Page 24 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

“Count me in!” Nora takes a sip of her fresh drink, then abandons it and rushes to the stage.

I look after her longingly, glad to see her having a good time but disappointed that it’s no longer with me.

“Here we go!” Ben hollers, thrusting the mic toward Nora as the chosen track begins — a classic rock anthem that everyone seems to know the words to.

Nora’s voice is surprisingly strong and steady, harmonizing with Ben’s more boisterous tone. I find myself tapping my foot, the rhythm catching me off-guard.

She’s captivating up there, her laughter mingling with the melody, her hands gesturing theatrically with each line. And when she throws her head back, eyes closed, belting out the high notes, a part of me wants to be up there too, sharing in that uninhibited joy. But I remain anchored to my spot, content to watch the light play across her face, remembering why I felt like the only two options were to push her away or lose myself completely in her.

“Your turn next, Oliver!” someone yells from behind me, nudging me out of my reverie.

They’re all looking at me now, expectant grins on their faces. My heart rate picks up, not from stage fright, but from the prospect of joining Nora in that spotlight, reconnecting over shared laughter and off-key notes.

I’m about to push off the bar to stride over and pick a song, any song, when the sharp vibration of my phone cuts through the haze of celebration. It’s a potential buyer — a big fish I’ve been trying to reel in for weeks. Business before pleasure, isn’t that what they say?

“Sorry, guys, gotta take this,” I say, the words tasting sour as they leave my lips.

“Boo! You’re no fun!” The jeers follow me as I step out into the cool night air, distancing myself from the noise to answer the call.

But even as I do, I glance back through the window. Nora’s gaze meets mine just before I turn away, and the disappointment etched across her features punches the breath from my chest.

“Oliver Wolfe speaking,” I say into the phone, but it’s Nora’s crestfallen smile that echoes in my mind, making the hopeful victory of another successful business deal feel strangely hollow. After all these years, she’s still burrowing her way into my heart and seizing control.

CHAPTER 12

NORA

Dragging my feet into the office on Monday, the weekend’s loneliness clings to me like a stubborn stain. Lynn was out of town, leaving me with the echoing silence of my own apartment and the hum of a city that, despite being full of millions of people, made me feel like I was the only one on Earth.

I’ve barely settled into my desk when an email notification pops up. It’s from Oliver — Mr. Wolfe, I sometimes jokingly call him to myself — asking me to meet him in his office for a briefing on some documents. A twinge of something akin to excitement flips in my stomach, but I squash it down. He’s my boss, not a potential cure for weekend boredom.

Heading to his office door, I take a deep breath and give three sharp knocks. “Come in,” comes the response, his voice smooth and deep.

“Good morning,” I say as I step inside and find him standing at the coffee maker.

“Morning, Nora.” He flashes me an easy smile.

My eyes trail over him — over the fitted suit that hugs his shoulders and waist in all the right ways. The fabric seems to whisper secrets of power and self-assurance, and I can’t decide if I want to lean in closer to listen or run away.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing toward the chair across from his desk.

He moves around to his side, every motion deliberate. I sit, crossing my legs and smoothing out my skirt more out of nervous energy than necessity. Ever since our group night out at the bar, it’s been harder than usual to get him off my mind, and I’m more than a little afraid that — somehow — he can read my thoughts.

“Let’s go over these documents. We have some new properties coming up that require careful handling,” he explains, sliding a folder towards me.

His fingertips brush mine in the process, and I force my attention back to the task at hand, tamping down the fluttering in my chest.

“Of course,” I reply, opening the folder and scanning the contents.

I’m more than well-versed in legalese, but Oliver has a knack for making the driest contract sound intriguing. It’s a skill — one that I’ve seen serve him well in negotiations.

“Right here,” Oliver says, pointing to a particularly dense paragraph. “We might need to push back on the indemnity clause.”

I nod, my brain already sifting through strategies and counterpoints. But then his hand brushes mine, an electric jolt that sparks an uninvited warmth up my arm. For a split second, our eyes meet, and there’s this… thing, a silent acknowledgment of the touch that neither of us planned. It’s like a fizzing soda bottle, moments from spilling over.

Then Oliver clears his throat and pulls his hand back. The effervescence between us goes flat as he steels his gaze back onto the papers.

“Make sure they don’t corner us with liability,” he adds, all business again, voice clipped to efficiency.

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