“When the jury comes back today, you let me take your Porsche out for the ride of its life.”

She stares me down, waiting.

I rub my knuckles along my jaw, debating.

“It’s a stick shift,” I warn in a low voice.

“Pft—child’s play.”

“What do I get if—when—you lose the bet?”

She straightens up, looking pleased with herself, even though she hasn’t heard my terms. “What do you want?”

The image of Sofia’s curves barely covered in a tiny red bikini, damp and soapy with suds, infiltrates my brain. And I can’t hold back the lewd smile that graces my face. “You have to wash the Porsche, by hand, once a week for a month.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Done.”

Before we shake on it, I look into her eyes and spit deliberately on my palm. Our grasp is sliding and slick. Her nose crinkles, but her eyes—her eyes simmer with an amused heat only I can read.

She likes it.

After I release her grip, she wipes her hand with a napkin. Then Brent Mason walks out from the direction of the restrooms to join us. Brent is an associate at our firm, started the same year as Sofia and me, though he looks much younger. His round blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and carefree personality invoke protective, little brother–like feelings. The limp that accompanies his gait adds to the boyish impression, though in reality it’s the result of the prosthetic on his left leg, the consequence of a childhood accident. The event may have taken his limb, but Brent’s jovial good humor remains fully intact.

Like all the associates at our firm, Brent and Sofia share an office. They’re close, but in a strictly platonic, friend-zone sort of way.

He also has more money than God—or at least his family does. Old money, the kind of wealth so abundant his relations don’t realize that not everyone “summers” in the south of France or is able to retreat to their country estate on the Potomac when they need a break from the city. Brent’s father has political aspirations for his only child and believed an impressive record as a prosecutor would lay the foundation for those ambitions.

Which is precisely why Brent went out and became a criminal defense attorney.

“Hey, Shaw,” he greets.

I nod. “Mason.” I gesture once again to Drew. “Brent Mason, this is Drew Evans, an old friend.” My eyes fall to him. “Brent’s another lawyer at our firm.”

They shake hands firmly, then Drew remarks, “Jesus, is anyone in DC not a lawyer?”

I chuckle. “Most per capita in the country.”

Before he can respond with what I’d bet my life on would’ve been an insult, Brent pipes up. “You ready to go, Sofia? I have a client coming in twenty minutes.”

“I’m all set. It was nice meeting you, Drew. Stanton, I’ll see you at the courthouse soon.”

I feign confusion. “You mean the office?”

With a shake of her head, she lets Brent lead her out the door.

I watch her go. And I enjoy every damn second of it.

Which does not go unnoticed. “Do you really think that’s wise?”

My attention drags back to him. “What’s that?”

“Screwing your coworker,” Evans clarifies. “Do you think that’s wise?”

I pause a moment, wondering how he knew . . . and then I laugh at myself for wondering . . . because of course he’d know.

“This coming from the man who married his coworker a few months ago?”

Drew leans back, resting one arm on the chair beside him. “That’s completely different. Kate and I are special.”

I sip my water. “What makes you think Soph and I are screwing?”

“Ah . . . because I have eyes. And ears. And nothing about the sexual tension I just witnessed was unresolved. You sold yourself short on the bet, by the way. My terms would’ve been fucking her on the hood of the car first—then she washes it.” He shrugs. “But that’s just me. Now back to my original question . . .”

There’s really no point in denying it. “Sofia is without a doubt the wisest woman I’ve ever done—pun intended.”

He doesn’t approve. “That’s a dangerous path you’re walking, Shaw. A minefield of awkwardness and female scorn.”

I understand his concerns, but they’re not necessary. Sofia’s a woman in all the important places, but with the practicality of a man. There are no minivans or white picket fences in her future, just corner offices and billable hours. She’s frank, direct, but also fun. A woman I consider a friend—someone I enjoy going out with as much as I enjoy going down on.

Our arrangement started six months ago. The first time was spontaneous, reckless. I’d known I wanted her, but didn’t realize how much until the night we were alone in the firm’s basement library. Both working late, tense and tight for time—one minute we were discussing the finer points of Miranda v. Arizona and the next we were tearing each other’s clothes off, up against the stacks of thick, leather-bound volumes, rutting like wild animals.

Sounded just like them, too.

I get turned on every time I think of the noises Sofia made that night, a symphony of gasps, whimpers, and growls as I made her come three times. A trifecta. And when my orgasm finally flooded me—shit—I couldn’t feel my legs for five full minutes.

Afterward, when we were sweaty and disheveled as soldiers after battle, we talked. We agreed that it was something we both wanted to do again—and again—a needed stress reliever that would fit perfectly into our mutually packed schedules.