My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

Jesus. This not at all where I want this conversation to go.

I’d much prefer to keep my wild and crazy past just that. In the damn past.

So, I do my best to change the subject.

Me: What are your plans tonight?

Maybe: OH MY GOD. YOU HAVE DONE IT

Me: How about Tuesday night? Do you want to grab some dinner Tuesday night?

Maybe: I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’VE DONE IT.

Me: Personally, I’m in the mood for Mexican.

Maybe: Do you DP often???

Fucking hell. She’s relentless.

Me: I’m not much of a threesome kind of guy, Maybe.

Maybe: What’s that supposed to mean?

Me: It means, when I’m with a woman, I’m selfish. I like to have her all to myself. Plus, I’m not a twenty-one-year-old bastard anymore who looks at sex like it’s some kind of challenge to try anything and everything. It was a one-time experience when I was a wild college kid. And not one I want to repeat. It’s just not my style.

Maybe: OMG you did it in college. PLEASE GOD DO NOT TELL ME THE SECOND COCK WAS MY BROTHER’S

Me: That sentence is disturbing on so many levels. But no, Evan and I didn’t make a porno version of Three’s Company.

Maybe: THANK GOD. I thought I was going to have to give up food for the day.

Me: LOL You’re safe.

Maybe: If threesomes aren’t your style, then what is?

Back to the sex. Just when I thought I’d escaped at least somewhat unscathed. Still, I can’t help but answer her honestly.

Me: Thorough. Sex for me isn’t a sprint. It’s a marathon. I like to take my time. Explore. Savor it. And I don’t like to fucking share.

Maybe: Are you sexting me right now?

Me: HAHA. Nice one. And no, you asked, and I’m nothing if not honest.

Maybe: Well, your honesty is…well… Anyway… So, about that dinner?

Hmm…I’m far too intrigued by her sudden change in tune.

Me: Are you aroused right now, kid?

No response.

Me: Shall I change the subject to dinner?

Maybe: Yes.

But before I can respond and successfully steer our dangerous conversation to safer territories, she sends another one.

Maybe: Mexican takeout. Your place Tuesday night. And I have a surprise.

Me: What kind of surprise?

Maybe: If I tell you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, silly. You get the food (I’m a crunchy taco and chips and salsa kind of gal) and I’ll meet you at your place around seven.

Me: You drive a hard bargain. But fine. See you Tuesday at 7.

I send up a prayer that Maybe’s surprise isn’t showing me her wrong-day underwear. Because, fuck, I’m not sure if I’d be able to handle it.

Please God. If anything, send Maybe to my apartment Tuesday in a parka.

Maybe

A little after seven, I make my way to Milo’s apartment building. It’s a large, sophisticated looking structure on Park Avenue, otherwise known as one of the richest streets in New York.

Part of me wanted to strangle Lena for not telling me what DP was and encouraging me to text Milo instead. Because holy balls, it’s a little embarrassing I legit thought it meant some kind of double orgasm thing. But another part of me, the one that’s about to have a quiet dinner with Milo, is damned thankful for it.

I can’t deny it was one of the catalysts that brought me right here—standing outside of his swanky apartment building.

A doorman—yes, a fucking doorman—lets me inside.

Once I give him my name, he leads me toward an elevator off the beaten path of the marble encased lobby and escorts me to the sixteenth floor.

Per Gill’s update, “Mr. Ives is expecting you.”

The instant I reach Milo’s floor, the elevator opens directly into his flipping apartment.

He greets me in the foyer in bare feet, a pair of jeans, and a gray T-shirt.

Hell’s bells, bare feet on a man has never looked so damn sexy before.

“Exactly how rich are you?” It’s the first question that pops out of my mouth, and Milo smirks.

“What makes you ask that?”

I look around his place dramatically.

Well, the entrance of his place. Which is damn near the size of my living room.

“Because your building, your apartment…well, these are some swanky digs, Mr. Ives.”

He groans. “You can go ahead and drop the Mr. Ives unless you want me to feel like an old man again.”

I giggle. “Well, you are, like, six years older than me so…”

He rolls his eyes. “Are we going to stand here and discuss my old age or head inside and eat some food?”

“Hmm…” I tap my chin, but he doesn’t give me any time. Instead, he steps forward, tosses me over his strong shoulder and carries me through the foyer, down the hallway, and into the kitchen.

“You can put me down now!” I shout through a giggle.

Milo sets me on the expansive kitchen island and proceeds to grab some plates and cutlery for our food.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Ms. Willis?”