Page 14 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
“That doesn’t change the fact that this is out. The board will be circling. Do you know how this looks?”
“Yes. Like a vaguely salacious, unconfirmed, low-resolution leak that no one can verify. It’s trashy, and it’ll pass.”
“It looks like you’re becoming your father.”
That hits harder than anything else she’s said today. My pulse spikes. My fingers clench the edge of the desk. “Don’t.”
“I warned you.”
“And I warned you.”
“You’re on the same path.”
“No. He lied. He cheated. He hollowed us out from the inside. I’m not a married man with dalliances. I’m single, and I’m allowed a personal life. Even if that tape was real, it doesn’t matter. The optics aren’t going to hurt VT.”
“You should’ve never hired her.”
“She’s the best damn assistant we’ve had in five years.” Might be exaggerating there, since she’s been with us less than a week, but who cares? Nothing I say will change her mind.
“She’s Phil’s sister. And she’s tempting you.”
I stare at the desk. My blood is roaring in my ears. Nothing good comes from continuing this conversation. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t you?—”
I end the call.
She calls back immediately. I let it ring. Again. Ring. Again.
I power down the phone for the first time in months. It feels wrong, like I’ve broken the ultimate rule. Being out of contact with Mother? Unforgiveable in her eyes. But I don’t have it in me to care right now.
All I can think about is Parker.
I hadn’t planned to do it. I don’t even know why I didn’t stop it. Her perfume still lingers in my memory. Clean, warm, a little too sweet.
Like her.
God, I want her.
That’s the truth. Buried under all the corporate positioning and political maneuvering, under the responsibility and the name and the legacy—I want her.
I want to know how many freckles are under that silk blouse. I want to hear her gasp again. I want to watch her mouth form my name without a whisper of guilt between us.
I want everything I can’t have.
And I don’t know how long I can keep pretending otherwise.
4
HARRISON
I hate these meetings.
Boardroom full of smug suits who think my last name is a footnote and my résumé a typo. Half of them pretend to listen while checking the value of their weekend homes. The other half are waiting for me to trip over a decimal point so they can pounce like it proves something.
I didn’t go to Stanford. I didn’t come from old money. I didn’t intern because my dad pulled strings—I started in this company sweeping floors.
And now I run the damn budget.
