Page 25 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

“Of course,” I murmur, my pulse still erratic.

I refocus on the text, but the letters blur into a meaningless dance of ink. I blink them back into order, pushing down whatever silly little flutter that moment stirred up.

“Did you do anything interesting this weekend?” Oliver’s question catches me off guard, casual yet somehow loaded with curiosity.

“Ah, no, not really,” I admit, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “Mostly did housework. Laundry. I guess I could have gone out. I realized recently there’s a lot of Chicago I haven’t seen yet.” I offer a small shrug, feeling his attention on me. “Guess when I was in college, we were too busy studying.”

“Chicago has changed,” he muses, leaning back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “A lot can happen in eight years.”

“Exactly,” I agree, a bit too eagerly. “There’s so much history and culture, all these neighborhoods with their own stories. I’ve always wanted to absorb all of that, you know? Just never really got around to it.”

He nods thoughtfully, tapping a rhythm on his desk with the silver pen in his hand. “It’s good to have someone show you around. Makes the experience richer.”

“Sure,” I reply, trying not to sound wistful.

The idea of wandering the city with someone who knows it and wants to share it is unexpectedly appealing. And for a fleeting second, I imagine what it would be like to have that someone be Oliver.

But those days are long gone. He probably never thinks of me now unless it’s for my legal eye. I force a smile, professional and bright.

“Maybe one of these days I’ll play tourist properly.”

“How about this weekend?” He leans back in his chair, and there’s a spark in his eyes that seems out of place with the starched collar of his shirt. “I’ll take you sightseeing.”

The words hang in the air, delicate and dangerous. For a moment, they don’t seem real — more like the fragments of those silly fantasies I entertain when the Chicago skyline blurs into a canvas of what-ifs on my lonely commute home. But then Oliver smiles, and it feels like sunlight piercing through the overcast sky of my routine.

“Really?” My voice betrays a hint of incredulity. The man before me, who ignored me for years, is offering to play tour guide? It doesn’t add up.

“Really,” he confirms as if he can hear the skepticism threading through my one-word question. “I’ve been so buried in work that I’ve never actually taken the time to see the city. Not properly, anyway.”

“Workaholic” is too mild a term for Oliver. He’s the first in the office, the last out, his life woven so tightly with the company’s that I sometimes wonder if he ever stops being the CEO or if that’s also an identity he carries even to the shower. Yet here he is, ready to step away from the blueprints and contracts, if only for a day.

“Next Saturday?” he suggests, and there’s a hopeful tilt to his brow that makes my heart skip a beat.

“Next Saturday sounds perfect.” The words tumble out before I can second-guess them, buoyed by the thrill of anticipation. “I’d love to.”

“Let’s make a day of it,” he says, and the idea of spending hours with him, untethered from the anchor of our desks, sends a ripple of excitement through me.

“Let’s.” And just like that, next Saturday becomes a beacon, a promise of something bright and thrilling and wholly unexpected.

CHAPTER 13

OLIVER

I’m standing outside Nora’s apartment building, hands in my pockets, trying to remember the last time I took a Saturday off. It must have been sometime in school, before my life became a series of meetings and deadlines.

I check my watch; it’s a habit I can’t shake even today when the only schedule I have is to enjoy the day with Nora.

Her apartment building is as charming as she is, a vintage brownstone that’s managed to resist the march of modern high-rises around it. The red brick facade is warm and inviting, vines creeping up the sides like nature’s own decoration. It’s so different from the sleek lines and glass walls of my downtown office, a reminder that there’s life beyond work if one only looks for it.

I walk up to the second floor, find the number I’m looking for, and knock. The door swings open and there she is, Nora, with a smile that could rival the morning sun. She steps out in a dress that dances around her knees, and I can’t help but think how perfectly she fits into this picturesque scene as if she’s part of the very fabric of this city.

“Hey,” I breathe more than say.

“Hi.” Her smile gets even bigger.

“Ready?” I ask, my voice sounding lighter than it has in years.

“Absolutely!” She’s beaming, and she locks the door behind her.

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