My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend - Max Monroe Page 0,28
you’re actually doing are two different things, you bastard.
I’m so curious about her that I find myself lifting up my glass of water and taking a drink just to distract myself from my thoughts.
I can’t remember the last time I was this intrigued by a woman.
It’s probably just nostalgia, I tell myself. That’s all this is.
Yeah. This is just nostalgia. It has to be.
A waitress named Karen stops by our table and takes our order—Reuben on rye with fries for both of us—and when she leaves, I lean forward and turn faux serious. “I have a question for you.”
She licks her full lips nervously but doesn’t let our eye contact flounder. It seems, now that we’re getting the initial awkwardness out of the way, she’s finding a little more confidence. “And what’s that?”
“Do you still listen to Kate Bush?”
She nearly chokes on the drink of water in her mouth. “What?”
“When we were kids, you always used to sing ‘Wuthering Heights’ in the morning…”
At the top of her lungs, every single morning when she was getting ready for school, and it was miserable for everyone inside the house. Maybe never quite grasped that she couldn’t hit those falsettos like Kate.
Her brown eyes pop wide open. “You heard that?”
I grin. “I’m pretty sure everyone in the whole neighborhood heard it.”
“Jesus Christ.” The apples of her cheeks flush red, and amusement fills up my chest like a balloon. “I was what, like, twelve? And, apparently, believed I had a budding music career ahead of me.”
My grin grows wider. “So, I take it that’s a no?”
“Uh…definitely a no, and I’d like to make a rule for this lunch.”
I quirk a brow. “A rule?”
“Yeah.” Her nod is firm, and her eyes turn serious. “No talk of memories that include me being an awkward and embarrassing teenager.”
“You weren’t awkward and embarrassing.”
Honestly, she kind of was, but wasn’t everyone? If you don’t have an awkward phase of adolescence, you must have some kind of contract with the devil. And considering I already have some strikes against me, agreeing with her on this one is not the way to go.
“Uh…yeah, I was.”
“I thought you were pretty cute.”
She rolls her eyes. “Because I was Evan’s little sister.”
A smile crests my lips. “Speaking of Evan, he’s really confident in your ability to do big things in publishing. That’s why he reached out to me to work some of my connections.”
“Right. Publishing,” she says, her voice seeming the barest hint disappointed. I search her eyes to try to figure out why, but she shakes her head quickly and picks up the corners of her lips into a genuine smile. “Thank you, Milo. I could definitely use the help. I’ve sent out more than a hundred resumes, but not a single one has called me for an interview.”
I wave my hand. “That’s because there are a lot of stodgy snobs working in the publishing industry.” I laugh, and she barks a startled bout of the same. “Luckily, I’m friendly with a few of them.”
She smiles.
“I’ll work on getting a few options together and reach out to them.”
She nods. “Thanks. I know this is probably inconvenient for you. I mean, you’re a really busy guy. I’m sure you don’t just have tons of spare hours lying around to help your friend’s sister.”
I frown a little at her insinuation that I’m only here because of Evan. Sure, it was the catalyst, but I genuinely want to be here. With her.
I shake my head and reach out to touch her hand. Unfortunately, at the searing burn of awareness the simple contact sends up my arm, I realize touching her may not have been the best idea. I move slowly to undo my mistake, so she doesn’t take it the wrong way. “I’m glad to be having lunch with you, Maybe. Happy to help and happy to see you.”
Before anything else can be said, Karen brings our food, and Maybe and I spend a few silent minutes devouring our sandwiches. There really isn’t anything better in Chelsea than a Reuben on rye from Ruth’s.
But I can’t in good conscience let the entire meal go on without bringing up the thing that’s been plaguing me about those messages of hers ever since I got them.
“So, about those text messages…”
She glances up from her plate, the width of her eyes eating away at the other features of her face. A blush once again stains the apples of her cheeks, and I hate to admit, it looks really good