Free Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax

the windows. Perhaps I’m not completely alone. Did Hawke see Cyndi’s rejection, my humiliation? I drift toward the glass, lean my forehead against the cool surface, and grip the metal bars holding the panes in place, unconsciously seeking to be closer to him, hungry for company, even the wrong sort of company.
    Is this how my mom felt? Had she been so lonely that being with any man, even the leaving kind, was better than the alternative?
    Refusing to make the same choices, I push away from the window, away from the temptation of the telescope, of Hawke. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Nicolas, convince him to put us on the guest list for R, and Friday, I’ll go clubbing with Cyndi. We’ll make up, celebrate my full-time job, dance until our feet are sore.
    Everything will be normal again.

Chapter Five
    I SPEND THE rest of the evening drafting my list of work initiatives. My goal was to pitch ten hire-me-or-feel-like-a-fool ideas to Mr. Peterson. With the help of the Internet, I outline fifteen.
    This full-time job is mine. I grin. At least one of these ideas will please my boss. Hell, he might even upgrade the position to reflect my awesomeness. I’ll spend some of that windfall on Cyndi.
    She hasn’t texted me. Not once. She usually gives me the play-by-play at the clubs, sharing quirky fashion styles, bad pickup lines, sending me stealth video clips of crazy dancers, making me laugh until my stomach hurts.
    Tonight, there’s silence and I miss her. I miss her so damn much.
    I fiddle with my phone, willing it to ring. Nicolas’s number is listed on my incoming call list. As a joke, I draft a text to him, linking to an article I found in a woman’s magazine. The title is “How to Be a Better Friend.”
    I shouldn’t send it. I know I shouldn’t. My finger has a brain of its own, however, and presses the send key.
    Two minutes later, I receive a link from him. I click on it. The article lists the top five ways to deal with an asshole. I smile and set the phone on the couch. My best friend might not be thinking of me, but my billionaire is.
    I watch TV, losing myself in the runway shows, admiring the fashions I adore yet can’t afford. Some of the styles are as classic and timeless as my Salvatore Ferragamo purse. They can be worn and loved for years.
    At eleven fifteen, an electronic twinkle fills the quiet, and my heart leaps. It’s Cyndi. Finally. I grab my phone and stare down at the small screen.
    Friendly: Leave your curtains open. Good girls earn rewards.
    The text isn’t from my best friend. Intrigue offsets my disappointment. The text was sent from a stranger, a mysterious Friendly. Is it a wrong number?
    I chew on the inside of my cheek. The texter called me a good girl, as though he or she knows me, and I do close my bedroom curtains at night. Is this person watching me? I walk to the window and stare out at the night. Hawke watched me this morning.
    He didn’t conceal this fact though. He openly admits to his perversion. This texter hides under an alias. I click on the username. The number is unlisted. He or she is playing a game with me.
    Nicolas likes to play games. I press my lips together. And he does know my phone number. In order to see my window, the sender has to have access to the buildings or park. Security guards would bounce a stranger from these restricted spaces.
    They wouldn’t question Nicolas, and he did claim he wanted to be my friend.
    But he’s also a billionaire. What would he gain from seeing me in my camisole and boy shorts? He has supermodels in priceless lingerie throwing themselves at him.
    I consider texting the person back. My gut says not to. If the message is a clever marketing promotion or some other type of spam, my reply will encourage them. I get enough of that stuff as it is.
    It’s best to ignore Friendly, whoever he is. I scroll through my messages, ensuring I haven’t missed one from Cyndi. I