eight."

"Who sends out emails after midnight? Or requests an interview on a Sunday morning?"

"I'd call her Satan, but that somehow makes her more perfect." Sucking in a breath, Priya grunted. "Oh no. I can't fasten the zipper."

"I tried to warn you."

Twisting in the seat, Priya stretched out as flat as she could manage across Caitlin's lap, but there was nothing. Not even the barest ounce of give. "Why do these pants have no stretch?"

"This isn't off the rack, Priya." Caitlin leveled a baleful glare. "Lycra is tacky, and everything I own is tailored to me, therefore I don't need stretch."

Priya whimpered at the memory of her custom suit, the one that cost an obscene amount of money, pressed and waiting in her mom's apartment clear across town. "What am I going to do?"

"Reschedule?"

"This is Marai Nagao. Her calendar is always packed weeks—months out, even. I can't miss this interview." Especially not when there was a yearlong mentorship on the table. Some of New York's most successful lawyers and judges had been molded like raw clay by her hands. All kinds of doors blown open. "Might as well kiss my entire future good-bye."

Priya had already gone through three separate interview stages just to get this far. First with HR and then two more with senior partners. Nothing—nothing—was going to derail Priya from this moment. Not a brutal hangover or lost panties.