Page 15 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
So when someone says—offhand, like it’s harmless—“Well, we all know a four-year degree is the minimum for leadership material,” it takes everything I’ve got not to snap the damn pen in my hand.
I glance up from the report in front of me, nice and slow, and meet eyes with the speaker—David Brinley, head of one of our satellite operations in Seattle. Business casual arrogance in a blazer. MBA from somewhere expensive. Hair like it’s still 1998.
“You know,” I say, as I lean back in my chair and cross one ankle over my knee, “it’s funny. The unfortunate side effect of having a college education is underestimating people who don’t.”
His expression falters just enough for me to keep going.
I smile, just a little. Just enough. “Remind me, David, how’s your department doing with quarterly hiring? Last I checked, your churn rate was hovering above eighteen percent.”
A few heads swivel.
David stiffens. “That’s a regional issue. We’re working on retention strategies.”
“Sure you are,” I say. “Maybe next time you need help with problem-solving, you can find someone who didn’t spend four years memorizing case studies and another ten paying off the loans.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. People go quiet. Gavin doesn’t interrupt. Jack just scribbles something in the margins of his packet. The point’s been made.
I go back to my report like it never happened, but the heat behind my collar doesn’t fade for a while. After the meeting, I make a slow loop through the executive floor to cool down.
I don’t do outbursts. I don’t do pride fights. But every once in a while, someone like David reminds me that no matter how many digits are on my paycheck, I’m still the guy who came from nothing.
And yeah, I’m the CFO now. But people like David still assume I got lucky. Some things will never change.
I round the corner toward the executive assistant workstations—and stop short. Becauseshe’sthere.
Parker Simon.
Brown curly hair twisted up messily, a pen between her teeth, reading something on her tablet like it’s a puzzle she needs to solve with her whole soul.
Jenna was Gavin’s last EA, and don’t get me wrong, she was sharp as hell. But Parker? Parker makes the air around her feel brighter. Lighter. Like someone opened a window in this too-polished building and let in the sun.
I shouldn’t be looking at her like this. But it’s impossible not to.
She’s leaning forward slightly, reading something on the monitor. Her skirt hugs her hips, and I catch the curve of her calf just visible from my angle. Jesus.
I have half a mind to walk over and ask her if she needs help with whatever she’s reading, just so I can hear her voice again. It’s not overly sweet, not high-pitched like some of the junior assistants who think giggling is currency. Parker’s voice is smart. Quick. That warmth in it isn’t performative—it’s real.
And it’s pulling me in like a goddamn magnet.
I’m halfway there when I hear a voice. “Morning, Harrison.”
I turn.
Phil is all smiles, holding a cup of coffee like it’s just another Monday, not a tightrope walk over a firepit.
“Phil.” I nod, switching into neutral. “How’s marketing this week?”
“Depends. If I tell you we need to increase digital spend by twenty percent, are you going to yell at me?”
“Only internally.”
He laughs. “Fair enough. I figured I’d catch you before you lock yourself in a budget dungeon.”
“I’m always locked in a budget dungeon.”
His eyes flick past me to where Parker’s still working. I see the flicker in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Phil’s not dumb. And I’m not subtle.
“She’s doing well,” he says casually, but the tone shifts. “Settling in fast.”
