My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

“And how exactly do I do that?”

“Did you download TapNext on your phone?”

I cringe. “Not yet…”

“Jesus,” she mutters and holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Give me your phone, Maybe.”

On a sigh, I unlock the screen and hand it to her.

It takes ten minutes, but by the time I leave the coffee shop to head back to Bruce & Sons, TapNext is downloaded on to my phone and Lena has set up an entire dating profile for me. Bio, photo, the whole-fucking-shebang.

When I go into the back room to put my apron back on, my nerves get the best of me, and I send a text to Lena.

Me: I don’t think I really want to date random guys I meet on TapNext.

She texts back immediately.

Lena: Don’t panic. You’re only using it for one date.

Me: One date? You went to all that trouble making the profile for one date?

Lena: Yep. It’s all you’re going to need. You’re going to go through your matches and find a nice guy who looks like you’d be able to suffer through a dinner with him.

Me: You’re a complex woman, Lena. And I don’t understand you one bit.

Lena: Just trust me, okay? You’re not really going to date the guy. You’re just going to make Milo think a bit. Because before you officially go on your date, you’re going to send Milo a few text messages asking him for “advice” about your date.

Me: This sounds suspiciously crazy.

Lena: Because it fucking is. But it’s also going to work.

I can’t decide if she’s giving me the best advice I’ve ever been given or if she’s sending me on a seriously scary journey that’s going to end in disaster.

Another text of additional reassurance comes in from her just as I need it. The timing is so perfect—I was a literal second away from completely losing my shit—I’m hoping maybe, just maybe, it’s a little bit of a text from God too.

Lena: I promise you, it’s all going to work out better than you can even imagine.

Better than I can even imagine?

I’ll settle for good as long as it’s not too good to be true.

Milo

After a long-as-hell workday, I leave the office and head to the gym.

It’s Friday. The weekend is here. And I’m going to do everything in my power to avoid the office and my emails until Monday morning.

Sadly, I tell myself this every Friday evening, but here’s to hoping I actually follow through this time.

I step into the lobby of the gym, and the sounds of chatter, music, and the clinking and clacking of weights fill my ears.

The young girl behind the reception desk nods her recognition and buzzes open the doors that lead to the main area of the gym.

It’s busy for a Friday evening, but after a quick change in the locker room, I manage to snag a treadmill on the second floor and start my workout off right with some cardio.

With Rage Against the Machine playing through my earbuds, I turn up the speed and dive straight into the session.

But twenty minutes into my run, the screen of my phone lights up inside the cupholder, and my attention is officially pulled to the exact place it shouldn’t be. The exact place I’ve been trying like hell to avoid for the past week.

Maybe: I need your help.

I look up from her message and meet my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the gym to find myself smiling like an idiot.

Shit. I cringe at my absurd reaction to seeing her name in my inbox.

It’s been five days since Maybe innocently tricked me into a sexting conversation that went way too far, and every-fucking-night since then, I’ve woken up smack-dab in the middle of all sorts of explicit dreams about her.

It’s all completely fucked.

She’s my best friend’s little sister. And one-hundred-percent off-limits.

Yet I can’t stop trying to picture what she looks like when she comes.

And Evan was worried about Cap helping Maybe out…

Son of a bitch.

Maybe: Earth to Milo. Come in Milo.

On a sigh, I type out a response and offer up a silent prayer that she’s still just overthinking the whole Rainbow Press situation.

Me: Kid, I already told you. There is no need to feel guilty about not accepting the Rainbow Press job. Cassandra Cale isn’t mad. She knows it’s not personal. It’s business. And, honestly, she’s probably still holding out hope you’ll end up reconsidering after you interview with other publishing houses. She doesn’t know what I know about Beacon’s track record for jumping on her prospects, but they don’t know you’ve already declined her offer either. This is a case of “what they don’t know benefits us.”

In between all of my insane fantasies about Maybe, I’ve still been the guy on the publishing industry sidelines, helping and reassuring her that she’s making the right moves.