My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend - Max Monroe Page 0,4

my shoulder just as the bell chimes the couple’s exit. “Do you want me to cut some fresh ones, or do you want to?”

“I’ll do it,” she responds, and I hand her one of the empty water buckets before she heads to the back.

With my mom otherwise occupied in the back room and my dad likely taking a secret cigar break, I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speakers of the shop to play some music.

While Bruce is adamant he doesn’t smoke stogies anymore, we all know the truth. One whiff of him when he strides back into the shop after four o’clock says otherwise.

I scroll through my playlists and click on the fourth one from the top. Today feels like a Billie Eilish kind of day.

In the name of keeping busy and making this day go by as fast as possible, I drag a trash can over to the DIY-bouquet section and start picking through each bushel of flowers, throwing away the ones that are dead, have lost too many petals, or managed to get a little too smashed for my liking.

But I only get halfway into my task when the bell above the front door chimes another customer’s entrance.

Crouched down and riffling through the sunflower section, I call over my shoulder, “Just a minute!”

“Take your time,” a man’s voice responds, which I’ve always felt is like the Southern use of Bless your heart, so I quickly finish what I’m doing.

I toss three sad-looking sunflowers into the trash and rearrange the ones left in the bin so the proudest and prettiest are in the front and then push myself to standing. My apron is covered in petals and flower debris, so I dust off swiftly before spinning around.

But all of my hustling comes to a screeching stop, feet freezing securely to their exact location on the tile floor, when I see who the customer is.

Holy Godfather Cannolis.

Dark hair, cobalt-blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a sinfully firm body, he is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

He’s also, it takes me almost zero time to realize, my brother’s best friend, my first real crush, and a guy I haven’t seen in nearly a decade.

Milo Ives.

He’s sporting a pressed, smart suit, and it’s apparent he’s forgone his old Converse and vintage band T-shirts and jeans preferences and adopted the wardrobe of a suave man.

I stare a little harder, and my breath catches in my throat. Dear God, if anything, he’s only gotten more attractive since I last saw him.

Pounding heart, nervous flutter inside my belly, and an embarrassingly ogling gaze, I’ve apparently left my current body behind and inhabited my thirteen-year-old self.

Briefly, I open and close my eyes just to verify what I’m seeing is real.

But it is real. He is real.

Six years older than me, and my brother Evan’s best friend since elementary school, Milo Ives was the unattainable apple of my girlish eye for as long as I can remember, and now, he’s standing right in front of me.

As he looks up from his phone, he flashes a handsome and oh-so-familiar smile my way, and my chest tightens like a damn vise.

When I was eleven, for six straight months, after his parents relocated to Florida for his dad’s job, Milo lived with us to finish out his senior year in high school.

He was busy galivanting with Evan and countless girls, and I…well, I was counting his smiles.

Sleepy, morning smiles. Excited smiles. Amused smiles. Annoyed smiles. You name it, and I memorized it like a swoony-eyed little psycho.

“Hello,” he greets, and his voice is deeper, raspier, sexier than I remember.

Probably because the last time you saw him, you were thirteen years old…

“H-hi,” I stutter through one simple fucking word.

Sheesh, it’s going to be a long encounter if I don’t get my shit together.

It takes an insane amount of work, but I finally get my feet to move me over behind the counter.

Jesus. How can he still have this effect on me?

One would think, a decade later, I’d be impervious to his good looks and natural charm.

I clear my throat once, twice, three times, and still, awkward misery fully engaged, I’m unable to find my voice.

His gorgeous smile deepens, and I have to put a hand to the counter to counteract the gravitational effect it has on my knees.

Just say something, Maybe. Ask him how things have been. Ask him how he’s been.

My cheeks heat and my stomach feels heavy, and I’m now painfully conscious of the coffee stain on my