My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

Emory smiles. “My husband wouldn’t hesitate to agree with you.”

“No doubt, Quince deserves a medal of honor if you give him even half the shit you gave me when we were teenagers.”

“It’s more, actually.”

I laugh for the first time this night. “A Purple Heart, then.”

“You’re such a dick.” Emory’s lips curl up as she finishes the last bite of her cake.

“What do you say we head out of here?” I ask, and she quirks a brow. “I’m sure you’re ready to get back home to your family. No use spending the rest of the night with, what did you call me, a pathetic sack of sadness?”

“Yep. Pretty sure that hits the nail on the head.” A soft laugh escapes her throat. “But are you sure you’re ready to leave? I have no problem hanging around for another hour or two. I mean, it’s been, like, a year since I’ve been able to drink alcohol. Surely, I can busy myself with another glass of wine and go make fun of Cap’s twerking skills for a bit.”

I glance toward the dance floor to find Caplin Hawkins doing exactly that, and I shake my head on a laugh. “Yeah, let’s head out before he starts scaring Ev’s Grandma Lucille with hip thrusts.”

Twerking always leads to hip thrusts where Cap’s concerned.

I help Emory out of her chair, and once we say our goodbyes to Sadie the dancing queen and her swoony-eyed groom, we head out of the main reception room and into the lobby area. Emory takes our tickets to the coat check to grab her purse and my suit jacket, and I take a quick glance at my phone to find a missed text message from my mom.

Mom: God, I hate that your father and I missed Evan’s wedding today, but please give him our congratulations and tell him we’ll make it up to him with a visit to Austin soon.

With the last-minute date finalization, my parents weren’t able to cancel the Alaskan cruise they booked over a year ago. If Evan has reassured my mom once, he’s done it a hundred times since he and Sadie set the date. Thankfully, he eased her guilt enough that she didn’t do something drastic like cancel the non-refundable, “it’s been on our bucket list forever” trip.

Just as I lift my fingers to send a quick message back, something catches my eye, and I look up to see Maybe moving quickly out of the main reception room doors, and her hand is over her mouth.

“Maybe? What’s wrong?” I call toward her, but she doesn’t stop.

Instead, she damn near sprints toward the bathroom.

Emory meets my eyes and doesn’t hesitate to toss her purse and my suit jacket my way and follow Maybe’s path at a jog. “I’ll go see if she’s okay.”

I follow their lead and wait outside the bathroom doors.

Not even two minutes later, Emory shoves open the door with wide, panicked eyes, and my stomach falls.

“Is she okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I don’t fucking know, Milo!” My cousin gestures me toward her, and I don’t think twice about walking inside the women’s restroom.

I find Maybe in the fetal position by one of the stalls, and my heart falls to my feet.

Sweat-drenched and clammy-skinned, she looks terrible. Her eyes are closed tight in discomfort, and she groans as she keeps her arm firmly across to her stomach.

“God, Maybe.” I kneel down beside her and brush the wet locks of hair out of her eyes. “Are you sick? What’s going on?”

“It hurts so bad,” she barely mutters above a whisper. “S-something doesn’t feel right.”

She tries to move from her current position, but the instant she slides her arm away from her belly and lifts her head, she squeaks out in pain and proceeds to curl back up into a ball.

“I’m really worried, Milo,” Emory whispers and leans down toward Maybe to brush a reassuring hand over her damp hair. “She doesn’t look good at all.”

Panic and adrenaline race through my veins.

“We need to get her to the emergency room.”

It takes me all of two seconds to reach down and pull her into my arms. She groans with the movement but curls herself tighter into my body. And I swallow down my fear and focus on the one woman who is and always will be my priority.

With a soft kiss to her forehead, I carry her out of the bathroom while Emory holds the door for us.

“I got you, kid.”

When I carry her into St. Luke’s emergency room, the nurse behind the reception desk takes one look at a groaning Maybe in my arms and dives straight into action, leading us back to a room and calling for the doctor.

I lay Maybe down on the gurney, and three nurses turn into a blur of checking her vitals, removing her dress, putting her into a hospital gown, starting an IV, and drawing blood.