My Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend

by Monroe, Max

  But seeing as we’ve never actually had a conversation, I don’t know anything more about her than her outward appearance.

  Nevertheless, I get the feeling she’s living the kind of life I want for myself—happy, confident, and filled with enough drama to keep it interesting. Not to mention, given her obvious gift for flirtation, it’s probably safe to say she’s held more than two penises in her hands and knows what it feels like to have one in other places too.

  I take a sip of my coffee and try to focus on the task at hand—sending out more job applications and interview requests, but fuck, it’s hard to focus.

  Graduating from school and moving into the real world has been a big adjustment.

  With classes, I always had something to focus on. A task at hand, an assignment to turn in.

  The uncertainty I feel now is a stark contrast. In fact, with more than a hundred resumes floating out in the wild, and only a limited number of publishers to pursue, I feel like I’m sitting idle, just waiting for something to happen.

  What that something is, I have no idea.

  I mean, who says I’ll even get up the courage to pounce on an opportunity when the time is right?

  Seeing Milo Ives at the shop today has been the most exciting, adrenaline-inducing thing that’s happened over the last two weeks, and I couldn’t even muster the courage to tell him who I was.

  What is wrong with me?

  I take a sip from my cup and swallow the cooling coffee along with my sigh. Barista Lena is two tables over, chatting with a handsome, tatted customer in a beanie, and I’m…doing nothing.

  Aggravated, I swipe my phone off the table and start scrolling through apps to occupy my mind. When none of the useless drivel satisfies me, I go back to the beginning and stare at the little phone icon where I know my list of contacts is.

  Where I know Milo’s illegally procured number is.

  What could it hurt? I mean, who knows? I might be able to right my awkward wrong and have a conversation with him where I don’t have to pretend I’m a complete stranger?

  Stranger things have happened…right?

  I squeeze my eyes tight and my fist closed, but when I open both of those, I also open a new text message.

  Okay. First of all, just be cool, Maybe.

  Just be cool and say hello. It’s literally that simple.

  Hi, Milo! It’s Maybe! I actually saw you at the shop today and you didn’t exactly recognize me, but the girl who took your order was me! Hahahahaha! CRAZY, RIGHT?

  Cheese and rice. Why am I shouting at him?

  Delete.

  Hey, Milo. It’s Maybe. Maybe Willis. Evan’s sister. Do you remember me?

  Considering I was standing right in front of him today and he thought I was a complete stranger, this seems moot.

  Delete.

  Yo yo yo, Milo.

  Son of a weirdo. Delete.

  So…just out of curiosity…you didn’t happen to suffer some sort of brain injury that makes you forget people, did you? Oh, ha. It’s Maybe Willis, by the way.

  Valid question, but ugh. Delete.

  I start to type out what will be my thirtieth failed text message, but an actual human interrupts me. “Hey there.”

  It’s Lena the barista, and she’s talking to me. Not to be dramatic or anything, but I’ve been coming in here for two weeks, and I don’t think this has ever happened before.

  “How’s it going?” she asks while I glance over my shoulder to make sure there’s not another customer behind me.

  When all I find behind me is wall, I shrug, look side to side almost comically, and then answer. “Pretty good, I guess.”

  Her keen blue eyes search mine. “Do you know that you have the prettiest aura I think I’ve ever seen?”

  Uh…what?

  “Aura?” I ask with an awkward titter in my throat.

  “Yes, girl.” Her smile is bright and beaming. “Your vibe. Your spirit. Your aura. It’s the prettiest shade of pink I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Well…thanks, I think?” I respond with a tilt of my head. “I mean, I’m not quite sure what all that means, but it sounds pretty good.”

  “Trust me, it’s good,” she says through a small laugh. “Your name is Maybe, right?”

  At first, I’m surprised she knows who I am. Like, maybe she has the ability to read minds or something in addition to auras. But a quick glance down at the table—and my coffee cup—reminds me that she’s been writing it for the last two weeks.

  “It is. Maybe Willis. Well, Mabel Willis, but everyone calls me Maybe.”

  “That’s a cool nickname,” she says, holding out a hand for me to shake and then turning the chair opposite me around so she can straddle it backward. “I’m Lena Hawkins.”

  I look around the shop, actually nervous for her that she’s being so lax about working, but she pulls my focus back to our conversation pretty easily.

  “So, I’ve noticed you’re starting to turn into a bit of a regular around here. Do you live close by?”

  “Just around the corner,” I say hesitantly as Bruce’s warnings about stranger danger play uninvited in my head. I never really thought of skin glistening with glitter as something associated with a serial killer, but I guess you never know. “I just moved back to the city two weeks ago.”

  “Really? You don’t seem like a transplant.”

  I smile at that, wondering if maybe Lena’s been watching me a little bit too. The thought is exhilarating for a disenchanted introvert like me. “I’m an original New Yorker,” I say with a smirk. “I was in California finishing my master’s degree, and now I’m back, trying to survive the pits of hell that is job hunting.”

  Lena smiles, but it’s a little forlorn. “At least you’re looking. I’m twenty-seven, and I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.”

  I let out a relieved sigh. “I may know the job I’m looking for, but I’m hella far from having it all figured out,” I assure her.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” she responds, leaning into the table with her chest. “I’m about the most indecisive person you’ll ever meet. Career. Apartments. Boyfriends. I never seem to be able to find exactly what I want.”

  “Your name should be Maybe,” I say with a smirk, and she laughs.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ve decided. We’re going to be friends.”

  Wait…what?

  “We’re going to be friends?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s officially settled. You and I are going to be friends,” she answers without hesitation, like this is a completely normal way to start a friendship.

  “And you say you’re indecisive,” I tease.

  A soft laugh escapes her lips. “No time to change like the present, right?” She starts to open her mouth to say more, but two customers walk in the door and head toward the counter. “Shit,” she mutters and jumps up. “I better get back to it.”

  “Oh, okay.” I glance to the now-busy counter and back at her. “Well, it was great chatting with you.”

  “Girl.” Lena laughs and nudges my shoulder with her hand. “We are friends now. This isn’t a one-time thing.”

  She pulls her phone out of the back pocket of her skinny jeans, and before she heads back to the counter, we exchange numbers and she pretty much demands that we hang out—outside of Jovial Grinds—soon.

  By the time I leave the shop about twenty minutes later, I can barely even believe the interaction happened, but a text message from her a short while later confirms it.

  Lena: Keep next Tuesday free. I’m off work, have a little extra cash that NEEDS to be spent, and you’re going to have lunch and go shopping with me.

  Apparently, when Lena decides you’re going to be friends, she fucking means it. I guess there’s a chance she’ll turn out to be the first mass murderer to have a smiling cartoon butterfly tattooed on her shoulder, but I’m lonely enough—and she’s fun enough—that I’m willing to take my chances.

  Honestly, the mere
idea of it makes me smile, but just before I can shoot her a message back, my phone vibrates in my hands and the screen flashes with Incoming Call Evan.

  I answer it on the second ring.

  “What are you doing?” he asks by way of greeting, and instantly, his voice reminds me of seeing Milo in the shop this afternoon.

  But it takes exactly one second for me to squash it down and lock the embarrassing details of that interaction in a vault only I can open.

  My smartass of a brother would probably have a field day with his best friend not remembering me.

  Lord knows, if the situation were reversed, I sure as hell would.

  “Uh…not too much,” I answer on a sigh. “Just walking home so I can sit on my sofa and try to contemplate the meaning of life.”

  “Pretty sure you mean sit on my sofa.”

  “Shut up, asshole,” I mutter. “I know it’s your apartment. Trust me. Every time I turn around, there’s another poster just waiting to grace my nightmares. Your Suzanne Somers obsession is frightening. She’s older than Mom, you know?”

  His laughter is obnoxiously good-natured.

  Annoyed, I push it further. “Does Sadie know about your creepy grandma fantasies?”

  “Easy, sis. As your landlord, I could kick you right out of that apartment, you know?” He snorts. “And it’s not my fault you chose my apartment in Chelsea over the one on the Upper East Side.”

  “I wanted to be close to the floral shop, and we both know you and Sadie use your other place a hell of a lot more, Mr. Moneybags. My willingness to be your burden does have limits.”

  “It does?”

  “Funny ha-ha, Ev.” I roll my eyes. “And I know you kept your Chelsea apartment as an investment, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t consider a little redecoration.”

  He sighs. “Drop it, Maybe.”

  “Fine,” I grumble.

  “So, tell me, how are things in the big, bad city?”

  “Well…let’s see…” I start and smack my lips together pointedly. “I have no friends. I’m living in your apartment, working with our parents every day, and Bruce has to chauffeur me to my wisdom teeth surgery tomorrow morning. How do you think things are?”

  He snorts. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “I know it’s been like a decade since you’ve stepped foot in Bruce & Sons, but shall I remind you what it’s like to be stuck in the same building with our father for eight hours in a single day?”

  “Okay. Yeah. I get it.” A chuckle escapes his throat. “But it’s only temporary. Plus, you can’t deny you have it pretty easy compared to most college grads. You don’t have to pay rent, and even though working with our parents sucks ass, it’s still a job to tide you over until you find what you’re looking for.”

  “If you’re about to give me some kind of Bruce-inspired lecture, I’m hanging up on you.”

  “Ah, I take that to mean you know I’m right.” He laughs again. The know-it-all bastard is just whooping it up at my expense.

  “I know you’re annoying.”

  “And right.”

  “Evan.”

  “Just chill out, little sis,” he says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll find a job that doesn’t include our parents, and things will get better.”

  “Pfft.” I snort and unlock the front lobby door to my building. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. I mean, I can’t deny I’m secretly laughing at your current situation, but I know it will all work out for you. You’re crazy-smart. A publishing house would be lucky to have you.”

  “Secretly laughing?” I question. “You literally just said that while laughing. Hell, I’m pretty sure you haven’t stopped laughing since I answered your stupid call.”

  Of course, he laughs again. “Minor details, sis.”

  I’m so forlorn today that I don’t even have the strength to respond with a sarcastic rebuttal. Instead, I just sigh and walk up the three flights of stairs to my apartment.

  “So…wisdom teeth surgery? Tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Yep. I’m just living the dream,” I mutter. “Found out last week that the one and only wisdom tooth they didn’t think would have to be removed…now has to be removed.”

  Seriously. Tooth pain is no joke, and I curse the man who removed the first three wisdom teeth six years ago for not removing this one. Fucking Dr. Wendell, you bastard.

  “Are you in pain now?”

  “Besides the daily pain of hearing Bruce freak out over his flowers? No, I’m fine. They gave me some meds that eased up the tooth discomfort until the surgery.”

  “God.” He chuckles. “You sound miserable.”

  “And you sound like you’re enjoying my misery a little too much.”

  “I’m not enjoying it…that much.”

  “You really suck as a brother, you know that?”

  “Says the girl who is currently living in my apartment rent-free.”

  “A sucky brother who is into old women and annoying. Does Sadie know what a winner she’s with?” I ask and use my shoulder to keep the phone pressed to my ear as I juggle my keys out of my purse.

  “Well, she accepted my proposal, so I’m guessing probably not.”

  “Try to keep it under wraps until the wedding, yeah?” I tease. “I’d prefer to keep things as they are. It’s nice knowing you’re mostly her problem and not mine.”

  “Ha. That’s cute, you little smart aleck… And, speaking of the wedding, that’s actually why I was calling you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve set a date and location.”

  “Really?”

  “July 13th of this year.”

  I count the weeks in my head as I slide my key into the lock. “Holy hell, that’s less than two months away, bro…”

  “Yeah, but we’re keeping it small and intimate.”

  Small and intimate. I cackle and step inside my apartment. “Hearing you describe your wedding as small and intimate is nearly too much. If you start talking about lilac boutonnieres and table settings, I swear to God, I might die from shock.”

  “Let me rephrase, smartass,” he says. “Sadie said we’re keeping it small and intimate.”

  “Sure, sure, blame it all on your fiancée.” I grin. “Is it going to be in Austin?”

  “Nope. New York.”

  “Oh shit. Have you told Mom?”

  “Unfortunately, she’s my next call.”

  I laugh and toss my purse onto the kitchen counter. “Man oh man, you’re going to have a hell of a time keeping her from going nutso with the flowers.”

  “Fuck, I know.” He sighs. “All right, well, I have to head into a meeting. Talk soon?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” His deep chuckle fills my ear. “Love you too, sis.”

  We hang up a few seconds later, and I waste zero time getting down to business.

  Comfy pajama pants? Check.

  TV remote? Check.

  My ass on the couch? Check.

  But just before I can completely lose myself to a few hours of mindless TV, my phone pings from the cushion beside me.

  Lena: Also, the next time you come into JG, you need to tell me who you were texting today.

  My failed text attempts to Milo? Oh, hell no. That is not something I want to share with any-fucking-one.

  Not to mention, how in the hell would she know that? Maybe she is a psychic.

  I respond by pleading the fifth.

  Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Lena: Girl, I know what that kind of focused means. That wasn’t the look of a girl mindlessly browsing Instagram. You were texting…someone. But I’ll let you off the hook as long as you promise to go shopping with me next week.

  Me: Not going to lie…being friends with you is kind of weird…

  Lena: When you say weird, I’m pretty sure you mean FUN. And I’m also taking that last text as a blood-oath-p
romise that our lunch and shopping date for Tuesday is a go.

  Either Lena is batshit crazy or the exact kind of friend I need in New York.

  Honestly, at this point, it’s a toss-up.

  But for some unknown reason, despite her apparent proclivity for demands and threats, I’m amused by her.

  Me: LOL. Fine. Count me in.

  Lena: FANTASTIC. And PS… My motto when it comes to texting a guy I like is Just Do It.

  Me: Who says it was a guy I like?

  Lena: HA! So you WERE texting someone…

  Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.

  Me: I’m pretty sure Just Do It is owned by Nike.

  Lena: And look at how far it’s taken them…

  Yeah, despite my momentary lapse in judgment at Jovial Grinds, hell will freeze over, JK Rowling will give me a call to edit her next book, and Bruce will stop nearly shitting himself whenever his shipment of Gerbera daisies is running behind schedule before I’d actually think about hitting send on a text message to Milo Ives.

  Milo

  The warm, late-spring air hits my face as I step out of the back seat of my driver Sam’s Escalade, and I button the front of my suit jacket and take a breath.

  I’ve lived here nearly my entire life, and still, the city’s sounds are almost overwhelming. Taxi cabs honk as they try to race through red lights, pedestrians clamor for their place on busy sidewalks, and a fire truck’s siren blares somewhere in the distance.

  It’s just a little after six thirty on a weekday evening, but instead of going home, I’m heading to dinner at Motel Morris with a woman by the name of Rosemary Cook.

  Ever since I landed on Forbes Richest List and was apparently named one of New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors on Page Six, my assistant Clara has more than earned her salary fielding calls from hungry media sources.