My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

Bruce was right. It’s a good thing I spent all that money to major in books.

“Well…” I shrug and force a smile to my face that probably looks like I’m suffering from an ugly bout of constipation. “I guess it’s worth a shot, huh?”

“Definitely worth a shot.” He chuckles, and I swear to God, his laugh vibrates all the way from his throat, across the counter, and hits me like a bullet, square in the chest.

It’s so unfair. Your childhood crush isn’t supposed to get more handsome. He’s supposed to grow a beer gut and get wrinkles and just…not look like this.

I, on the other hand, am apparently too bland to even trigger a memory.

Thankfully, I manage to place his order without making the computer explode, and once the delivery is set and scheduled, I give him the cost. “The total is $52.30, and the bouquet will be delivered to your mom’s Florida address next Monday.”

“Perfect,” Milo responds with a soft smile as he pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers. “So, are you new to the area or just the shop?”

“Uh…yeah…sort of… I just moved to Chelsea.”

He hands me his credit card—a shiny, black, rich-person’s credit card.

And, from what I know of Milo, he is a rich person. A billion-dollar kind of rich person for whom my brother now works, in fact.

Evan is the CFO of Milo’s company Fuse, and he currently runs their Austin office.

And I am simply his best friend’s twenty-four-year-old sister, with no great career, friend, or dating prospects, whom he doesn’t even fucking recognize…

The comparison is rock-bottom depressing.

Jesus. My track record of bumbling and awkward is unparalleled. Seriously. Guinness World Records should be calling me any day now.

The transaction goes through without any issues, obviously, and I hand him back his shiny card.

“Thank you for your help,” he says and slips the card back into his wallet. “Please let Bruce and Betty know that Milo says hello.”

All I can do is nod at this point. It’s gone too far. There’s no fix for my foolish blundering now.

With a simple wave, he turns on his heels and heads toward the door.

As soon as I’m sure he’s gone, I do what anyone would do in my situation.

I lean forward and bang my head against the counter.

What in the hell just happened?

Milo fucking Ives and a hideous display of no confidence, that’s what happened.

Ugh.

Just like that, my brain is off to the races, taking me way back when, to the good old days when I was thirteen years old and doodling Mrs. Maybe Ives all over my Lisa Frank notebooks.

The damn memories burst out like a geyser.

The way I used to spend the majority of my days trying to find excuses to go into my brother’s room just to talk to Milo.

The way I was convinced I would marry him when I got older. How I was certain he would be the man to take my virginity. And how I’d even named our future kids.

Jesus.

I distract my mind with getting rid of dead flowers and rearranging the fresh flower bins, and by the time I step back behind the counter, I’ve nearly forgotten all about the fact that Milo was in the shop and didn’t recognize me.

Hah. Right.

Frustrated, I slam my hand on the counter next to the computer mouse, and the small jump is apparently enough to bring the screen back to life.

A screen that holds all kinds of interesting things.

His name.

His order.

And his phone number.

On impulse, I slide my phone out of my pocket and input the digits into my contacts.

My earlier behavior is evidence enough that I’ll never use it, but it couldn’t hurt to have it just in case.

Right?

Maybe

After putting in eight hours with grumpy Bruce, I finish my day by stopping at the coffee shop up the street from my apartment. Aptly named Jovial Grinds, it has become the bright spot at the end of nearly all of my days.

With stainless-steel countertops, checkerboard black-and-white tiled floors, and walls cluttered with abstract art, this hip spot has the best damn coffee in Chelsea and a much better atmosphere for me to focus on my ongoing job search than the flower shop and Evan’s apartment.

Believe me, if Goldilocks had been on the hunt for a career in publishing, she’d say the same.

Although, while I’d love to say I’m all business when I’m here, I have to admit it’s more accurately a combination of working a little, acting like I’m working when I’m not, people watching, and eavesdropping on the barista’s conversations.

But it’s the last that’s stolen most of my attention. From what I’ve gathered, her name is Lena and she’s worked here for a little over a year.

I know this because her boss reminds her of this fact often, mostly when she’s complaining about some item on her to-do list and suggesting it should be a part of someone else’s job description.