“No way, dude,” Beatrice groans, leaning over my balcony and looking down. “That’s just fucking creepy.”

“Stop being such a worrywart, Bea,” I reply, grabbing her by her bra straps and hauling her back up. “I’m on the twelfth floor. It’s not a big deal.”

“Kat, babe, you are one horny, sex-crazed stalker away from a full security breach,” Bea responds as she shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, showing off the tattoos of lilies and roses on her forearms. “Seriously, I bet a guy could just climb from balcony to balcony and be up here in, like, five minutes flat.”

I roll my eyes. Have you ever met someone who’s been studying something for all of two weeks and is suddenly an overnight expert on the subject? That’s my baby sister.

Bea started training as a security guard two weeks ago, and it’s been nonstop with this shit ever since.

“I just think there are more secure places in Chicago, is all,” Bea argues.

“Too late for that, babe.”

I turn to look at my freshly purchased penthouse with pride. “This place is mine—theoretical balcony climbing creepers and all.”

I can’t help but feel a fierce sense of achievement. This is everything I’ve been working so hard for.

While my friends were out partying and taking selfies on Friday nights, I was working with clients and following up on paperwork.

Sure, it didn’t leave a lot of time for things like dating, but who the fuck even cares about that? The whole time-wasting, hook-up scene is all about seeing and being seen, and I’ve never had time for that.

What I do have time for, right now, is enjoying the fruits of my hard labor—and hanging out with my baby sis, of course. I smile at her as I refill our glasses with some very expensive bubbly. I pluck a strawberry off the gourmet platter and offer it to Bea with a wink.

“Can I tempt you?”

“Consider me tempted!” Bea bites into the strawberry and moans in delight. “Oh my God. Amazing! Where did you get these?”

Bea’s a real foodie, so, of course, she wants to hone in on where I’m getting my delicacies these days.

“That deli just down the road. You know, the one that has that hot waiter?”

“The one with the biceps like footballs?”

“That one. And the old guy behind the counter really knows his salami.”

“I’d like to try some salami.” Bea chuckled, sipping the bubbly and munching on a handful of biscuit and cheese.

“Time to break out the hard stuff.” I grin, pulling out a gorgeous bottle of whiskey as we sit down around my glass coffee table. Bea gasps.

“Where did you get that?”

“A gift from my new boss. His favorite, apparently, at like, two grand a bottle.”

“I know, jeez! I’ve been salivating over that stuff since I saw it. I still have that subscription to cocktails.”

Laughing, I crack the seal, pouring two not-so-cautious nips. Bea couldn’t decide if she was a foodie or a bodybuilder. I keep telling her it doesn’t work.

“The important thing, my dear Bea, is to enjoy the spoils. The spoils of war.”

“Not the spoils of love,” she snaps, rolling her eyes as she gulps the whiskey down.

I toss a chocolate-covered strawberry at her, and it bounces off her shoulder and plops onto the mushroom fabric of my designer lounge. I want to gasp, but instead I just burst out laughing.

“There goes five grand!” I announce. I’m laughing so hard, I can’t keep my lying-down position and hold my whiskey at the same time, so I sit up and sip it. “Oh, jeez, this is hard stuff.”

“Yes! Let’s talk about hard stuff!”

I give Bea the look.

“I have limited interest in that kind of hard stuff. In my experience, it’s not that hard.”

She snorts. “Maybe because you scare the fuck out of them,” she adds and bites another strawberry.

Drips of dark chocolate shower over my new lounge. Being rich is proving rather stressful.

I sigh, refilling both Bea’s and my own glass while munching a strawberry over a sip of whiskey.

“Is it my fault that I know what I want?”

“Yes,” Bea answers, looking at me very seriously in the face.

I start giggling at her sage expression, and she giggles, too; but it’s actually not funny. My few short-term boyfriends could not cope with me, and that’s an understatement.

After initially chasing me, they found my breathy demands far too…masculine, apparently. Or perhaps a woman who knows how to get wet and wants to tell her man how to best use his equipment is always seen as a threat to the fragile male ego.

It’s not something I care about anymore.

“Alright, look,” Bea starts as she places her glass on the table and pulls her phone out. “Let’s just have a browse, shall we?”

“Let me guess…you found a shopping website for occupied businesswomen like myself.”

“Yes, actually!” Bea cackles like Grandma. She lumbers around the table and throws an arm around me, pulling me close so we can both look at the tiny screen.

She knows my troubles, of course. Many drunken, chocolate-fueled nights were spent talking about my exes and their failures.

I can’t see the screen, it’s too blurry. I shove my whiskey-soaked sister aside and pull the laptop over.

“Put it in there so I can see.”

“If that’s how you talk to men, I can see the issue.”

“What!?” I exclaim, pounding the lounge with a fist and spilling my whiskey again. “I’m not going to lay quietly and demurely on the mattress and giggle politely as he gets over his fucking Madonna complex! So I know how I want to be fucked. Is that a crime?”

Bea doesn’t answer. She just positions the screen a little closer for me.

“Just check out the man candy, babe, then tell me you don’t want it.”

I sit up, sipping the whiskey again. There are some nice men. Very nice.

I allow myself to engage in the giggling with Bea, letting her lift my mood, thinking about all the good things about having a man. But, still.

To get those good things—if he even had them—you have to make time. Time I so do not have.

It’s a simple matter of weighing potential gain against loss. And, I know exactly what I get back if I put in the time and effort into my career. Love is a risky business, and I don’t take risks like those.

We leave the laptop open as Bea gets up and heads for the door.

“Got training again first thing in the morning.” She sighs. “Now remember, this is a secure building, but you never know—”

“Bea.”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.” I grin. She pulls me over for a quick hug and heads out.

I wander back in, slowly closing the door and moving through my big empty rooms. There’s something sensual about knowing you’re alone, in silence and in luxury. There’s absolutely nothing to hide.

I head into my bedroom, slip off my clothes, and toss them at the end of the bed. I pull out my gorgeous new nightie, glowing pink with lace scrolled across the top. The fabric’s luxurious as I draw it over my skin.

The walk back to the lounge is more than sensual. It isn’t just the air stroking me—it’s the delicious soft, shiny fabric, too.

Something stirs deep inside me.

I make a point of sliding against the lounge as I sit down in front of the laptop again, reaching for the champagne. I take a sip, picking up a dark strawberry.

It’s all so sensual, and suddenly, I’ve got that longing. Not in my heart, but right between my legs. It’s an ache that burns.

I finish my strawberry and scroll down the screen.

This is ridiculous. Men for sale? It must be a scam.

This is a stupid amount of money.

But then it hits me. Like, so what? Why am I making tons of money if I’m not going to enjoy myself?

I grin to myself. I keep scrolling until one face actually turns that ache between my legs into a sharp pain.

Pretty-faced and tousled but nicely tamed hair. Ticks all the right boxes.

He calls himself Will, and suddenly I hear Bea in my mind: Where there’s a Will, there’s a way.

There’s definitely a Will.

There’s something about his eyes.

Fierce. Like a wolf. A hungry wolf.

“Will,” I whisper, thinking how awesome it would be to give this man instructions on how to do me right. “You look like the kind of man who knows how to treat a lady right.”

I’m already fantasizing about those lips on my clit.

I barely know what I’m doing as I make the clicks. I’m swimming in whiskey, champagne, and in my own hot, sweet scent.

Maybe it’s a bad idea.

Maybe it’s a total fucking disaster.

And definitely, absolutely I’m way too drunk to care.

He’s hot, he’s sexy, he’s got the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen…

And as soon as I enter my bank info, he’s mine.

“Good night, Will.” I giggle to myself as I curl up on the lounge.