Page 5 of Enemies with My Brother's Billionaire Bestie

For the first time since seeing Elliot, I smile genuinely. This is why I came back to this town—this happiness.

Moving to my dresser, I pull my blonde hair into a band and stare at my yellow joggers. Daniel’s right; I do look like a bunch of fresh bananas, but I don’t care. He’d probably faint if he saw the rest of my clothes. "Oh brother, I’ll definitely be the end of you," I mutter, heading into the bathroom to wash away the stress of the night.

An hour later, I crawl into bed. It’s time to post my weekly advice on my blog, but I’m unsure what to say. I turn on my laptop and jot down the first thought that comes to mind:

A Woman’s Dream of Love

Every woman dreams of a love story.

The kind that sweeps you off your feet and makes you feel safe.

The kind that steals your breath but leaves you unafraid of what comes next.

And if you’re lucky enough to experience this kind of love, you’re the luckiest woman alive.

I stare at the post, second-guessing myself, but before I can change it, I hit "post." This is my life as a relationship blogger—sharing the beauty of love with the world. Even if Elliot doesn’t get it.

The sound of my alarm pulls me awake. Sunlight is streaming through the window, and I realize I’ve fallen asleep with mylaptop still on the bed. I shuffle to the kitchen, hoping to find my brother or Julia, but they’re nowhere to be seen. Instead, there’s a note from Daniel:

"Hey, sleepyhead, didn’t want to wake you. I drove Julia to her parents' house. You’ll need to meet the event planners by 10 A.M., so don’t oversleep. P.S.: Elliot will pick you up. He knows the place."

"Elliot!!" I groan. This is my reality for the next three weeks.

There’s no time to eat or relax. After a quick shower, I grab the first clothes I can find when the doorbell rings. "Coming," I call, grabbing my bag and rushing to the door to find Elliot standing there.

He’s dressed in faded blue jeans, a white shirt, and a denim jacket. His hair isn’t slicked back like usual, but tousled, as if he couldn’t be bothered to comb it—and somehow, he still looks effortlessly sexy.

"Get a grip, Olivia," I silently warn myself, recalling last night’s events.

His eyes flicker to my shirt, and yes, I’m aware it says "I love Bubbles." He can stare all he wants—I’m not changing.

"Do you have a secret passion for weird clothes, or do you think it’ll make you the next fashion icon?" Elliot says dryly.

"Who needs boring clothes when you can have a conversation starter?" I retort, heading for his car. His eyes narrow, but I don’t care.

He unlocks the door for me, but I stop him. "I can handle the door, thanks. I don’t need you playing gentleman—it might just make me gag."

The ride is silent except for the radio. It takes us half an hour to reach the event planners’ office, but Elliot doesn’t get out of the car.

"Are you coming inside, or are you planning to sit here all day?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "Don’t tell me you’ve gotten cold feet just from seeing flowers and a place where people actually understand what ‘love’ means?" I tease.

His eyes darken. "You know what, Ollie? I’ve been trying to be nice since you got back, but you’re getting more annoying."

"And you want to know what I hate more than being stuck here with you?" His voice is sharp, fists clenched on the steering wheel. "It’s you trying to rile me up with your stupid talk about love, acting like you know what’s going on in my head."

I bite my lip, my heart pounding. But this is different. I’m different now.

Unlocking the door, I step out, relieved by the distance between us. "You can stay here and whine. Honestly, I’d rather not see your grumpy face while I’m planning my brother’s future."

As I walk into the building, my heart is still racing. And it’s not from fear. It’s something else. Something confusing. What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe I should see a doctor later and ask:

"Hey, Doc, can you explain why my heart is racing and why I was staring at the lips of the man I hate the most like they were a popsicle I was dying to have?"

I can already imagine the diagnosis: "You’re lonely, Miss Reed. Very lonely."

Chapter four

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