My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend - Max Monroe Page 0,51

gym to find myself smiling like an idiot.

Shit. I cringe at my absurd reaction to seeing her name in my inbox.

It’s been five days since Maybe innocently tricked me into a sexting conversation that went way too far, and every-fucking-night since then, I’ve woken up smack-dab in the middle of all sorts of explicit dreams about her.

It’s all completely fucked.

She’s my best friend’s little sister. And one-hundred-percent off-limits.

Yet I can’t stop trying to picture what she looks like when she comes.

And Evan was worried about Cap helping Maybe out…

Son of a bitch.

Maybe: Earth to Milo. Come in Milo.

On a sigh, I type out a response and offer up a silent prayer that she’s still just overthinking the whole Rainbow Press situation.

Me: Kid, I already told you. There is no need to feel guilty about not accepting the Rainbow Press job. Cassandra Cale isn’t mad. She knows it’s not personal. It’s business. And, honestly, she’s probably still holding out hope you’ll end up reconsidering after you interview with other publishing houses. She doesn’t know what I know about Beacon’s track record for jumping on her prospects, but they don’t know you’ve already declined her offer either. This is a case of “what they don’t know benefits us.”

In between all of my insane fantasies about Maybe, I’ve still been the guy on the publishing industry sidelines, helping and reassuring her that she’s making the right moves.

At least you’re still managing to do the one and only thing Evan asked you to do…

Yeah. Fuck. At least I’m still doing that.

Maybe: I appreciate that, but it’s not the help I need. This has nothing to do with business, Billionaireman.

Me: I’m not sexting with you again.

Good God, you idiot. I groan two seconds after I hit send and see my far-too-inappropriate words populate in our conversation.

Apparently, it seems I just can’t help my-fucking-self when it comes to her.

Maybe: HAHA very funny. Not that kind of help. I need advice for a date.

Me: A date?

She’s going on a date?

I nearly trip over my own fucking feet, and instantly, I tap the console on the treadmill several times until the speed slows down to a leisurely jog.

Maybe: I have a date tonight with someone I met on TapNext.

Me: Seriously?

Maybe: Why would I lie about something like that?

Me: When did you meet him?

Maybe: Yesterday.

Me: You’re going on a date with a guy you met online yesterday?

Maybe: Yes, Billionaireman. Keep up. Aren’t superheroes supposed to have unparalleled cunning, strength, and wit?

I scowl.

What in the ever-loving hell? Has she lost her mind?

Maybe going on a date with some random stranger sounds like the worst idea I’ve ever heard.

Me: Do you even know anything about this guy?

Maybe: I know his name is Jess. And, not gonna lie, I love the name Jess because of the Gilmore Girls. I’ve been 100% Team Jess since the instant he stepped foot in Stars Hollow.

I furrow my brow. Should I know these women?

Me: Who are the Gilmore Girls?

Maybe: YOU DON’T KNOW WHO THE GILMORE GIRLS ARE??

Me: Do they live in New York?

Maybe: Oh my God! I don’t have time to get into all things Gilmore Girls with you, but one day, I will enlighten you. Right now, this date is my priority, and I have no idea what I should wear. Help. Me.

Me: You mean your date with a potential serial killer is your priority.

Maybe: He’s not a serial killer!

Me: How do you know? You’ve only known him for 24 hours via a dating app. He could be a serial killer…or at the very least, a catfish.

Maybe: Pretty sure the length of time you know someone doesn’t help deduce whether or not they’re a serial killer. I mean, Jeffrey Dahmer’s family knew him his whole life, and they had no clue. Ted Bundy’s wife didn’t know either.

I sigh. Always the sassy smartass…

Me: And that reasoning is supposed to be reassuring how?

Maybe: Don’t rain on my date parade, Milo. Just help me. Tell me what is appropriate first-date attire.

Me: Pretty sure you’re supposed to consult girlfriends for this kind of advice.

Maybe: But I don’t want a woman’s advice. I need a man’s advice. I’m sending you three options. Be honest. And flipping stop thinking about serial killers and tell me which outfit is the best choice.

Thirty seconds later, three photos upload inside our conversation.

Hesitantly, I open the first one.

It’s Maybe standing in front of her bedroom mirror with a pile of clothes sitting on her bed and several shoes strewn across the floor behind her. Her