My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

Milo: That sounds horrible.

Me: Yeah, but do you really want to leave me on my own to navigate a party like that by myself? If you think the ratio of me to serial killer is high on a date, think of what it must be at a party.

Milo: Jesus. You drive a hard bargain.

Me: I’ll text you the address when my friend Lena sends it to me.

Milo: I thought you said you were going to be on your own?

Me: Lena doesn’t count. She’s a girl. I need some muscle to back me up if shit goes down.

Milo: Who is throwing this party? The mob?

Me: HA. Very funny. But I really don’t know the host, and this IS New York. So, it could be. I’ll see you Friday night.

Milo: You’re a real pain in my ass, kid.

Hmm…and I thought this Saturday was going to be total shit…

It seems like Lena is right. Everything is coming up roses.

Milo-colored roses.

Milo-roses.

Milo-oses.

Yeah. Okay. That’s enough play on words, you weirdo.

Milo

A little after ten, I step off the elevator and directly into the spacious penthouse of a young New York socialite by the name of Daphne Ares. Apparently, Maybe’s new friend Lena has friends in the highest of places in this city.

Not that I give two shits about schmoozing it up with the famous names of New York—I’m only here at Maybe’s persistent request.

Yeah, right, you bastard. You would have swindled your way into coming to this party the minute you heard she was coming—even if she didn’t invite you.

It’s only been a week since she demanded my attendance tonight, and for the last five or so days, between our constant text messages and occasional phone calls, she hasn’t let me forget that I agreed to be here.

So, despite my better judgment, here I am.

And I wish I could say I’m dreading it, but when my heart kicks up in speed at the thought of seeing her here, it’s apparent dread isn’t even in my vocabulary tonight.

I walk down a long, marble-floored corridor, and the instant I reach the main space, I’m hit with the thumping bass coming from the speakers of the DJ at the center of the room.

The room is filled with mostly twentysomethings dancing and laughing and just living it up on someone else’s dime.

Fucking socialite parties.

It only took one of these shindigs thrown by a trust-fund baby for me to realize this was not and would never be my scene. I was twenty-six, Fuse had just started to gain success in the tech market, and Caplin Hawkins had dragged me to Tribeca to party it up with a young heiress to a hotel chain.

Her name was Christina Hellman, and if my memory serves me right, Cap fucked her in the bathroom while I fended off three twenty-year-old girls who wanted me to go snort coke with them on the balcony.

Personally, I’ve always been more of a fan of my brain cells and sobriety than the temporary high that drugs and alcohol can provide.

I’d make a perfect D.A.R.E. spokesperson. Just say no to drugs and all that.

Once I make my way through the throng of drunken dancers, I spot Maybe in the corner of the room, a smile on her lips while she chats with a blond-haired woman and a man wearing a fucking Fedora and a douchebag smile.

God, I might be only in my thirties, but I feel entirely too old for this crowd.

The instant I reach their little group, Maybe’s big brown eyes meet mine, and my chest tightens at how damn beautiful she looks.

Long brown locks brush against a flowy pale-pink top, tight jeans hug her little ass and long legs, and a pair of nude stilettos have her standing a few inches taller than her normally petite height.

She looks like a fucking treat, and I mentally chastise myself for enjoying the view so much.

“You’re here,” she says, and she steps past her friends to wrap her small arms around me in a big hug. “I can’t believe you actually came.”

“Well, if I recall, I didn’t have much of a choice.”

She giggles and I smile. I can’t fucking help it. She’s the perfect mix of cute and sexy and I’m certain I’m losing brain cells trying not to gawk at her.

“Milo, I’d like you to meet my friend Lena,” she introduces and gestures toward the blond woman in a dress that reminds me of hippies and Woodstock.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I say, and her smile is knowing and secretive at the same time.

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual.”

The douche in the Fedora holds out his hand and introduces himself. “I’m Canyon.”

Canyon? His name is Canyon? God, I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Milo,” I say and shake his hand.

“Canyon is a photographer for New York Weekly,” Lena offers up. “And for the last fifteen minutes, he’s been trying to talk Maybe into modeling for an article showcasing this fall’s most up-and-coming fashion.”