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money I’ll never see either one of them again. I don’t have much faith in people, men especially. I know what last night was. What I am to them. A story to tell. Sex with the trashy bartender in the stairwell of the dive on the Jersey Shore. And I’m fine with that. It was an adventure. A sexual experience I can check off my bucket list.
    Funny how a threesome with a hot bi couple wasn’t on my bucket list until last night, but hey, c’est la vie. Chase was right, though. No more steps—my back is killing me.
    I hustle the three blocks home. My apartment isn’t much. A three-story walk-up with a sliver of an ocean view. If you stand on a chair and lean to the left, you can catch a glimpse of the dark blue sea out the kitchen window.
    I shower quickly, using way too much shampoo because I’m not used to the short haircut yet. I blow dry, powder, and deodorize. Then dress in my nicest button-up shirt, pencil skirt, and conservative heels. Ugh, I hate business attire. I take one last look in the mirror, brushing my wispy bangs aside for the umpteenth time. Maybe I should have waited on the pink. The haircut is sexy; it’s definitely growing on me. For a moment, I flashback to last night, remembering the stranglehold Shane had on my short locks while he fucked me. My tummy twinges. Damn, that was hot.
    I shake the aroused feeling off as I rush out the door. I can’t think about them right now, even though all I want to do is lie in bed all day and touch myself, reliving last night over and over again.
    I hop in my vintage—okay, old-ass—Civic and head over to the north side of town where redevelopment of the beachfront has been running rampant. Tons of new condos, shops, and restaurants have been erected in the last three years. Our sleepy beach town is becoming a new hotspot, and the tourism is thriving. Don’t get me wrong, I like the changes. I just don’t like how they’re going about them.
    I pull into the parking lot of a satellite office of Winters Travers, the biggest housing redeveloper in the state. They’ve built beachfront homes worth millions upon millions of dollars on the pennies of property and homeowners. Swindling them by buying their land at a fraction of what it’s worth with bogus comps and lowball appraisals. It’s highway fucking robbery, and no one tries to stop them or even stand up to them . . . until today.
    I march through the double doors of the building and straight up to the receptionist, who is gleefully farming phone call after phone call.
    “Name?” she asks sugary sweet while sizing me up.
    “Jennifer Reeves to see Mr. Winters. I have an appointment,” I announce confidently. She can judge me all she wants. She’s a woman who puts one bra strap on at a time just like me, regardless if hers comes from Victoria’s Secret and mine from Walmart.
    She checks something on the computer in front of her and then smiles, disingenuously. “Mr. Winters is waiting. You’re late.”
    I glance at the clock over the receptionist’s head. It’s five after nine. Give me a break .
    “Shit happens,” I sneer. “Where am I going?”
    She cocks a penciled eyebrow. “Elevators. Third floor. The door on your right.” She points with the tip of her pen.
    “Thanks.” I continue to march, if for no other reason than to retain my confidence.
    I ride the elevator up to the third floor and walk through the glass door on the right. I’m met with yet another perfectly prim receptionist.
    “Ms. Reeves?” she asks cheerfully. Genuinely. She reminds me of Shayna. Blonde, bubbly, and doe-eyed.
    “Yes.”
    “He’s waiting.” She motions to the double doors behind her. I suck in a deep breath and prepare for war as I waltz through the entrance and into a gargantuan conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a backdrop of the glimmering Atlantic Ocean.
    “Ms. Reeves. Please have a seat. I’ve been waiting.” I’m reminded once again. Five minutes. You’ve been waiting five