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The Fling
Stefanie London
They’re polar opposites… …which only makes him more irresistible! I swore off romance after my ex broke my heart, so I’m not thrilled to be home for my twin sister’s wedding. Thank god for the delicious distraction next door: the anonymous ‘Mr Suit’. After spending a sinful night with him, I discover my no-strings neighbor is the best man. We’re complete opposites, but the chemistry between us is scorching hot…as long as no one gets burned.


From USA TODAY bestselling author Stefanie London comes the second book in her scorching-hot miniseries Close Quarters! Drew Richardson discovers she’s been having a racy affair with the best man at her sister’s wedding... Will their irresistible chemistry turn into something deeper?
I swore off romance after my ex broke my heart, so I’m not thrilled to be back home performing maid-of-honor duties for my twin sister. Her bridesmaids want everything to be capital P Perfect, and the best man, Flynn Lewis, is a giant pain in the ass—if his emails are anything to go by. Thank God for the delicious distraction next door: the anonymous “Mr. Suit.”
My nameless neighbor is utterly gorgeous and oh-so-serious. After a racy night of passion at his place, the truth comes out. “Mr. Suit” and Flynn Lewis are one and the same. Flynn wants a woman who’s as serious as he is—someone who wants to stay in Melbourne. But I’m happiest heading off on another adventure. We might be complete opposites, but the chemistry between us is red-hot...as long as no one gets burned.
Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.
Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!
STEFANIE LONDON is the USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary romances and romantic comedies.
After sneaking several English lit subjects into her “very practical” business degree, Stefanie worked in the corporate world. But it wasn’t long before she became bored of writing emails for executives and turned her attention to romance fiction. Stefanie’s books have been called “genuinely entertaining and memorable” by Booklist, and her writing praised as “elegant, descriptive and delectable” by RT Book Reviews.
Originally from Australia, she now lives in Toronto with her very own hero and is currently in the process of doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges in her passions for good coffee, lipstick, romance novels and anything zombie related. For more information on Stefanie and her books, check out her website at stefanie-london.com (http://stefanie-london.com).
Also by Stefanie London (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Melbourne After Dark
Unmasked
Hard Deal
Close Quarters
Faking It
The Fling
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Fling
Stefanie London


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-09926-4
THE FLING
© 2020 Stefanie Little
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

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To all the siblings, take care of one another
Contents
Cover (#u773987da-ea07-533c-88f8-2c4502114aa8)
Back Cover Text (#u0a551da1-1d40-5de9-b20c-779549ee8e8c)
About the Author (#ua68beab3-c048-5952-a918-530ba7a621c3)
Booklist (#ubc49851e-d407-5de7-9fe1-3785ad264d33)
Title Page (#u6922f052-2638-5f61-a601-f41bc1759848)
Copyright (#u0cf209c2-5c65-5173-a6ec-8dcc2f6b649f)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#ucd64e231-264e-5da9-ae0d-097f29b1a156)
CHAPTER ONE (#u307dd604-0b69-5112-bfdf-2ff003eb7664)
CHAPTER TWO (#u443a411a-bb16-57e5-b0f1-353a5ef4894c)
CHAPTER THREE (#u9b2897ee-d341-5431-8486-a8c2f68e877f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u38445b85-d1ee-58b7-91ca-a1464831a679)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u6e583d1a-4930-5671-bf03-fa20a7c7c86a)
CHAPTER SIX (#u194d2eb1-1776-51f8-9f2c-4173d447d009)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-One (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Drew
“WAIT, YOU’RE SERIOUS about having a rehearsal for the hen’s night?” I stare at my sister’s bridesmaids, each more tanned and manicured than the last. Annaleigh, Sherilee and...crap, what was the third one’s name again? I’ll call her Merrily in my head until I have a chance to ask my sister.
Not that there’s anything merry about her, mind you. She’s staring at me like I’m patient zero. Is it my fishnets? Maybe it’s the fact that I was a little heavy-handed with the eyeliner today and ended up looking less Brigitte Bardot and more stripper-at-the-end-of-a-long-shift.
“Yes. We’re very serious about having a rehearsal for the hen’s night.” Annaleigh exchanges a look with the other two, as though mentally questioning how my twin sister and I share DNA.
Thankfully, Presley isn’t here tonight.
I swear I’d intended to play nice. My twin and I might be chalk and cheese, as my mum always likes to say, but I love Presley. I really do...just not her taste in clothing, men, food, music, home decor or life interests.
Nor her taste in friends, either, it seems.
“This wedding is going to be perfect.” Sherilee tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, revealing a winking stone that’s so big it must be putting strain on her earlobe. It pales in comparison to the one on her finger, however. “Capital P Perfect. That means every event before the wedding will be perfect, too. The bridal shower, the kitchen tea, the dress fittings, the makeup and hair trials, the rehearsal dinner, the Jack and Jill party and the hen’s night.”
“The Jack and what?” My head is spinning.
“The Jack and Jill party.” Merrily sighs as if she thinks I’m a small, dumb animal. “It’s a combined hen’s and buck’s party.”
“In additional to the actual hen’s and buck’s party?”
“Yes,” all three of them say at once with identical, exasperated tones.
“And you’re organising it, along with the best man,” Annaleigh says. “I’ve passed on your email address, so you should hear from him soon. All the events have been divided up. You’ve got the Jack and Jill, and the presentation for the rehearsal dinner. I’ve got...”
Oh, boy. I’ve already tuned out the droning list of tasks that lie ahead of me.
I look longingly at my beer, which sits untouched, condensation gathering on the glass, next to three flutes of prosecco. I feel like being the first to reach for the booze will be seen as a sign of weakness, like flinching in a fight. But man, I could use a drink right now.
I picture my sister’s sweet face, with her silvery-blue eyes so similar to mine—sans stripper makeup, of course—and tell myself to get my shit together. Do it for Presley! I’m an adult and I deal with snotty people all the time at work. I’m a flight attendant, after all. I can totally manage this.
When Annaleigh pauses to take a breath, I put on my brightest smile. It doesn’t crack any of the icy facades in front of me. “How do you all know Presley?”
“We work together,” Merrily replies.
“Oh, right.” I nod. Finally, something I know. “At the Wentworth Department Store.”
“Head office,” Sherilee adds. “I’m in the communications team, Annaleigh works with Presley in training and Pauline is in recruitment.”
Pauline. I make a mental note to remember Merrily’s real name this time.
“Sounds fun,” I say benignly. There’s a beat of silence and I shift in my seat.
“Presley told us that you go by your middle name, right?” Annaleigh asks, as though she’s trying to keep the conversation from stalling completely. “We’re having T-shirts printed for the hen’s night. Would you prefer Melanie or Drew?”
“Drew.”
Melanie might be the name on my birth certificate and passport, but I’ve always been Drew to my family and friends. I got my middle name from my Uncle Andrew. It’s a weird quirk of our family. Presley is the same; her real first name is Anne, but no one calls her that.
“Why don’t you use your real name?” Pauline asks.
I shrug. “It’s kind of...basic.”
She frowns. “My sister’s name is Melanie.”
An awkward silence descends over the group, burrowing under my skin. But the moment Sherilee opens her mouth and begins to discuss the best type of napkin origami for rehearsal dinner table settings, I question my stance on silence.
An hour later, things have not improved. I’m learning that weddings are serious business, with Google spreadsheets and accountabilities and brainstorming sessions and rehearsals and dress rehearsals. I wouldn’t be shocked if one of them asked me to set a SMART goal for how I want the wedding to go.
And it’s not even my damn wedding!
Better live vicariously while you can, Little Miss Not-Marriage-Material.
I shake off my snarky inner voice and concentrate on my second beer. Not only did I cave and reach for my drink before any of them even glanced at their prosecco, but I’m currently entering the stage of the evening where my verbal filter clocks out.
And unfiltered Drew is not for the faint of heart.
“So, games for the hen’s night. We’re thinking something fun, like a quiz on how well we know Presley.” Pauline taps a Montblanc pen against her chin. “Maybe some wedding-related trivia.”
“And pass the parcel.” Annaleigh claps her hands together. “We could include fun wedding things, like a garter and a pen for signing the guest book.”
“Or condoms.” The comment slips out before I can check in with my brain. See? Unfiltered. “You know, for the...wedding night.”
Sherilee laughs awkwardly and moves her pen as if she’s writing it down, but I can see that no ink is being wasted on my suggestion.
“I saw this cute take on pin the tail on the donkey,” Pauline says. “But you had to pin the kiss marks on a picture of Ryan Gosling. Fun, right?”
This suggestion is met with a round of appreciative oohs. I went to a hen party once where we had to pin something on a poster of a hot, half-naked guy...and it wasn’t a kiss. But I get the impression that games involving photorealistic male appendages also wouldn’t make the cut for Presley’s capital P Perfect hen’s night.
Stop snarking. Now.
“What about a goodbye singleton treasure hunt?” I suggest. “A friend of mine did that last year and it was really fun.”
“Sounds interesting.” Annaleigh drums her nails against the tabletop. “How does it work?”
“It’s kind of like The Amazing Race but for all the things you would do when you were single. You get a point for each item—get a guy’s phone number, dance on a table, do a shot with a dirty name.”
“Actually, that sounds super fun.” Annaleigh looks at me, surprised.
Phew. Maybe I won’t disappoint Presley after all.
“We could have a scaling point system. The more difficult the item, the higher the point value. And we could have tie-breaker activities in case two people have the same amount of points.” Sherilee’s eyes widen. “I’ll make a spreadsheet.”
I decide it’s a good idea to end on a high note. I’ve provided one useful suggestion—which did get written down, thank you very much—so that means I can now make a graceful-ish exit. Well, as graceful as is possible after a couple of beers while wearing platforms.
“Ladies, as much as I am thoroughly enjoying myself right now, I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” I announce. “Can we wrap this up?”
“Sure.” Annaleigh looks as relieved as I feel. “Sherilee is our resident note taker, so she’ll send the minutes out. If you could review them and respond within twenty-four hours, that would be great.”
I nod, swallowing my growing desire to murder my sister. “Absolutely. I will definitely read every single word. Even the footnotes.”
At this, Sherilee perks up. “Usually nobody reads my footnotes.”
Sarcasm is a foreign language, I see. Lord help me. I down the remainder of my beer and rest the empty pint glass on the bar with a thunk. “Happy to be the first.”
“And the best man will email you tomorrow,” Annaleigh reminds me. “If you don’t hear from him, let me know.”
I climb down from my bar stool and bid them a good night. The bar’s clientele mirrors my sister’s friends—suits and pencil skirts, perfectly highlighted hair. Pearls, diamonds, Louboutins. Presley would fit right in. I decide to text her as I walk.
DREW: I love you more than anyone else on earth.
PRES: Wow. That bad, huh?
DREW: Where do you find these people?
PRES: They’re my friends, D. Be nice. I know they’re a little intense.
DREW: Ya think?
PRES: They mean well.
Debatable. I got some hella strong Regina George vibes tonight, but I vowed I would not let my personal shit interfere with my sister’s big day. That means no snarking at her friends.
DREW: How long til this is all over? ;)
PRES: Three weeks. And trust me, I want this done as much as you do.
Unlikely, but I’ll let her have it. I might look like the lovechild of Debbie Harry and Wednesday Addams, but inside I’m a big ball of mush when it comes to my sister. Nothing will get between us. Not even email minutes with footnotes.
PRES: And don’t do that thing where you shut everyone out before they have a chance to get to know you. You might make a friend!
Three hearts punctuate my sister’s text. If ever there was physical evidence of the difference between us, this is it. Shaking my head, I continue down Clarendon Street toward my temporary residence in South Melbourne. 21 Love Street is the most ridiculous name for an apartment building, even one as swanky as this. But I’m grateful to have the cushy place to stay until the wedding is over.
And truthfully, the people here do seem nice. It’s been so long since I lived in Melbourne that I don’t have many contacts in this city—and the one friend I do have is away and letting me crash in her apartment. My friends are scattered all over the world, a product of working as a flight attendant all my adult life. Do a stint in Dubai and another in Singapore and one more in London and you’ll end up with a globally fragmented social circle.
But that suits me fine. I make do wherever I go, and my colleagues are always up for some fun when they’re in town.
I enter the building, marvelling as I usually do at the foyer’s softly glowing chandelier that manages to somehow not be tacky. A couple of velvet chairs are dotted around and some pretty art hangs on the main wall.
Capital P Perfect!
I stifle a laugh and head to the elevators. The concierge desk is empty, with a sign stating they’re currently “on patrol.” That’s been happening a lot ever since they found out a crime ring was operating out of this building last week. Yeah, that happened. Doesn’t bother me, though. I enjoy a little excitement in my life.
I tap my foot, waiting while the elevator does its thing. But it’s taking forever. Five minutes pass. Then ten. The concierge still hasn’t returned to his post. Grumbling, I head toward the service stairwell and start making my way up.

CHAPTER TWO (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Flynn
“FLYNN ANDREW LEWIS, what are you still doing here?”
I drag my eyes up from my screen to look at my assistant, Francis, standing in the doorway to my office—arms folded, lips pursed. She’s the only person who can get away with using my full name because she’s also the only assistant who’s lasted more than five minutes working for me.
Still, I won’t let her get too big for her boots.
“How do you do that?” I wave my pen in her direction.
“What?”
“Channel my mother so effectively.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you calling me old?”
The ironic thing is that if my mother were still alive, she would actually be younger than Francis by a good decade. And while I might be known as “that jerk in the navy suit” to most people who work in this industry, even I know not to call a woman old.
“I would say more...draconian.” This gets the result I predict—intensified lip pursing.
“It’s nine p.m.”
“I know how to tell the time.” I turn back to my screen, trying to make the numbers spin a different story. It’s futile, but still more productive than looking at my inbox—which resembles the aftermath of a toddler toy-flinging rampage.
“Flynn.” This time my name is softer.
I know she means business when she talks like that—because to everybody else in this company Francis is a stony-faced, rule-spouting gatekeeper. She’s all: you shall not pass. It’s why she’s so good at her job. But I know she’s actually a lovely woman with a heart of gold—a fact she prefers to keep hidden.
Generally, I prefer it when she keeps it hidden, too.
“You haven’t left this place before midnight in over a month. It’s not healthy.” She sighs. “I know you care about these trials. I do, too. Everybody does.”
My niece, Zoe, stares at me from a photo on the side of my desk. She’s like a laser burning into my skin, reminding me over and over. Pushing me. Driving me to stay one more hour. “Then we have to keep working.”
“If you don’t start taking care of yourself, I’m going to walk in here one day and find you dead on your desk from a heart attack.” When I don’t take my eyes off my screen, she claps. The sound is a bullet through the room.
“Did you just clap at me?” I gape. “You know I sign off on your bonus, right?”
She folds her arms. “Trust me, I don’t work solely for the money.”
“Then why am I paying you more than most people here?”
“Because you’re trying to convince me not to retire so you don’t have to churn through twenty more assistants before you find another one who will put up with you.”
Damn, she got me there. “I did not enjoy that.”
“Neither did they, I’m betting.” Her face is full of concern. “It’s one night. You won’t solve the world’s problems today. Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.”
I want to tell her that I don’t own a television, just to wind her up...but I feel like she might explode from frustration. And she’s right, I don’t want her to retire. Not yet.
“If you don’t leave now, I’m going to shred every document in the office and then set it all on fire.” She stares pointedly at me.
“You know our servers have a triple-redundancy that backs up to a secure off-site location, right?” I can’t keep my face straight and she shakes her head at me. “See, you’re doing it again. Better stop or I’ll start calling you Mum.”
“Get. Out. Of. Here. Right. Now.” She punctuates each word with a clap.
“All right, all right.” I shove my chair back and smooth my hands down the front of my suit pants. “No need for the aural abuse.”
Francis watches as I grab my trench coat and look longing at my laptop—my inbox exploded past two thousand emails earlier this afternoon and I could use a night of digital filing.
If only Mum could see you now.
My mother, who believed wholeheartedly that life was a party, would be appalled by my lack of social life.
Good.
Besides, I go to charity balls and cocktail parties on the regular—it’s part and parcel of being a CEO. Though I have to admit, even when I’m there in body, my mind is always on work. The picture of my niece continues to watch me from the desk and I make her a silent promise, as I do every day, that I will help her.
“Come on, out with you.” Francis herds me into the common area, which is mostly empty. I spy my head of IT bent over someone’s desk and the CFO talking on his phone. I have a great team—built from scratch with my own bare hands. I’ve met a lot of top dogs who surround themselves with sycophants, but I always promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I want people who are renowned in their fields. People who challenge me.
Maybe not as much as Francis challenges me, mind you.
On the way down on the elevator, my mind spins.
Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.
Is that what normal people do? I can’t remember the last time I did anything in my apartment that wasn’t changing my clothes, sleeping or taking a shower. It’s basically a hotel room at this point. I don’t eat there. I don’t entertain. The closest thing I get to free time is the hour I spend at the gym every morning running on the treadmill and lifting weights while I listen to the notes that Francis voice-recorded the evening before.
I live for my job.
How many people can say that? I threw in a seven-figure salary as the youngest equity partner with a boutique consulting agency to start my own company. A company with a purpose that is more than raking in zeroes. I wanted to do something important with my life, not be another thoughtless corporate drone whose only care in the world is whether to holiday in Europe or the Maldives.
My frustration builds as I walk the short block to my apartment. Francis can get on her high horse about the way I live my life, but I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. And that’s not being some money-chasing egomaniac like my mother, a woman who was only ever capable of giving a shit about herself.
I enter my apartment building, trying to shrug off the bad memories along with my coat. A night without the distraction of filing emails seems like a daunting task. Quiet moments are the worst. Maybe that’s another reason working 24/7 appeals to me—easier to avoid the stuff I don’t want to deal with.
“Mr. Lewis.” The concierge waves me over as I enter. The poor man looks like he’s run through a tornado—his tie is skewed, his hair mussed. “We’ve had some issues with the elevators today, but they’re working now. Just wanted to let you know in case they take a bit longer than normal while we get everyone up to their apartments.”
I nod and continue on. I don’t know my neighbours. Hell, I couldn’t even tell you who lived next door. I’m not one of those people who feels the need for community connection. Nor do I want to attend the various social events the building puts on for its residents. Frankly, if I had to stand around making small talk with people I don’t know or care about, then I’d rather be doing it where I might find an investor for my business.
When the elevator arrives, it’s crammed. So, I wait for the next one. It’s not like I’ve got to rush upstairs for anything, after all. My cupboards are spartan, and my fridge is worse. The only thing ingestible in the whole place is the protein powder I take after my morning workout and a bottle of cognac my brother gave me for Christmas.
Not exactly the ingredients for an enticing dinner.
When I reach my floor, I step into the hallway and approach my apartment with an increasing sense of dread. This is ridiculous. It’s the same damn place I come home to every night. But now it’s ominous, like something I’ve built up to mammoth proportions. A representation of how little my life contains.
“Hello?”
A voice startles me and I turn, my gaze swinging across the empty hallway. There’s not a soul around. Great. Now on top of this unwanted and unappreciated trip down “existential crisis” lane, I’m losing my mind, too. Francis is going to pay for this tomorrow.
“Is someone there?” A loud thump draws my eyes to the service stairwell. “Hello? I need help.”
The voice is definitely female, but I don’t recognise it. I pull on the door. It’s locked. That’s when I notice an electronic keypad flashing: Error. Enter code.
“The door is locked,” I say.
“No shit,” the voice snaps. “Why else would I be in here?”
“Self-reflection?” The comeback slips out before I can think better of it.
“You’re a regular smartass, aren’t you?”
I’m tempted to leave the woman in the stairwell. It’s not my problem and I’ve had enough abuse for one day. But the second I start to walk away, my conscience kicks in and I almost growl in frustration. I can’t leave a person stranded.
“Hello?” she tries again.
“I’m still here.”
“Look, buddy. I’ve had the day from hell and all I want is to get into my apartment so I can faceplant in a tub of ice cream and eat my emotions. Think you can help me out?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Try really hard.”
Shaking my head, I bend down to look more closely at the keypad. It has a thin layer of plastic covering it and I notice some dust and paint shavings on the floor. Then everything clicks into place—I’d bet my last ten bucks they installed these things today and blew a fuse while testing them out. That probably tripped the security system and shut the elevators down.
Which could mean... I punch 1234 into the electronic pad and the screen flashes once, twice and then displays the word: open. Yep, they haven’t set up the passcodes yet.
I yank the door open. For a moment, my brain stutters like a lawnmower failing to start. The woman in the stairwell looks like she’s stepped out of my wildest, dirtiest fantasies—endless legs in fishnet stockings, waist-length hair that’s so pale it’s almost white, and a leather miniskirt and lace-up boots. Not to mention the black eyeliner that rims her eyes, making the silvery-blue irises seem otherworldly.
Looking at her is like being shocked with jumper cables.
I have definitely not seen her around before. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of how long it’s been since I was with someone. Every woman I’ve dated has been a strategic decision, because I don’t waste time with short-term flings and one-night stands. I only do what gets me closer to my goals—and casual sex doesn’t.
But work has taken over everything. My personal life is a husk and...well, I’ve been flying solo in the bedroom for a while. My sex life is a wasteland. A ghost town. And this is the first sign of life I’ve felt in over a year. Sensation rockets through me, blanking out the worries that usually clog my mind and filling me with a strong, pleasurable hum. Maybe denying myself for so long wasn’t a smart move—because I’m feeling like a man crawling through the desert, with water shimmering on the horizon.
I hold the door open for her, tamping down the uncharacteristic surge of attraction. “You’re welcome,” I quip.
“I didn’t say thank you,” she replies, a wicked curve pulling at her lips. “Yet.”

CHAPTER THREE (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Drew
I DUST MYSELF off and roll my shoulders back, trying not to wince at the pain in my feet. These boots were not made for climbing four flights of stairs. Mr. Suit is watching my every move like his life depends on it—though I don’t mind. He’s gorgeous. If I had to make a quick guess I’d say mid-thirties, a lawyer/banker/insert mind-numbing profession here. But his suit fits like a dream, nipping in a trim waist and accenting broad shoulders. He might be desk-bound, but he works out. His eyes are the colour of the sky and his hair has an attractive reddish sheen to it, with warm-toned stubble on his sharp jaw to match.
Who would have known I’d be hot for a ginger?
“Were you stuck in there long?” He steps back so I can escape the concrete column of doom.
“How long is too long without phone reception? I was starting to worry I’d have to forage for food.” I cock my head. “Why don’t I know you? Do you live on this floor?”
He nods. “405.”
“We’re neighbours, then. I’m in 406.” I have a sudden urge to do something bold—to shake off the critical voice that’s been nagging me ever since I packed my bags and flew home to Melbourne. Each night has been an exercise in distraction—Netflix binges until I fall asleep, trying not to wish the weeks away so I can get on with my next adventure. Being home makes me antsy.
But tonight just got a whole lot more interesting.
“Want to come in for a drink?” I tilt my head, studying my smart-mouthed rescuer. The guy looks serious, like he’s got a gold medal in frowning. But I sense something beneath the surface—a simmering heat, like he’s stripping me back. I’ve had a lot of guys look at me over the years...but nothing like this.
It’s like I’m something precious behind glass.
“Is that your way of saying thank you?” he asks. There’s a slight crinkle to the edge of his eyes—like a delightful chink in his armour. “With liquor.”
“It only seems fair. After all, if you hadn’t come along, the poor concierge guy might have found a pile of bones at the top of the stairs. It would have traumatised him for life.” I nod, a mock sincere expression on my face. “You’re basically a national hero.”
He laughs, but still hasn’t accepted my offer. There’s no ring on his finger—no tan lines, either. That doesn’t mean he’s single, however, and for a moment my heart drops like a stone off a cliff. It’s stupid. I’ve recently come out of the biggest heartbreak of my life and I am not looking for anything.
In fact, when I’d hastily thrown everything I owned into two suitcases, tears streaming down my face, I’d promised myself I was done with trying to live up to other people’s expectations. And I was certainly done with men in suits. Men with money. Men who had more power and more value than me.
Mr. Suit is clearly one of those guys. Wrong for me. Bad for me. And so tempting my body is throwing a party. Which should be the biggest red flag of all—because the more I want a guy, the bigger a jerk he usually turns out to be.
I open my mouth to rescind my offer, but he nods. “Sure, why not?”
What happened to turning over a new leaf, huh? Learning from your mistakes?
Sadly, my brain is out of there so fast only a brain-shaped cloud of dust remains.
I can’t find the willpower to turn him away, because this guy’s magnetism is so strong, my body is almost vibrating with want. There’s something about him—something mysterious and enticing that’s like a hand pulling me closer so he can whisper naughty things in my ear.
I head toward my temporary apartment and pull the key out of my bag. “I didn’t think you’d say yes for a minute.”
“Neither did I.”
The way he says it sends a delicious shiver through me. Maybe this is exactly what I need right now—a little instant gratification to smooth the edges of the gaping hole where my heart used to be. A meaningless make-out session with a random guy to boost my confidence. Possibly a hookup. Quick, dirty, with no tomorrows. With no talking and no plans and no worrying about what happens next.
Yeah, psychologists would have a field day with me. But I’m reaching deep into the bag of fucks I have to give and I’m coming up empty.
Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? You only invited him in for a drink.
Everyone knows what that means, right? Sure, he’s my neighbour and I probably wouldn’t go there under normal circumstances. But I’m only here until the wedding, and then I’m taking off for some sunshine and sand while I sort my life out. This situation is temporary, so who cares if I have to avoid him in the elevators for a little while afterward?
“Nice place,” he says as we walk into the apartment.
“It’s not mine.” I glance at the chic decor, with the eclectic art making up the gallery wall next to the dining table, and unique trinkets from all over the world adding life and personality to the room. “I’m only here for a few weeks.”
Mr. Suit raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t like staying in one place.” I shrug out of my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair. “Life’s too short to set down roots.”
Mr. Suit snorts. “Ah, so you hate responsibility.”
I bristle, more because it’s true than because it’s a rude thing to say. I don’t like being easy to read—it makes me vulnerable. I decide then and there not to tell this guy anything real. Nothing about my life, about my job, about my family. If this goes somewhere, it’ll be all about the pleasure. The physical. I can tuck the real me away into a little box and let my alter ego out to play.
“Let me guess.” I walk straight to the vintage bar cart and wriggle my fingers over the generous selection of liquors Charlotte thoughtfully told me to “go ham” on. “You’re pro-responsibility.”
“I am.”
I sense him behind me, the chemistry snapping like an electric fence around us. I don’t think I’ve been so attracted to someone this quickly before—usually I like to suss a guy out. Dig a little deeper. But I don’t want to do that with Mr. Suit, because I know it’ll be bad, bad, bad, all the way down.
Better to go by the ignorance-is-bliss principle.
I pull the lid off a bottle of Glenfiddich and pour two glasses. The heavy cut-crystal tumblers are like weights in my hand, and I turn to Mr. Suit, offering one to him. “And you’re a workaholic, which is why I haven’t seen you around before.”
“Perceptive.” As he takes a sip of his drink, I notice the way the amber liquid mimics the reddish tones in his hair. “But not exactly an out-of-the-box guess. You could do better.”
Oh, really? Challenge most definitely accepted.
“You’re a hardass. You’ve lost employees because they hated working for you.” The words shoot out of me. Yep, Unfiltered Drew is in fine form tonight. “You don’t need to fire people, because they leave of their own accord.”
Instead of being insulted, he smirks. “Better, but not great.”
He’s goading me. Trying to get me to say something horrible. Is he looking for a reason to walk away?
Too bad, Mr. Suit... I’ve got you right where I want you.
Need flows through my body like sparkling champagne, fizzy and light. For the past three months I’ve felt nothing but self-loathing, heartache and resentment. It’s like my ex hollowed me out with a rusty spoon. But now I’m alive—and the hurt is quiet. The shame is quiet. I’m in control and it feels amazing.
You deserve this.
Just one night of pleasure for the sake of pleasure. Like cheating on your diet with greasy pizza and beer—tomorrow I can get back on the horse. Tomorrow I can go back to trying to sort my shit out. But right now...
“People think you’re uptight, but underneath you’re a little wild.” I sip my Scotch, enjoying the way it warms me. “You’ve got a bad streak.”
“And?” His blue eyes are locked on mine—unwavering and unafraid. This is a man who’s used to having the upper hand, who expects others to bend to him. I’ve dealt with his type before—the key is to meet them at their level.
“And you’re here because the second you opened that door to the stairwell, you knew you wanted to sleep with me.” I drain the rest of my Scotch and set the glass down. There’s no beating around the bush—we both know what this is. Why sugar-coat it? I’d seen the flare of heat in his eyes and I knew what it meant.
Mr. Suit laughs and the sound is like gravel and shadows and darkness. It’s the sexiest thing to ever grace my ears. “You’re bold.”
“I’m honest.”
“And that’s a rare quality.” He sets his glass down. It’s not empty. “But I only came for a drink.”
“Bullshit.”
He smooths his hand down the front of his suit, strong fingers caressing the wool in a way that has my mind conjuring all kinds of sexy mental images. They’re white-collar hands—uncalloused, smooth.
And I would bet the last cent in my bank account that he knows how to use them.
“Am I not your type?” I tilt my face up to his. I’m tall, especially in these boots, but he’s still got half a head on me.
The corner of his lips twitch. But it’s not cruel, more...amused. “You’re so far from my type I’m not even sure how to categorise it.”
Well, he certainly doesn’t pull any punches. “Should I clutch my pearls and tell you I have a wardrobe of twinsets and flat shoes in my bedroom? Would that make a difference?”
“I don’t do casual sex.”
Despite what people assume based on my choice of outfits—and believe me, they do—I don’t usually indulge in casual sex, either. I’ve had a few boyfriends, and a few flings. A lone one-night stand in my twenty-seven years. But I’ve always been a relationship girl, secretly. Which is why I was ready to give it all to Vas...until he made it clear that forever had never been his intention.
“That doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to you...” Mr. Suit frowns. “Is it weird if I ask for your name now?”
“While you’re in the middle of turning me down?” I laugh. “Why bother?”
He nods. “Right. Anyway, it’s not you. It’s me.”
“Unoriginal.” I shake my head. “I’m so disappointed.”
Despite the fact that he’s walking away, I’m feeling more like myself than I have in weeks. I’m going after something I want, setting my own rules. I’m not shrinking into my sadness anymore. That sounds like progress, right?
“Trust me when I say it’s not you. Because I could happily tear those stockings off with my teeth and make a meal of you.” His gaze rakes over me, leaving fire in its wake. “And it is me, because I don’t have time for anything besides my work.”
“I’m not asking for anything beyond tonight.”
“Neither am I.” He looks as though he might offer further explanation, but then he walks across the room and grabs his coat. “Now, I’m going to head home and get myself off in the shower while thinking about your incredible legs.”
I’m left standing open-mouthed as he disappears into the hallway. A second later I hear his door slam shut.

CHAPTER FOUR (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Drew
IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT and I can’t sleep. I’ve got a head full of bad memories and images of my sexy next-door neighbour, which is a potent and annoying cocktail. So I’m restless, tossing and turning until the bedsheets wind around my legs like a python going in for the kill.
If only I didn’t have to come home for Presley’s wedding. If only I hadn’t let myself fall for a guy who was destined to break my heart. But oh, no, I had to go and think that I could be the only woman he wasn’t lying to when he told me he loved me. Even though I knew his reputation, I fooled myself into thinking that I was different. That I was special.
What could be further from the truth?
Huffing, I untangle myself and get out of bed. My bare feet hit the cool floorboards and I realise I’m burning up. Tossing and turning is quite the workout.
The apartment is quiet and unfamiliar. I’ve only been back in Melbourne for three weeks and already it’s reminding me of all the reasons why I left—how far I’ve fallen behind my sister. How much more lovable she is.
I pad out to the main room where the window looks out over South Melbourne. The view is awash with glimmering lights, and in the far corner of the view, I can see the occasional car gliding along Clarendon Street. It’s Wednesday night, so the traffic isn’t too heavy. I’ve always found the noise comforting—because total quiet unsettles me. It means I have to focus on what’s in my head, instead of something easier. Something more tangible.
Pulling open the sliding door to the balcony, I almost sigh in relief when the cool air hits my skin. The rain has stopped and it smells glorious—like springtime and wet grass and jasmine and life. This apartment is on the corner of the building, with the balcony facing the back of the property. The garden below is lush and beautiful, and I can totally see why my friend bought this place.
I lean my forearms against the railing and suck in a big breath. I’m wearing an oversized white T-shirt, which the breeze flutters around my body. I have no idea how long I stand there, leaning and trying not to think. Just feeling. Eventually I’ll need to get back to bed, but as I turn, I catch a glimpse of something. A warm light emanating from the apartment next to me.
I can only see into Mr. Suit’s place because of the angle of the corner apartment, and even then it’s not a full view. Only a sliver. But it’s enough for me to see the glow of a room inside the otherwise dark apartment. A door is open, and light spills from what looks like a bedroom. A shadowy figure emerges, momentarily blotting the light with its broad frame.
My breath catches in my throat as the figure stills. Can he see me peering in? For a second I freeze, mortified at being caught looking like some peeping Tom. What the hell am I thinking? It’s a total invasion of his privacy, especially after he said no to me.
He also said he was going to go home and get off while thinking about you.
Images swirl of him in the shower, water streaming over what I know will be a rock-hard body, while he reaches one of those strong, long-fingered hands down between his legs...
I shiver.
The figure is still standing there. Unmoving. Waiting.
Waiting for me?
It’s a silent standoff. I should go inside before I embarrass myself further in front of this guy...but something keeps my feet rooted to the ground. Desperate desire winds through my system, slow and steady like the drip of condensation down a glass on a summer’s day. I want him. I want the feeling of hot, confident hands roaming my body and stubble-roughened kisses on my neck.
When the shadow disappears into the darkened apartment, I think the show might be over. Disappointment stabs me in the gut. I’m definitely going to have to avoid this guy in the elevator until I skip town. Lord, what am I going to tell my friend when she comes back?
Hey, sorry if things are a little weird between you and the guy next door. I unsuccessfully propositioned him for sex and then stared into his window in the middle of the night.
But then a lamp flicks on inside the apartment. The warm glow grows enough that I can see more detail—the white towel around his waist, the shadow of definition in his muscular torso, the brooding expression on his face. In the dim light, his hair looks like burning embers, matching the intensity of how he watches me, watching him.
I swallow and find my mouth dry, waiting for him to wave me away. Or mouth an appropriate “what the fuck?” while glaring at me. But nothing like that happens. He takes a step forward, more fully into the light. I can see more detail now—the smattering of hair on his chest and the trail that winds from his bellybutton down to where the towel is knotted, riding low on his hips. Any lower down and I’d be able to tell whether the bulge there is from the material of the towel or something else.
Show him what he missed by walking out on you tonight.
There’s that dark little voice again. The one that urges me to make bad decisions and get into trouble.
I skim my hand along the edge of the T-shirt, fingertips dancing across my bare thigh. The hem barely covers the bottom of my cotton underwear—tonight it’s pink and red stripes—and I gently brush the T-shirt up enough to expose it.
Mr. Suit’s chest moves sharply, as though he’s sucked in a quick breath. The guy is so cut I second-guess my assumption that he works in an office. His shoulders are strong and round, his biceps deliciously curved, but it’s the flex in his jaw that does me in. Like he’s grinding his teeth, trying to hold his reaction back...and failing.
Emboldened by the fact that he’s still watching, I draw the hem of my T-shirt up higher. Cool air grazes my bare stomach, and I hold the material just over my breasts—teasing at what might be beneath without actually showing him.
Mr. Suit stalks toward the glass. Oh, yes, there’s definitely a bulge under that towel. His eyes are so strikingly blue that I’m captured for a moment. He’s much closer now, his face still shadowed by the dim light inside. There’s no balcony outside his bedroom—they stagger the rooms here, and his bedroom shares a wall with my living room. That means the balconies are spaced apart—probably so the residents don’t feel in each other’s pockets if they’re both outside. But it means I can’t hear him. The double-glazed windows keep all the sound inside. His mouth moves, but I’m too dazed to lip-read.
But then I catch one word: more.
He wants more? Am I really going to do this? Give a stranger a peep show while anyone else could come outside and see?
It’s late. Everyone is getting up early for work tomorrow. Nobody else will see you.
Won’t they? I swallow.
Mr. Suit nods. More.
Biting down on my lip, I drag the T-shirt higher up, exposing my naked breasts to the night air and to Mr. Suit’s hungry gaze. My nipples peak at the shock of the cool breeze and my sex clenches when I see his reaction—that single flame sparking and catching alight. Creating an inferno.
Holding the fabric with one hand, I let my other hand roam over my stomach and up to my breasts, squeezing and pinching. It sends arrows of excitement through me, heating up my blood and creating a dull pulse in my sex. I feel powerful like this—in charge and beautiful and naughty and brave.
Mr. Suit’s lips part and I imagine the sound coming out of him, letting my mind fill in the blanks so I get the whole experience. I’ve never done anything like this before—so brazen and bad. But it feels good. So good.
“More,” he mouths.
I dip my hand over my stomach and toy with the waistband of my underwear. There’s a little bow right below my navel, and I dance my fingers over it before snapping the elastic against my skin. But I don’t want to be the only one playing this game—if he wants more, then I need a show of faith. I need to know I’m not the only vulnerable party.
I nod toward him, to where he’s holding the knot at his waist. His eyes darken and he reaches down, squeezing himself through the fluffy fabric. I almost go weak at the knees; the sight of him handling himself is insanely hot. Not to mention it looks like he’s got quite the handful there.
I dip my fingers under the elastic of my underwear, finding myself wet and ready. A sigh slips out as I brush over my clit—the tight bundle of nerves sending a jolt of pleasure through me.
Oh, God, am I really doing this?
For a moment, doubt roars in my head. What would Perfect Presley think if she knew I was giving a stranger a peep show? What about the Stepford bridesmaids? What would Vas think? My thoughts darken for a second. Vas wouldn’t think anything because I was nothing but a toy to him anyway. A plaything. A disposable pleasure.
Fuck Vas. And fuck what other people think, too. I’m done with that. This is for me, because right now I feel good and I’m a grown woman who can make her own bloody decisions.
I touch myself again, circling my fingers over my most sensitive part and letting out a soft groan. Not too loud—because I don’t want anyone else but Mr. Suit to come outside and see the show. It feels so good, with his eyes on me, his mouth slack and his hand palming himself through the towel. I wish it was his hands on me. I let myself imagine what would have happened if he’d stayed and stripped me out of my fishnets and my leather skirt.
If he’d taken me to bed and laid me down, peeling the underwear from my body and sliding his hands back up my thighs, thumbs tracing circles on my skin. Getting higher, higher, higher...so close.
My eyes flutter shut and I’m lost. I imagine his big body covering me, knees pushing my legs apart as he presses his lips to mine. The fantasy plays out in vivid colour and a tremor rips through me. Everything is wound tight like a coil. I’m so close...so close.
I apply the right pressure and my orgasm breaks. Release is sweet and swift and I steady myself with one hand against the balcony railing. When I open my eyes, Mr. Suit is standing there—eyes wild and cheeks flushed, and he’s looking like a caged animal.
“This is what you missed,” I say, having no idea if he understands. But I’ll take that as my cue to leave—showtime is over and I’m feeling the warm burn of pleasure knowing he’s going to bed with me on his mind. Let him regret walking out.
I drop my T-shirt back down over my stomach and wink at him before scampering back inside, my heart pounding and my head swirling. I can’t believe I did that.
But there’s no denying I feel better than I have in weeks. Maybe I needed to act out a little after twelve months of minding my p’s and q’s and trying to be wife material. After twelve months of pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
I crawl back into bed with a big smile on my face and instantly fall into a deep slumber.

CHAPTER FIVE (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Flynn
WHEN I WALKED into the office at 7:00 a.m. with a spring in my step, Francis had assumed it was because I’d done exactly what she told me to do: rest, television, and takeaway food. Ha! The truth couldn’t be further from that.
After watching Blondie touch herself brazenly on the balcony of her borrowed apartment, that beautiful face screwed up with pleasure, I’d needed another cold shower to shake the desire creeping through my body. But even with the most monumental of teases, I still went to bed happy. When was the last time I slept soundly, fully engaged by dreams that had me not wanting it to end? That had me waking with a wicked smile? So long, I can’t even remember.
I’ve been thinking about it all day. For once in my life, I was the space cadet in meetings. I was the one staring into nothingness, my mind miles away from work. But the fantasy will have to keep me going, because I’ve got a full plate and a fuller head. When I go home shortly, I’ll have to force myself not to knock on her door. I can’t afford any distractions—no matter how tempting—to derail my plans.
And speaking of unwanted distractions...
I scrub a hand over my face and let out a frustrated groan when yet another email appears from the maid of honour about the Jack and Jill party we’re supposed to be organising. One, the idea of a Jack and Jill party is stupid. Two, I’d already asked Francis to take care of it so I didn’t have to waste time on party planning. But oh, no, Little Miss Warpath is nixing every single thing I say, and she wants to have...a costume party.
I shudder. Costume parties are the seventh circle of hell. I can’t think of anything worse than going to a party dressed in some crappy polyester version of what someone else wore. It’s tacky and I’m duty-bound to ensure my cousin isn’t photographed looking like an idiot. I’m not sure why he chose me to be best man, to be honest. We’ve never been close, not even growing up. But family is the single most important thing in my life, so I wasn’t about to decline when he asked, even if I had zero interest in the job.
But after the tenth email from Melanie D. Richardson, I’m about to throw my laptop out the window. Never mind that the windows in this office tower don’t open, I’ll make an opening.
Apparently, I’m being “overbearing” and “uptight” because I don’t want to go ahead with the costume party. Okay, and maybe it’s also because I told her she should step back and let me handle it all since I know what I’m doing (and by me, I mean Francis.) I disagree that costume parties are “fun” (they’re not) and “creative” (double nope) and “perfect for such a happy couple” (of course they seem happy, they’re spending an exorbitant amount of money to announce to the world that they’re in love...they have to seem happy).
Call me cynical—many do. But I’ve never understood the over-the-top nature of weddings. If you’re really in love with someone, why do you need all the fanfare? Why do you need the audience?
But I’ll keep that opinion to myself.
I fire back an email that shuts the discussion down. I’m happy to compromise on other things, but it feels like she’s being purposefully difficult.
A second later, Francis pops her head into my office. She’s wearing that lip-pursed, motherly face again. “That was a bit harsh, Flynn.”
“What? I told her it’s not happening and she’s wasting my time by being argumentative,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. “I’ve tried to compromise on something else, maybe the menu or colour scheme, but she’s stomping her feet like an angry toddler.”
“You’re used to people bending to your will.” My assistant smirks, like she’s got grudging respect for the other woman. “And she’s not.”
“She’ll run out of hot air eventually. This wedding is going to be enough of a circus as it is.” My cousin is a more is more kinda guy—as was evident by the enormous rock he gave his fiancée. And the fact that he proposed to her in the most outlandish way possible, with multiple hot air balloons custom printed with their names and “will you marry me?” on the side. “I keep thinking how much my mother would have loved it.”
“Is that why you seem so prickly about the whole thing?”
“No, I’m more worried about stuff ending up in the papers. He’s got a habit of making a fanfare and getting bad press for it.” I rake a hand through my hair. “And with everything hinging on these trials...”
“Ah,” she said. “So that’s what it’s about.”
I look at the picture of my niece. Zoe is seven and she was diagnosed with Batten disease two years ago. It’s extremely rare. Most people with Batten disease die in their teens or early twenties. There’s no cure. This is why I work as hard as I do. This is why I worry about things like my stupid cousin drawing attention to our family name for all the wrong reasons. I can’t risk people not wanting to donate money to our cause because they think we’re a pack of idiots.
Call me a bastard. Call me selfish and a killjoy. I don’t care, if it means my company might find some way to help people like Zoe. To help her dad, who’s already starting to grieve for all the time he likely won’t have with her.
“Let me take care of it,” Francis says. “I’ll sort it out so you don’t have to deal with it anymore.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Lord knows,” she mutters as she walks away, her low, sensible heels clacking against the hardwood floor.
Outside, the city is bathed in inky darkness. It’s almost midnight and we’re the last two left, like always. I tell Francis to go home every night around seven, but she’s as much of a workaholic as I am. I let her take every Friday afternoon off to pick up her grandson from school so they can spend time together, but that doesn’t make up for the hours she puts in. I make a mental note to write her a cheque this week as a thank-you.
Sighing, I pack up my laptop. I’ll spend another hour on the computer sifting through emails when I go home. I’m on pins and needles while we wait for results of a gene therapy trial that’s running currently, so it’s not like I’m going to sleep properly anyway. I head out of the office and stand by Francis’s desk, making sure she packs up, too.
Outside, I walk as though my body is being drawn by some magnetic force. The second I think about setting foot in my apartment, my mind drifts to Blondie. Knowing she’s on the other side of the wall is the purest of tortures.
I’ve never met a woman like her before—not one who was so daring and who didn’t give a crap what I thought about her. It’s refreshing, frankly, because most people are putting on a front, playing a role, trying to seem more important than they are. But Blondie is who she is.
I walk into 21 Love Street and nod at the security guy behind the desk. The building is quiet and my footsteps echo. I’m the lone passenger in the elevator. As I walk down the hall, my eyes linger on the apartment at the end—number 406. How easy it would be to keep walking past my door to hers, and knock.
I’m already imaging her answering in that flimsy, threadbare white T-shirt and pink underwear that had me salivating last night. I’d love to see that wild, white-blond hair tumbling over her shoulders and all around her body.
I shake off the feeling and head straight to my door, determined not to let the images distract me. But just as I’m about to reach for my keys I notice a little piece of paper. It’s been carefully folded in half and wedged between the door and the frame.
I pull it out.
Tonight it’s your turn. Call me when it’s late. D.
D. I wonder what her name is.
I push my front door open and stand in the middle of my apartment, my eyes still locked onto the note and the number scrawled at the bottom. Her handwriting is loopy and a little erratic, the g’s and l’s taking up more space than they should. There’s nothing efficient about her style. It’s wild and free, probably scrawled quickly and without much consideration.
I crumple the note, toss it into the wastepaper basket by my bookshelf and continue toward my bedroom. I shower quickly, intending to get into something comfortable and then open up my laptop. But when I come back out to the lounge room, my eyes immediately go to the wastepaper basket.
I won’t go to her apartment and I won’t invite her to mine.
No casual sex. That’s the rule.
But what about phone calls? It’s a loophole and my brain loves a flaw in a carefully formed plan. I dig out the crumpled paper and reach for my phone. And for the second night in a row, I ignore my instincts.
Blondie picks up on the third ring.

CHAPTER SIX (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Drew
“YOU SAID TO call when it was late.”
I’m hazy and still within slumber’s firm grip, but the sound of a gravelly voice that’s rich like dark chocolate and sinful as a forbidden tryst has me stretching my body. Waking myself. I’m a little shocked he called.
“What time is it?” I’m on the couch, wearing the T-shirt from last night under a blanket that’s cosy and warm.
“Twelve thirty,” he says.
“Did you just get home?”
“I did.”
“Why do you work so late?” I snuggle into the corner of the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin. There’s something nostalgic about this—a late-night call when I know I should be asleep. I feel like a naughty teenager, sneaking time away with her crush.
“I’m a busy man.”
“Not so busy that you don’t have time to watch a little live entertainment.” I bite down on my bottom lip, stifling a smile at the appreciative grunt on the other end of the line. I try to picture him. Is he standing by his window hoping I’ll be there again? Or is he in his bed, in boxer briefs and with his chest bare? Or maybe he’s in a towel.
“You put on one hell of a show,” he says. There’s a darkness to his voice and it’s making my heart flutter.
“It felt a little one-sided,” I admit. “I showed you mine, but you didn’t show me yours.”
“Is it so bad to watch?”
The question sends a delicious shiver through me. “No, I like watching. I like listening, too.”
When he chuckles it’s like someone is running a razorblade over my nerve endings. How can a laugh make me feel so much?
“I like knowing the women I have sex with,” he replies.
“Who said we’re having sex?”
“I assume you didn’t slip your number into my door so I could give you a wakeup call for nothing.”
I grin. “I did not.”
“Then why did you do it, Blondie?”
I laugh. “I’ve been calling you Mr. Suit in my head all day long. Seems we’ve both got nicknames for one another.”
“I was trying to figure out what D stood for,” he said. “I’ve already crossed off Danielle, Debbie and Diana.”
“You would be correct, so far.” Not that I have any intention of telling him my name—I made that promise to myself last night. Nothing real. This is just for fun. A necessary diversion while the rest of my life is smoking ruins. “I’ll tell you it’s not Deanna, Deirdre or Dominique, either.”
“What about Dallas?”
I laugh. “Do I look like a cowgirl to you?”
I could talk to him all night long. There’s something soothing about his voice—the deep bass and dry wit—that makes me forget about all my problems.
“I guess this is the point where I’m supposed to make a dirty joke about how hard you ride.” There’s noise in the background, like he’s moving around. “But you deserve more than a cliché, Blondie.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Getting ready for bed.” Something clicks, maybe a light switch. “It’s late.”
“And dark.”
“And it’s my turn, according to your note.”
This is it—the open door. He’s willing to play. A shiver runs the length of my spine and I burrow further down into the couch, keeping the blanket up over me. I feel like we’re playing a game of cat and mouse. Teasing one another.
Playing with fire.
“I believe in equality for the sexes,” I say. “Orgasms for everyone.”
“That’s very noble.” There’s that dry humour again. “What made you do it on the balcony last night? Revenge for me saying no?”
“There was a little of that,” I admit. “You left me hanging. I had pent-up energy to expel, and I wanted to show you what you were missing.”
“I couldn’t get you out of my head. I’ve been trying to concentrate on work all day and I could only think about your pink underwear and incredible legs.”
“And you’re thinking about them again now.”
There’s a soft releasing of breath. “How could I not?”
“I’m wearing blue tonight. With little white stripes and lace around the edges.” I bite down on my lip as there’s a muffled moan from his end. “Same T-shirt.”
“Take if off.”
I pretend to. I’m not going to defile my friend’s couch—there’s girl code about that kind thing. But Mr. Suit doesn’t need to know. And besides, I like the fantasy. I like controlling what he thinks is happening because it makes me feel powerful to be in charge of his pleasure.
“No bra tonight, either,” I say.
“Just the blue stripes, huh?” He lets out a jagged curse. “Are you in your bed?”
“On the couch. Just where I would have been last night in you hadn’t walked out on me. I bet you’re regretting that now.”
“I don’t know what would have happened if I’d stayed.”
“You want storytime, huh?” I cluck my tongue. “That’s naughty.”
“Not as naughty as what I’m doing right now.”
My sex clenches at the thought of it. I know his body is made for pleasure—all broad shoulders and strong arms. I know he was packing something hefty behind that towel last night. I imagine him on top of the covers looking every bit like something I’d hope to find waiting for me at the end of a long day—hooded eyes and a wicked smile and a hard cock.
“Well, my plan was to have a drink and a chat and a kiss.” I close my eyes and let myself sink into the fantasy. “I wanted to see how you kiss, because that’s a sure-fire way to tell if a guy’s good in bed.”
“Did you have concerns that I don’t know how to use my tongue? If so, you’d be wrong.”
Ah, so he’s cocky. I’m not surprised and I kind of like it—he’s a man who doesn’t mince words. He’s firm in his opinions and beliefs. He’s a man of conviction, especially in himself.
“That’s for me to decide, Mr. Suit. Not for you to tell me.”
The dark chuckle that vibrates through the line sends goose bumps skittering across my skin.
“Now, if I’d decided you were a good kisser, I was going to lead you into the shower.”
“The shower, huh?”
“Not my apartment, remember? I can’t bring a guy into my friend’s bed. And truth be told... I love being fucked in the shower.” When he moans, I squeeze my thighs together. “I love the water running over my skin, and the way the tiles feel cold against my palms as I brace myself. I love being clean and dirty at the same time.”
“I think you’re dirty to the bone, Blondie. No shower is going to fix you up.” He grunts. “And bloody hell it’s sexier than anything.”
I’m warm now and I push the blanket back, letting the cool air prickle over my skin. I wish he was here, hands on my thighs while he lowered those full lips to the pulsing spot between my legs. “I would have invited you into the shower, stripped down while you watched and climbed in to give you a show.”
“Like on the balcony.” His breath comes a little quicker now.
“Just like that, but with no T-shirt and no underwear so you could see every part of me.” I pause, making him wait for one heartbeat. Then two. Three. I’ve got him hooked. “I’d give you a show and get myself all warmed up for you. Then I would have told you to strip down and join me.”
“What then?”
“I’d tell you to get on your knees and show me how you use that tongue.”
“Fuck,” he grunts. “I bet you taste sweet as honey. I would have loved feeling those beautiful thighs clamp around my head.”
Now it’s my turn to stifle a moan. Having a big, strong man on his knees for me is my personal catnip. I love a guy who enjoys oral sex—both giving and receiving. Like I said, orgasms for everyone.

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