Page 68 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
Her eyes shimmer. Just slightly. Then she laughs, bitter. “I should be focused on the event, on work, on…anything but this. And instead I’m stuck on something completely shallow.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I don’t have a dress.”
I blink. “A dress.”
“For the gala. I don’t have anything formal. I’ve been saving every spare dollar for the kids’ summer tuition. I thought maybe I could rent something last-minute, but even the decent places need time and deposits and?—”
“That’s it,” I say, standing. “We’re going shopping.”
She blinks up at me. “What?”
“You need a dress. We’re getting you a dress.”
“I can’t—Harrison, I can’t afford?—”
“I didn’t ask if you could. I saidwe’regetting one. It’s a work expense.”
“That is not how work expenses?—”
“I’m the CFO. Deciding on work expenses is literally part of my job. And I decided we’re getting you a dress.”
She starts to protest again, but I shoot her a look and she sighs, defeated. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
She laughs under her breath. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe. But you’ll have a dress by the end of today.”
And for the first time all morning, she actually smiles.
The second we step outside, something shifts. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours, maybe days. Her shoulders loosen. Her jaw unclenches. The tight professionalism that clings to her like static finally starts to lift in the warm sun.
I open the car door for her, and she gives me a look like she’s debating whether this is still real. By the time we hit WestHollywood, she’s started giving me opinions on music. I play something low and instrumental to keep the vibe chill, and she makes a noise like she’s personally offended.
“This is what you listen to in the car?” she says, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t need lyrics yelling at me when I’m already stressed.”
She scrolls through my playlist. “This is all moody guy music.”
“It’s called focus.”
“It’s called sulking in a luxury vehicle.”
“You’re in that luxury vehicle.”
“Yeah, and I feel like I should be solving murders while whispering about betrayal and shadows.”
I glance over. She’s grinning. Real. Relaxed. God, I missed that smile.
We pull into a boutique in Beverly Hills that specializes in formal wear for the rich, the famous, and the dangerously overdressed. I know the owner. Not well, but enough that I won’t get dirty looks for showing up without an appointment.
Parker steps out of the car and looks up at the storefront like she’s about to be eaten alive. “This place is too nice.”
“That’s the point.”
