My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

Six years older than me, and my brother Evan’s best friend since elementary school, Milo Ives was the unattainable apple of my girlish eye for as long as I can remember, and now, he’s standing right in front of me.

As he looks up from his phone, he flashes a handsome and oh-so-familiar smile my way, and my chest tightens like a damn vise.

When I was eleven, for six straight months, after his parents relocated to Florida for his dad’s job, Milo lived with us to finish out his senior year in high school.

He was busy galivanting with Evan and countless girls, and I…well, I was counting his smiles.

Sleepy, morning smiles. Excited smiles. Amused smiles. Annoyed smiles. You name it, and I memorized it like a swoony-eyed little psycho.

“Hello,” he greets, and his voice is deeper, raspier, sexier than I remember.

Probably because the last time you saw him, you were thirteen years old…

“H-hi,” I stutter through one simple fucking word.

Sheesh, it’s going to be a long encounter if I don’t get my shit together.

It takes an insane amount of work, but I finally get my feet to move me over behind the counter.

Jesus. How can he still have this effect on me?

One would think, a decade later, I’d be impervious to his good looks and natural charm.

I clear my throat once, twice, three times, and still, awkward misery fully engaged, I’m unable to find my voice.

His gorgeous smile deepens, and I have to put a hand to the counter to counteract the gravitational effect it has on my knees.

Just say something, Maybe. Ask him how things have been. Ask him how he’s been.

My cheeks heat and my stomach feels heavy, and I’m now painfully conscious of the coffee stain on my white shirt from this morning.

Just do something besides standing here like a moron.

I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear with a shaky hand and force out three simple words. “H-how are you?”

“I guess I’m doing pretty good for a Monday,” he responds, and that smile turns soft on his lips. “Are you new here?”

“New here?” I repeat his words, and he nods.

“I’ve known the Willis family for a long time. Did you just start working for them?”

He’s known the Willis family? Just start working for them?

“I come in here every month or so,” he adds with a smirk that quite literally could drop panties. “It’s possible I missed you, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember seeing you here.”

Instantly, my underwear stops dissolving, and my pride takes a hike instead.

Milo Ives, the star of all of my teenage fantasies, has no idea who I am.

My pits are sweating so hard they’re testing the strength of my deodorant while I try to come up with the perfect thing to say to his strong-jawed, plush-lipped face, and He. Doesn’t. Even. Remember. Me.

Oh my God.

“I…uh…just started working here two weeks ago,” I push out impulsively, and I have to clear the awkward cobwebs that have developed inside my throat.

Seriously, Maybe? Instead of righting this awkward situation and saying, “Hey, Milo. It’s Maybe, Evan’s sister. Remember?”, you’re just going to go with the whole “we don’t know each other” vibe?!

“You’ll love it here,” he says, and genuine affection highlights the deep, raspy tones of his too-sexy voice. “The Willises are good people.”

Yeah. Sigh. I know.

“Uh-huh.”

Path of least resistance solidified, it becomes apparent Willises can be idiots too.

“Well, I just need to put in an order for a bouquet.” Too busy berating myself in my head, I just stare at him, and after the silence stretches on for ten seconds too long, he evidently feels the pressure to add, “It’s for my mom’s birthday next week…”

“Oh…oh…okay… You want to order something…”

“Yes. I would like to order something. Well, flowers, to be specific.” He grins. “The order will be under Milo Ives. I should already have a profile in the system.”

Yeah, ha. I nod. I’m painfully aware of your name.

It takes a good thirty seconds for me to realize this is the part where I use the computer to take his order, and after fumbling with the mouse and the keyboard like some kind of technology reject for an additional thirty seconds, I’ve officially done my part in giving millennials a bad name. Eventually, though, somehow, some-magical-way, I manage to pull up the order screen.

“Do you have any recommendations?” he asks, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.

“Recommendations?”

“For a birthday bouquet.”

Oh, right. The whole reason he’s here. Ha. Ha-ha-ha. My God, someone help me.

“Uh…well…we…uh… We have a white lily bouquet that a lot of people love…”

“Does that white lily bouquet also encourage forgiveness from a mother to her son because he often forgets to call and check in with her?”

He’s being all teasing and joking and charming, but I’m still too damn busy trying to recover from the initial shock of his presence and apparent amnesia of my existence to speak my given language effectively.