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“Did you finally get some dick?”

Now it’s my turn to gasp.

“Oh my God! Will you stop it with that?”

“No. I absolutely will not. Girl, how long has it been?”

Another rustle.

“Who is it?” a sleepy male voice asks in the background.

“Layla.”

“Is she okay?”

“She's fine. She got some dick tonight and I need to hear about it.”

“What?”

“Go back to sleep, baby.”

By now, my cheeks are burning with embarrassment. Thank goodness Cat’s husband is cool AF.

“Tell Mark I'm sorry.”

“She says she's sorry,” Cat whispers.

“Tell her she should be. But congrats on the dick.”

“Oh my God! THERE IS NO DICK!”

“Shhh! My man is sleeping, you know,” she murmurs, and I can hear her shuffling through her room.

I grin despite myself.

I've known Catherine since we were teenagers, when we attended the same all-girls prep school and bonded over our mutual hatred of plaid skirts, mandatory chapel, and girls named Bitsy who somehow already had investment portfolios at sixteen.

Cat is great. Annoying as hell. But great.

She's married now. Two kids. Mortgage. An awful gray minivan that she swore she'd never own. Even better? She believes in me.

Really believes in me.

Which means more than I can explain because being a reporter in the age of AI, fake news, clickbait, shrinking budgets, and people screaming bias whenever they don't like the facts is fucking hard.

Having an editor who trusts my instincts? Priceless.

Having that same editor obsessed with my nonexistent sex life? Less helpful.

“Seriously,” Cat continues, “you know you're not supposed to call me in the middle of the night unless there's an emergency or I get to live vicariously through you.”

“Why would you live vicariously through me?”

“Single. No kids. Traveling around, interviewing hot athletes and powerful men. Come on.”

“When have I ever randomly hooked up with hot men?”

“Exactly. You're wasting your potential.”