Page 9 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
And somehow still the one thing I want most.
Which means I need to keep my hands to myself. Again. But God help me, I don’t think I can. Not this time. Not now that I know how she tastes when she moans my name. Not now that I’ve felt her again.
And not when I’m pretty fucking sure I never stopped wanting her. I don’t know how.
3
GAVIN
My office sitson the top floor of VT Global’s headquarters in downtown Los Angeles, walled in glass on two sides with a view that stretches from the gridlock of Wilshire to the smog-softened edge of the Hollywood Hills. It’s deliberate—everything in here is.
The desk is black marble, clean and cold, custom cut to fit the space without dominating it. The shelves behind me are walnut, built-in and backlit, lined with handpicked art books, a few quiet accolades, and one photo of my grandfather and me on the day I signed my first contract. That’s the only personal item I allow.
The floor is polished concrete, waxed weekly. There’s a bar cart in the corner—unused, mostly decorative—but it makes certain visitors more comfortable. The lighting is soft, adjustable, and strategically indirect, because I hate fluorescents and I like to see who sweats under pressure.
In short, it’s perfect for me. Sadly, it’s the only perfect part of my day.
My phone rings at 8:03 a.m., which is three minutes later than usual. For most people, that would mean nothing. For my mother, it means I should expect blood.
Vivian Thatcher is never late. She considers it both a professional weakness and a moral failing. If she’s calling now—late, cold, and controlled—then something has already gone wrong, and she’s chosen me as the first wound to suture or split wider.
I answer before it can ring again.
“Mother.”
“Good morning, Gavin,” she says, voice clipped like the heel of a Louboutin tapping tile.
“You’re late,” I say, because I know it annoys her.
“I was on with the Zurich office. They had a press leak involving a legacy model, a fertility clinic, and a defamation suit. I assume you’ve reviewed the Q2 projections?”
“I assume you remember you’re retired.”
Her voice sharpens. “Have you reviewed the Q2 projections?”
No point in goading her. She’s on a tear. “I have. Up three point two percent across the board. Beauty margins are climbing thanks to influencer alignments. And the Thompson rollout performed thirty percent over forecast.”
She exhales, and I can practically hear her eyes rolling. “I’ve seen the metrics. I’m asking for your opinion, not a book report.”
“My opinion is that the numbers are strong. But it’s a temporary bump unless we reinforce it with a credibility campaign. GenZ trusts authenticity more than airbrush. We need to pivot strategy accordingly.”
Vivian hums. That sound—the sound of consideration or condemnation, depending on what follows—always makes my jaw tighten. “How is the new assistant?”
I close the performance dashboard on my screen. Of course she wants to talk about Parker. She always circles back to what she actually wants to say once the formalities are out of the way.
“Parker Simon. Phil’s sister.”
“I know who she is.”
“She started Friday.”
“So I heard.”
“From whom?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Heather, of course.” Heather Cloud, our CHRO and my mother’s oldest friend, has a direct line to my mother that bypasses the org chart, protocol, and my patience. “She was surprised. I was shocked.”
“Shocked that I hired a competent assistant?”
