“Absolutely. I’m an equal-opportunity man.” I can’t resist yanking his chain, so I keep going, giving a big serving of braggart right back at him. “They float my boat, and let me tell you, the GILFs are hot for me. Talk about a line of hotties. Retirees as far as the eye can see. I can’t keep my hands off them.”

“You know it. Good thing you don’t have a GILF manning your phones then, or you’d be royally fucked.”

“Pun intended, right?” I set down the drill, rest the door on the counter, and lower my voice. “But you know, Floyd, there’s another option,” I say, and now it’s my turn to lean in, lower my voice, and pass on my brilliance.

“Yeah?” He’s practically salivating for what he no doubt thinks will be an office sex tip.

I straighten to my full height. I’m six two, and I tower over him. “You could”—I keep my tone even and light—“for instance”—I take a final beat—“keep your dick in your pants at work.”

The entire penthouse goes silent. Floyd scratches his head. He furrows his brow and says, “Huh?”

Apparently, my advice is so foreign I might as well have been speaking Turkish. “Anyway, time to go, Floyd. I need to finish this job on time for Lila, who is neither hot for your sausage, nor your baloney.”

I clap him on the back, thank him for the late delivery of hinges, and send him on his way.

A few hours later, I’ve finished my work for the day, just as a peppy Lila arrives home from her gym session, bouncing in her leggings and sneakers. I show her what I worked on this afternoon in her kitchen remodel, and update her on what needs to be done tomorrow as I move into the homestretch of the job.

“It’s really coming together so nicely,” she says in her perky way. “You do amazing work. And I’m so glad Natalie was able to fit this remodel work in your schedule. I know it was a tight squeeze, but you come so highly recommended, and I had to have the best for my home.”

I nod and say thank you, then give credit where it’s due. “Natalie is the wizard of scheduling. She can pretty much make anything work.”

“Good, because I might have another project for you. Let me talk to my husband, Craig, when he gets home tonight from his board meeting, and then we’ll set something up?”

“Sounds like a plan. And I’ll see you tomorrow to finish the cabinets.”

Soon I’m back at our office in the West 50s, dropping off tools and materials, and none other than the Mistress of Scheduling herself, aka the woman who turned this ship around, greets me.

“Hey, Wyatt,” Natalie calls out from her desk as I walk in.

See, I almost want to call Floyd and tell him that following my advice is easy. I manage it every day. What a miracle. Especially considering I have a whip-smart assistant who’s beautiful, clever, fantastic at her job, and has a smile that just slays me. Call me old-fashioned. I’m a sucker for a woman with a great smile, and Natalie, with her bright blue eyes and cheerleader blond hair, wins at smiling. She’s the perfect, all-American girl, like an apple pie, and I just want to eat her up.

I mean, I don’t want that.

Fuck, that came out wrong.

I totally don’t want to eat my assistant. Or bang my assistant. Or bend my assistant over the desk.

See? I’ve followed my own advice. My dick is safely in my pants.

Besides, Natalie’s great at her job, and it’s just wrong to think of her that way. Not to mention dangerous. Last time I canoodled with someone I worked with, my business could have tanked. That experience taught me a lesson I should have learned a long time ago—don’t mix business with pleasure. You’ll get a nasty cocktail with a bitter aftertaste. So even though Natalie has the prettiest face I’ve seen in ages, and the most generous heart, topped by a complete goofball side, and even though I once thought she wanted me, I can’t go there with her.

I keep it all fun and games when she flashes me that killer smile and asks, “How’s the Mayweather job coming along?”

I gesture from my torso all the way down to my legs then sniff the air for effect. “Great, but do you have anything to get the scent of douche off me?”

She points to the shelves on the far wall of our office and deadpans, “Top shelf. Left side. I got a new anti-asshole spray last week. But it sometimes takes a few pumps to really work. So work it good, ’kay?”

I give her a thumbs-up, pretend to grab a can of aerosol and douse myself with it, then put it back. “There. All better.”

I grab the ratty mustard-colored chair across from her desk and sink down in it. Clients don’t come here; the office is just for us, so we can skimp on furniture.

She twirls the pen in her hand. “So who caused the contamination today? Was it Floyd or Kevin the oily electrician you tried to put a chokehold on?”

“Oily Kevin needed the chokehold. Agree or disagree?”

She nods. “Completely agree. There’s so much agreement in me, I can’t imagine how much more I could possibly agree.”

“The chokehold was one hundred percent certifiably necessary,” I add, since Kevin had hit on her when he stopped by a few weeks ago. Here’s the thing—Natalie could dropkick him in the blink of an eye. She could slam him to the ground herself. But that shit he pulled with the leering and lewd comments does not fly with me. I would have done the same if a dude tried to get fresh with my little sister, Josie, at the bakery where she works. So I’d dropped a hand on Kevin’s shoulder, Vulcan style, and promptly escorted him the fuck out of my office. No one, and I mean no one, gets to put the moves on my employees.