Page 17 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

“You know,” my cousin starts, stirring her latte with a small silver spoon. “This could be the universe’s way of nudging you onto a new path. Something bigger, better.”

“Or it’s just the universe kicking me in the gut,” I quip, but my heart isn’t in the comeback. My head throbs with worry, every beat spelling out unemployment, rent, bills.

“Come on, Nora. When one door closes—” Lynn begins.

“Another opens,” I finish for her, but the platitude feels hollow. I’ve lived by them, believed in them, but today, they’re just words.

She reaches across the table, her hand warm as it envelops mine.

“You’re not alone in this,” she says firmly. “You’ve got friends, you’ve got guts, and let’s not forget — you’re a kick-ass lawyer. Any firm would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Lynnie,” I respond, the tightness in my chest easing ever so slightly.

Her faith is a life raft I’m desperate to cling to. But even as she speaks, my mind races through job postings, networking contacts, anything that could lead to a paycheck.

She checks her watch. “My shift starts in fifteen. I have to go. Sorry this was so short.”

“It’s okay. Even ten minutes with you is gold.”

“Promise me you’ll keep your spirits up, okay?” She stands, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “And call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Promise,” I lie. I have at least some pride left.

I watch Lynn walk out, her absence making me feel more hollow than I expected it to. Grabbing a lid from the to-go station, I place it firmly on top of my paper cup. The break was nice, but I can’t enjoy something like it for more than a few minutes.

Gathering my coat and scarf, I prepare to brave the Chicago winds outside. With my phone pressed to my ear, needing to schedule a meeting with a recruiter, I push through the door and?—

The collision comes as a surprise, a shock of hot liquid and the sound of fabric soaking up my clumsiness. My heart sinks into my stomach as the cup slips from my grasp, the contents splattering over the crisp white shirt of a man standing just beyond the threshold.

“Oh, gosh, I am so—” My apology dies in my throat.

It’s Oliver.

That familiar face, those eyes I haven’t seen in years except through the glossy veil of social media success stories. He’s here, in the flesh, looking even more put-together than his LinkedIn profile picture. And I’ve just drenched him in medium roast with a splash of embarrassment.

“Oliver,” I stammer, my cheeks flushing with heat. “I’m… I didn’t see you there.”

He looks down at the dark stain spreading across his shirt, then back up at me with an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Nora,” he says, his voice rich and surprisingly warm. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” I manage, though part of me wishes it were longer still — like never.

Standing before him, I feel like a fraud, a failure grasping at straws while he’s the epitome of achievement. Here I am, fired and floundering, and there’s Oliver, probably closing deals before breakfast.

“Let me help you clean that up,” I offer, fumbling for napkins, anything to undo the mess.

“It’s fine,” he assures me, brushing off the gesture, though his ruined shirt says otherwise. “Occupational hazard of walking into a coffee shop, right?”

“Still,” I insist, my hands shaking as I dab at the stain.

I can feel his gaze on me, the silent questions hanging between us. My pulse quickens, and I realize how close we are, the scent of his cologne mingling with the bittersweet aroma of spilled coffee. Heat rushes to my face, and it has nothing to do with the caffeine soaking into his shirt.

“Really, Nora. It’s okay.” Oliver’s hand gently covers mine, stilling my frantic motions. “Accidents happen.”

“I guess,” I say lamely, giving up trying to dry his shirt.

He’s even more handsome than the photos I see online. Was that him I thought I saw on the street after all?

---