Page 17 of Bought by His Brother's Best Friend

Damien ordered for us both in fluent French, earning an approving nod from our waiter.

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” I said, impressed.

“International business requires it. I speak decent German too, and I’m working on Mandarin.” He smiled. “Though my French professor would cringe at my accent.”

“It sounded pretty good to me.”

Our breakfast soon arrived—flaky croissants, strong coffee, and fresh fruit. The simplicity of it allowed us to focus on each other rather than elaborate haute cuisine.

“So,” Damien said after taking a sip of his espresso, “what would you like to see today? The Louvre? Eiffel Tower? Or we could just wander and see where we end up.”

“I’ve always thought the best way to experience a place is to get a little lost in it.”

He reached across the table to take my hand, his thumb brushing my knuckles. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

After breakfast, we set out with no particular destination in mind. Damien seemed content to follow my lead as I navigated us through narrow side streets and across elegant bridges spanning the Seine.

We walked hand in hand, something that felt surprisingly natural despite how new this was between us. Paris seemed to encourage it—everywhere I looked, couples strolled together, fingers intertwined, stopping to share kisses or whispered conversations.

“Do you come to Paris often?” I asked as we paused on Pont des Arts to look out over the water.

“A few times a year for business,” Damien replied. “But it’s different being here with you. I’m seeing it through fresh eyes.”

He gestured to the view before us—the Seine flowing beneath us, historic buildings lining its banks, the spire of Notre Dame visible in the distance.

“Usually, I’m rushing from one meeting to another, barely noticing any of this. But with you, I’m actually present. The way the light hits the water, or how the clouds are moving overhead.” He squeezed my hand. “It’s nice.”

I understood what he meant. I lived my life on a schedule too—client meetings, contract reviews, phone calls with team owners.

Even my downtime was planned and purposeful. This spontaneous wandering, with no agenda except enjoying each other’s company, was a luxury I rarely allowed myself.

“Tell me more about your work,” I said as we continued walking. “I know the broad outlines—tech company, very successful—but what does a typical day look like for you?”

Damien laughed. “There is no typical day, which is part of what I love about it. One day I might review new software prototypes, the next I’m negotiating an acquisition, and the day after that I could meet with investors.”

“Do you miss the early days? When it was just a startup?”

He considered this as we navigated around a street performer surrounded by tourists. “Sometimes. There was an energy then, a sense that we were building something revolutionary. Everything felt more immediate and personal.” He shrugged. “But I don’t miss the constant financial stress or the eighty-hour weeks.”

“I can understand that. Starting my agency was like that—exhilarating, but terrifying.”

“What about you?” he asked. “Do you enjoy being an agent?”

I thought about it as we turned down a quieter street lined with small boutiques and café’s. “I do. It wasn’t my original plan, but it suits me. I like the negotiation aspect, and knowing I’m helping athletes navigate a complex system that could take advantage of them.”

“You’re good at it too.”

I knew how my brother enthusiastically sang my praises. “Tyler’s biased.”

“But I’ve heard the same from others in the industry.” He tugged me closer, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Shane.”

We found ourselves in a small park, where we claimed a bench beneath a flowering tree. An elderly man was playing gentle melodies on an accordion nearby, adding to the quintessentially Parisian atmosphere. Damien’s arm rested around my shoulders, and I leaned into him, savoring the simple pleasure of the moment.

“This is nice,” I murmured. “It’s so achingly perfect that it’s practically a romantic cliche.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching Parisians and tourists pass by. A young couple with a toddler paused near us, the child’s laughter ringing out as his father swung him up onto his shoulders.

“Damien,” I began, a thought occurring and feeling suddenly nervous. “What happens when we go home?”

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