SLOANE
The first rule of covering Dalton was simple.
Do not look like you’re going there for him.
That rule started in my bedroom at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon with my closet open, three outfits on the bed, and Riley sitting cross-legged on my rug like a chaotic personal stylist with no license and too many opinions.
“Not the black sweater,” she said, pointing with a mascara wand. “Too date-night. Also not the white blouse because if you spill coffee on yourself, you’ll look like a cautionary tale.”
“It’s a hockey game, not a coronation.”
“Exactly. So dress like a serious journalist who just happens to be devastatingly hot.”
I stared at her.
She grinned. “You know I’m right.”
I went with dark jeans, ankle boots, a fitted charcoal turtleneck, and my camel coat over it all. P
