My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend - Max Monroe Page 0,39
simple attraction to a beautiful woman I’ve known most of my life. It’s not anything to get worked up over, for God’s sake. Right?
Still, it’s not like I can say that to her. “I’m just happy I’m not the one who’s about to set up a profile on TapNext,” I improvise instead.
“You don’t like dating apps?”
I shake my head. “Not for me anyway.”
“Because you loathe dating,” she says with a little smile.
“I don’t loathe dating. I just don’t have time for it.”
But apparently, I loathe the idea of you dating, which is fucking insane.
“You totally do,” she retorts, and I just brush it off with a laugh.
“Just do me a favor, yeah?” She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows pointedly and waits for me to continue. “Be careful who you agree to go on a date with.”
She laughs. “You afraid I’m going to end up in someone’s trunk?”
“Jesus, kid. That’s a terrifying thought.”
“Don’t worry, Milo,” she says with a wink. “I’ll make sure the FBI does background checks on all of my prospects.”
A tiny grin curls the corner of my mouth as I shake my head. “Smartass.”
“Yeah, well, someone had to lighten the mood here.”
“Says the person who just mentioned ending up in someone’s trunk.”
“It was a joke!” she excuses on a laugh.
“A horrible joke.”
“I guess maybe Bruce is rubbing off on me.”
“Also a terrifying thought.”
“Fine,” she says with a cheeky grin. “I take back the trunk joke.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
She rolls her big brown eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was sitting across from Evan right now.”
“Yeah, well, since he’s in Austin, I guess someone has to keep an eye on you.”
Clara’s voice fills my office suddenly and interrupts our banter. “Mr. Ives, I have Mr. Frost with Berkin Industries on the line for you.”
Maybe smiles slightly and jerks a thumb toward the door. “I guess I’ll leave you to run your empire, Billionaireman.”
“Very funny.”
She grins. “Thank you for the sage career advice.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, and the genuineness in my tone can’t be missed. “Let me know how it goes with Rainbow Press next week. And if you have any issues figuring out where you need to be, give me a call.”
“Will do.”
I watch with dismay as she disappears, out of my office door and down the hallway and most likely home to start a goddamn dating profile on TapNext.
Son of a bitch. The idea of it makes me cringe.
But Maybe Willis is off-limits. So, I have no choice. All I can do is sit back and watch the real-live nightmare happen.
Maybe
I have an interview today.
An I’m going to interview but not take the job interview, but an interview all the same.
Thanks to Milo, I am meeting with Cassandra Cale, the editor in chief for Rainbow Press—a publishing house located in Manhattan.
It’s supposed to be a laid-back meet-and-greet where I’ll introduce myself, she’ll ask me some questions, and then tell me about the job opportunities that are available within the company.
Funny how that still translates to what must surely be a heart attack.
My chest is tight and my hands are fidgety, and if my knee would stop bouncing for just one fucking second, it’d be nice. And jaw pain. Women having heart attacks usually have jaw pain, right?
Anxiety, party of one!
I take a deep inhale and force myself to walk down the steps of the nearest subway station. My new pair of pale pink heels click-clacks against the concrete what sounds like assuredly, but my legs are so shaky, I have to do something I never do—grip the dirty, grimy, bacteria-infested banister to the left of the steps—to prevent myself from falling face first.
I make a mental note not to touch my face with my germy hands before I can wash them at the very first opportunity.
The noon subway crowd is chaos, and people are everywhere. Rushing. Waiting. Running. Walking fast. Walking too slow. It’s a swirling sea of hipsters, homeless, and upper middle-class worthy of that movie Sharknado.
Despite the variety of backgrounds, when it’s crowded like this, people have no distinction. They are just things in your way. Moving, smelling—good and bad—sometimes accommodating but a lot of times rude things.
An older gentleman in khaki shorts with his belt basically fastened to his neckline bumps me as I step onto the platform, and I teeter on my heels.
He doesn’t notice, though. I am, like him, just a thing.
With a whine and a displacement of air, the train arrives, and I hurry on with