My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

She laughs again. “Well, good news is that who you went out on the date with doesn’t matter. The point was that Milo knew you were on a date. Which he did, so it’s safe to say our goal was achieved.”

“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.