Charmed by the Billionaire (Blue Collar Billionaires #2) - Lemmon, Jessica Page 0,82

tears.

Not that I cried.

Anyway.

Archer sinks a two-pointer without any defense from me whatsoever since I was lost in my head.

“You suck extra hard today,” he tells me.

Nonplussed by being caught off-guard, I nab the basketball and dribble away from my brother, who doesn’t catch me. I shoot. I do not score.

This dance goes on for fifteen minutes until sweat is pouring down our faces. It’s too damn hot to do this today. I make one last attempt, swiping the slick ball from his hand. The ball hits the backboard, bounces off the rim, and… Nope.

Dammit.

Hands on my hips, I catch my breath. Sweat stings my eyes as I squint against the bright noonday sun. I’m considering going back to the office. Sunday or not, I could do the world and myself more good sitting in front of a spreadsheet.

“Seriously. Suckage.” Archer tosses the ball at me and I catch it, cradling it under my arm and following him home like a sad-sack puppy. Rather than go inside, we collapse onto the chairs on his stone patio. It’s cool under here, at least.

“Beer?” he offers.

“Yeah.” I toss the ball onto the cushioned wicker chair next to mine. When an open beer bottle is offered to me, I slug back half of it, taking in the tiny yard behind his three-story condominium.

“Why don’t I live here? It’s fucking gorgeous. I have to mow the lawn today.” On the top floor of his condo are bedrooms and bathrooms and a balcony. On the second, a screened-in porch leading to the kitchen and a living room with a half bath and a large office off to the side. Ground floor, where we are, offers the walk-out patio and a stone path cutting through the middle of a grassy area he doesn’t have to mow. There is a fountain with flower gardens he doesn’t plant or prune.

“You don’t have to. You choose to,” he states. Annoyingly.

I know I choose to. I chose familiarity. One of my favorite memories is Dad mowing our backyard in Idaho. Sometimes he’d let me sit on the riding mower with him. Arguably not the safest thing to do with a seven-year-old, but he was a doctor and good at assessing risk. I am too. I used to be, anyway.

“What gives? You don’t shoot the shit with me on a Sunday. Or ever.”

I rest my beer bottle on my thigh and argue, “Yes I do.”

“Not anymore.” He slugs back half his beer in a few long swallows. Cheeks full, he raises his eyebrows and waits for me to tell him why I’m here.

“Cris and I broke up.” I frown in thought. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“We weren’t actually together, or well, we aren’t actually apart.” I shake my head, confusing myself. “Shit.”

“Spit it out,” my impatient brother snarls.

“Cris and I were, for lack of a better term, friends with benefits.”

He grins.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s not funny at all. It’s fantastic. A first for you.”

This throws me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You prefer women who don’t get close. Couldn’t believe I saw you on an actual date with Cris at the fundraiser. Half of me thought ‘finally’ and the other half thought ‘bad move.’”

I didn’t think either of those things. I thought “awesome” and “what could possibly go wrong?” I’m beginning to think, of Cris and me, I’m the more naive one.

“If anyone knows about not getting too close, it’s you,” I lash out, slightly stung by his comment. It’s true I have had a lot of brief relationships, but it’s not like the women I’ve dated hate my guts afterwards. Look at Trish. That turned out fine.

“Women don’t like my focus on work,” Archer argues, stroking his beard. “If I found a workaholic who lived out of state, maybe that’d change everything.” His eyes glaze over as he stares off in the distance, and I wonder if he’s thinking of the brunette he met in Florida. I don’t know if she’s a workaholic, but she does live out of state.

“You hired Cris to be your assistant life coach,” he says after a beat.

“Life assistant coach,” I correct automatically, remembering how cute she was when she rolled her eyes the first time I used her title. I think briefly of my calling her “coach” and decide I won’t do it anymore since she doesn’t like it. The nickname Firecracker has to be retired, though. A damn shame. My stomach clenches, but I ignore the pain.

“Whatever,” Archer says. “Point is, she knows what she’s doing. She