Page 39 of One Billion Reasons

“I think I can get it down, but not all the way up.”

I pull it down, and the dress gapes open and nearly falls to the floor. She saves it with an arm to her chest, and I swiftly step back.

“Today is not my day,” she mutters. “I guess I’ll wear the green one. At this rate, I’m going to have to repeat outfits.” She disappears into the room but leaves the door open, and I can hear the rustle of her clothes and the swish of the dress hitting the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the wall.

“Miles. Are you okay?” I open my eyes, and she’s staring at me.

“I’m fine,” I say weakly. I’m not fine. My best friend’s sister got hotter since college, and it might be the death of me.

“How’s this one?” She twirls in the second dress. “It better work because I only have two more, and one is way too casual and the other one is for the wedding.”

“It’s fine.” It’s better than fine. It’s amazing. I want to peel it off with my teeth. The top of it pushes her breasts up and nips in at her waist, and there are these little straps in the back that would provide great leverage to pull her against me.

“Fine.” She crosses her arms, pushing those lovely breasts up even more, and my gaze darts, like an animal caught in a trap. “You know, Miles. If we want to make this work, you’re going to need to be a lot more enthusiastic. You told me this needed to be believable. And you’re just standing there like…Humpty Dumpty or something.” She waves her hand vaguely in my direction, and I laugh helplessly.

“Like Humpty Dumpty?”

“It was the best I could come up with on short notice.” She rolls her eyes. “But seriously, get your head in the game. We’ve been half-assing it up till now, but you need that property. And I need that money.”

“Half-assing it? You’re the one who hates me.”

Her cheeks redden. “Well, I don’t anymore. And Mark Taylor is horrible.” She pauses. “I want you to get that building. I want you to preserve your father’s legacy. I—” She swallows hard. “I would have done the same for my parents.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly. Of all people, Lane and Liam would understand. I know their parents left them nothing, and Liam has confessed more than once that he wants to build a legacy worthy of his family. She gives a short nod and looks away, but not before I catch the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“Come on, Laney. Let’s head down.” I usher her into the elevator, where the mirrors reflect her perfect profile back to me. Her hair is short and blonde, feathering around her chin. She looks up at me with huge brown eyes, and I struggle not to let my eyes dip to her generous curves.

“I agree we’ve been half-assing it,” I say quietly. “What does really making an effort look like to you?”

“Um, probably something like this.” She bites her bottom lip, uncertain. And then she steps in to where I lean against the wall and puts her hand on my stomach. My whole body jerks like I’ve been shocked.

“So, groping me?” I make light, but my breaths are harsh in my chest and my hands itch to span her waist.

“Partners touch.” She slides a hand up my stomach, and I flex a little. Her hand lands on my neck, and she leans in and looks up at me. “Hi, darling.” Her words are gentle, and her lips are soft and parted. And those huge brown eyes are staring at me like I hung the moon.

“Uh, very good. That’ll do.” My collar feels tight, and my skin is hot.

She steps away. “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do,” she murmurs inanely.

What is she even talking about? My head feels stuffed full of cotton, and my pulse is thundering. As we step out of the elevator into the glittering room, I try desperately to remember why I can’t have Lane Overton.

She’s nice and you’re not. She’s good and you are most definitely not. You would break her heart. And then you’d lose your best friend because of it.

The thought is a cold bucket of water over my head. I swore to protect her. Breaking her heart is the opposite of that. Dragging her further into my bullshit with Mark is the opposite of that.

She grabs my hand, and her soft fingers squeeze my own. I squeeze back, even though I don’t mean it. Fucking hell.

19

Lane

Miles looks a little shell-shocked as we circulate, and I can’t blame him. My palm is still burning from the feel of his stomach muscles through his dress shirt. Damn, the man has a great body. I shake the thought away.

“Come on.” I tug him away from a champagne fountain. “We need to circulate.”

He eyes me like I’ve had a personality transplant. “Did you just say circulate? Blink twice if you’re okay.”

I roll my eyes and pull him into the crowd. Miles got me thinking earlier. What if the money he’s giving me could be put to use? What if a tiny business plan isn’t such a bad idea? This event is the perfect networking opportunity, and I’m determined to make the most of it. I could drum up some business here, maybe start passing out business cards. But what would I even sell people? I haven’t taken a shot worthy of framing in months. The weight of the business has stifled all my creativity. Before Mom and Dad died, the art came easily for me. And even in college, I used photography to cope with the grief. My shots were dark and gritty. Moody, even. But the last two years, picking up my camera hasn’t sparked joy like it used to. There’s always been the coffee shop shifts and editing to do for a shoot, and more recently, clients to woo and refunds to give and worry, endless worry.

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