My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

by Max Monroe

  “He actually texted me last night.”

  “Who texted you last night?”

  “Milo. During my date. He was texting me to make sure I was okay.”

  “Well, hot damn, momma!” she exclaims. “I did not expect that to happen.”

  “It doesn’t matter, though,” I add. “He was out last night too. With a woman.”

  “Yeah, but he was texting you.”

  “So?”

  “Girl,” she says, and her voice rises three octaves. “He was texting you while he was out with a woman. If that isn’t a fan-fucking-tastic sign, I don’t know what is.”

  I grin. I can’t help it. The excitement in Lena’s voice is like crack.

  “Have you talked to him since?”

  “He made me text him when I got home last night, but other than that, no. I haven’t talked to him today.”

  A picture message, mind you, in which I couldn’t stop myself from throwing on my right-day-of-the-week panties, my cutest tank top, and snapping a picture of me lying on my bed before hitting send.

  Surprisingly, his response back was almost immediate and didn’t disappoint.

  No living dangerously, kid? I’m almost a little sad about that. But definitely happy to know you made it home safe and sound, in the right apartment, and without the risk of ending up in some psycho’s trunk.

  And my far-too-hopeful, swoony-eyed little psycho took that as a good sign that his non-date date wasn’t anything to write home about.

  Wishful thinking? Probably.

  But it seems I can’t help myself when it comes to him.

  It seems? HA. More like it’s been that way since you were eleven.

  “Let me get this straight.” Lena pulls my attention back to the present. “He texted you during your date, and then he told you to text him when you got home from your date?”

  “He wanted to make sure I got home safely.”

  She snorts. “Oh yeah, I’m sure that’s all he wanted.”

  “What are you getting at here?”

  “He may have been saying it under the pretense of your safety, but the fact that you were on a date with some guy, a guy who was not him, was seriously screwing with his subconscious.”

  “I think you might be exaggerating this a bit here…”

  “I know how men think. And Milo is trying like hell not to think about you in the way he really wants to think about you.”

  Her comment leaves me speechless, and I stare at the bucket of pink roses near the front door of the shop. It’s equal parts too much to process and hard to believe.

  But my inner swoony-eyed little psycho is apparently having no issues comprehending it all. She’s grabbed a pair of pom-poms and is cheering, “I. Told. You. So!” inside my head.

  Ugh. It’s all so confusing.

  “Stop overthinking this, Maybe. The man is into you, whether he is wanting to admit it or not.” The certainty in her voice is mind-boggling. “And now, we must move on to the next step in our plan.”

  I quirk a brow. “And what’s that?”

  “You’re going to come to a party with me in SoHo on Friday,” she starts. “And you’re going to talk Milo into meeting us there.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Just trust the process, honey. Everything is coming up roses.”

  After we make plans to grab lunch together tomorrow, we end the call, and I’m left with the task of trying to talk Milo into going to some house party that is apparently a friend of a friend of a friend of Lena’s.

  Sheesh. Sometimes I think she overestimates my abilities with shit like this.

  I stare down at my phone and contemplate the best way to start this conversation.

  But instead of letting my overthinking tendencies get the best of me, I dive right in.

  Me: Just so you’re aware, you have a party to go to Friday night. It’s a big deal and really important for you, and just because you’ll be lonely if I don’t, I plan to come with you.

  To my surprise, he responds a few minutes later.

  Milo: So, really, YOU have a party to go to, and you want MY company.

  Me: I guess you COULD put it that way.

  Milo: Do I get a say in any of this?

  Me: Think of it like that lunch you forced me to go to with you, but instead of choosing the restaurant, I’ll let you choose what time you want to meet me there.

  Milo: That’s mighty generous of you.

  I’m smiling like a loon as I type out my response.

  Me: I know, right? Add some rosary beads around my neck, and I’m basically Mother Teresa.

  Milo: Mind telling me what kind of party this is or even where it is? That might come in handy if I’m meeting you there.

  Me: I don’t know…it’s a party in SoHo. One that will most likely have booze and too loud music and, by midnight, a lot of drunk people.

  Milo: That sounds horrible.

  Me: Yeah, but do you really want to leave me on my own to navigate a party like that by myself? If you think the ratio of me to serial killer is high on a date, think of what it must be at a party.

  Milo: Jesus. You drive a hard bargain.

  Me: I’ll text you the address when my friend Lena sends it to me.

  Milo: I thought you said you were going to be on your own?

  Me: Lena doesn’t count. She’s a girl. I need some muscle to back me up if shit goes down.

  Milo: Who is throwing this party? The mob?

  Me: HA. Very funny. But I really don’t know the host, and this IS New York. So, it could be. I’ll see you Friday night.

  Milo: You’re a real pain in my ass, kid.

  Hmm…and I thought this Saturday was going to be total shit…

  It seems like Lena is right. Everything is coming up roses.

  Milo-colored roses.

  Milo-roses.

  Milo-oses.

  Yeah. Okay. That’s enough play on words, you weirdo.

  Milo

  A little after ten, I step off the elevator and directly into the spacious penthouse of a young New York socialite by the name of Daphne Ares. Apparently, Maybe’s new friend Lena has friends in the highest of places in this city.

  Not that I give two shits about schmoozing it up with the famous names of New York—I’m only here at Maybe’s persistent request.

  Yeah, right, you bastard. You would have swindled your way into coming to this party the minute you heard she was coming—even if she didn’t invite you.

  It’s only been a week since she demanded my attendance tonight, and for the last five or so days, between our constant text messages and occasional phone calls, she hasn’t let me forget that I agreed to be here.

  So, despite my better judgment, here I am.

  And I wish I could say I’m dreading it, but when my heart kicks up in speed at the thought of seeing her here, it’s apparent dread isn’t even in my vocabulary tonight.

  I walk down a long, marble-floored corridor, and the instant I reach the main space, I’m hit with the thumping bass coming from the speakers of the DJ at the center of the room.

  The room is filled with mostly twentysomethings dancing and laughing and just living it up on someone else’s dime.

  Fucking socialite parties.

  It only took one of these shindigs thrown by a trust-fund baby for me to realize this was not and would never be my scene. I was twenty-six, Fuse had just started to gain success in the tech market, and Caplin Hawkins had dragged me to Tribeca to party it up with a young heiress to a hotel chain.

  Her name was Christina Hellman, and if my memory serves me right, Cap fucked her in the bathroom while I fended off three twenty-year-old girls who wanted me to go snort coke with them on the balcony.

  Personally, I’ve always been more of a fan of my brain cells and sobriety than the temporary high that drugs and alcohol can provide.

  I’d make a perfect D.A.R.E. spokesperson. Just say no to drugs and all that.

  Once I make my way throu
gh the throng of drunken dancers, I spot Maybe in the corner of the room, a smile on her lips while she chats with a blond-haired woman and a man wearing a fucking Fedora and a douchebag smile.

  God, I might be only in my thirties, but I feel entirely too old for this crowd.

  The instant I reach their little group, Maybe’s big brown eyes meet mine, and my chest tightens at how damn beautiful she looks.

  Long brown locks brush against a flowy pale-pink top, tight jeans hug her little ass and long legs, and a pair of nude stilettos have her standing a few inches taller than her normally petite height.

  She looks like a fucking treat, and I mentally chastise myself for enjoying the view so much.

  “You’re here,” she says, and she steps past her friends to wrap her small arms around me in a big hug. “I can’t believe you actually came.”

  “Well, if I recall, I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  She giggles and I smile. I can’t fucking help it. She’s the perfect mix of cute and sexy and I’m certain I’m losing brain cells trying not to gawk at her.

  “Milo, I’d like you to meet my friend Lena,” she introduces and gestures toward the blond woman in a dress that reminds me of hippies and Woodstock.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you,” I say, and her smile is knowing and secretive at the same time.

  “Trust me, the feeling is mutual.”

  The douche in the Fedora holds out his hand and introduces himself. “I’m Canyon.”

  Canyon? His name is Canyon? God, I shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Milo,” I say and shake his hand.

  “Canyon is a photographer for New York Weekly,” Lena offers up. “And for the last fifteen minutes, he’s been trying to talk Maybe into modeling for an article showcasing this fall’s most up-and-coming fashion.”

  I narrow my eyes at her words, and the sudden urge to have a word with the hipster bastard is so strong, I can taste it. I know how assholes like this work, and I’d have to be ten feet underground before I’d let him use a photo shoot as a pathetic guise to get into Maybe’s panties.

  Not that she’s not beautiful.

  But he doesn’t give a shit about some article for New York Weekly. His true motives are written all over his slimy-fucking-face.

  “He was kidding.” Maybe rolls her eyes, and Canyon shakes his head.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “See?” Lena grins. “I told you he wasn’t kidding.”

  “Well, he should be kidding,” Maybe retorts, and before the photographer prick can respond with words I probably shouldn’t hear, a big, boisterous voice grabs everyone’s attention.

  “Milo fucking Ives! You have got to be kidding me!”

  I turn around to find the one and only Caplin Hawkins striding toward me with a big, shit-eating grin on his face.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he crows. “Sometimes, Mr. Workaholic does come out to play!”

  I roll my eyes, but I also grin when he slaps his arm around my back for his version of a bro-hug. “What are the damn odds I’d see you out and about in SoHo tonight? And at a fucking house party, at that.”

  But before I even get a chance to respond, Lena is stepping forward and shoving two hands into Cap’s chest.

  “Seriously, bro?” she mutters. “Can I go to one damn party without your big ass showing up?”

  He laughs. “Aw, I love you too, little sis.”

  Little sis?

  I glance back and forth between them, and it doesn’t take a genius to recognize the resemblance.

  Same eyes. Same chin. Same nose.

  Maybe’s new friend Lena is Cap’s sister.

  What are the damn odds?

  Although, I can’t deny Lena is far more feminine and better-looking than that already big-headed, good-looking bastard I call a friend. And if she is anything like her older brother, I’m slightly terrified that this is who Maybe has been palling around with for the past few weeks.

  Maybe looks between us, obviously as surprised as I am that her friend is related to someone I know.

  “Maybe, this is my brother, Cap,” Lena introduces them, and her brother offers his infamous overly friendly smile.

  But by the time he’s offered his greeting and given her a hug, realization starts to show behind his eyes.

  “Wait…your name is Maybe?”

  She nods, and immediately, he looks at me.

  “Evan’s sister, Maybe?”

  Oh shit, here we go.

  “You know my brother?” she asks innocently, and Cap grins like the Cheshire cat.

  “Yep. I know him and,” he says and reaches out to wrap a strong arm around my shoulders, “this bozo right here.”

  Both girls miss the meaning behind his words, but I don’t.

  I know exactly what’s running through his nosy-fucking-mind.

  “So, let me guess,” he continues and meets Maybe’s eyes. “You’re the reason Milo decided to pull his head out of his workaholic ass and come out for the night.”

  She shrugs. “Well, in his defense, I wasn’t really taking no for an answer.”

  Cap just grins like he’s got Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket in his pocket. “Man am I glad I decided to show up at this party tonight. Lots going on.”

  The rat bastard doesn’t have to utter another word for me to know exactly what he’s saying.

  You’re here with Evan’s off-limits sister, Maybe, and you can bet your ass I’m not going to let this one go until you spill-the-fucking-beans.

  Son of a bitch.

  “It was a great party until you showed up,” Lena grumbles, but Cap just laughs it off and turns his attention to her.

  “C’mon, little sis. I have someone I want you to meet.”

  Lena puts a defiant hand to her hip. “Who?”

  “Does it really matter?” he questions with a grin.

  “Yes, actually, it does.”

  Cap ignores her completely, and with an arm around her shoulders, he all but forces her to follow his lead.

  “Girl, please excuse me for a minute while I go kick my stupid brother’s ass!” she calls over her shoulder.

  Maybe laughs, and it doesn’t take long before they disappear into the throng of dancers in the center of the room and completely out of sight.

  But Canyon, the moron, is still standing here, looking at Maybe like he’s trying to come up with another pathetic excuse to get her on her own.

  It takes all of two seconds for me to step in before he has a chance to utter a single word.

  “You want to grab a drink?” I ask her, and she immediately nods.

  “Yes, please.”

  I can’t stop myself from reaching out and taking her hand into mine as we head toward the bar set up in the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” she whispers toward me, and I quirk a brow as I look down at her.

  “For what?”

  “For saving me from that creep.”

  “You had it handled. I was just trying to save us all from the scene I knew you’d make, kid.” I smirk. “It’s bad manners to turn into a little pit bull at a snobby socialite’s party.”

  She giggles at that, and it’s like music to my ears.

  And just like that, I’m lost in her fucking cuteness.

  Cap forgotten.

  Canyon really long forgotten.

  Maybe’s hand in mine seared into my memories forever.

  Maybe

  “Girl,” Lena whispers as we step inside one of the large bathrooms on the second floor of the penthouse. “Things are looking good from where I’m standing.”

  Two minutes ago, she interrupted my conversation with Milo on the balcony under the pretense of needing to talk to me for a minute and all but dragged my ass up the stairs and into this insanely ornate and ridiculously huge bathroom.

  “Dang, how much money does this chick have?” I question as I peer around the expansive, all-marble space. “I mean, this bathroom is bigger than my damn apartment, and it’s
not even the master bathroom. It’s a guest bedroom bathroom. Like how—”

  “Forget about the damn bathroom, Mayb,” Lena cuts me off and pulls herself up to take a seat on the large, double-sink countertop. “Shit is about to go down tonight.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “What?”

  “It is going down, honey,” she repeats. “We are going to make sure that Milo takes you home, and then, you are going to plant a big fat juicy kiss on his lips.”

  “What?” I watch my eyes go wide in the reflection of the giant mirror behind her. “You are insane.”

  The night has been going pretty much perfectly.

  Milo actually showed up, and we’ve spent the last two hours just chatting and drinking out on the balcony.

  I’m afraid to rock the boat by doing something crazy like kissing him.

  “When are you going to learn that I’m aces at reading people?” She smirks like the devil. “Between the way he nearly went all caveman on that idiot photographer and hasn’t left your side for the past two hours, he’s practically ordered a neon sign describing the way he feels about you and set it up over your head. It’s time for you to make a move.”

  Make a move? On Milo?

  Holy fried potatoes, I might start hyperventilating.

  “I don’t…I’m not… Fucking hell, Lena, this is freaking me out.”

  “Girl.” She hops off the counter and places two steady hands on my shoulders. “Just take a breath.”

  I stare at her as I inhale some much-needed oxygen into my lungs and let it out slowly.

  “Let’s just look at the big picture here, okay?”

  I nod.

  “You like Milo.”

  I nod again. I do like Milo. I’ve always liked Milo. Now that I’ve gotten to know him as an adult, I’m borderline obsessed.

  “And over the past few weeks, he’s shown enough signs to prove that, although he wants to see you as just his best friend’s little sis, he can’t. The man is into you, whether or not either of you is ready to admit it to yourselves.”