Page 30 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
Through a grove of lemon trees designed to look wild and effortless—probably arranged by some landscape architect who charges by the thought. Every part of this place is curated. Nothing organic. Nothing unplanned.
Just like my mother likes it.
I loosen my tie as I walk, fingers tight with restraint. My pulse still hasn’t come down. My mouth tastes like salt and steel. And rage.
She really invitedVanessa.
The same Vanessa who worked for Icon while we dated. The same Vanessa who kept her passwords in Latin and her heart behind a firewall. The same Vanessa who smiled through everydinner and never once looked me in the eye when she said she loved me.
She cheated on me. She never admitted it—not outright—but I read between the lines. The late nights. The deleted messages. The way she started wearing perfume again after claiming it gave her migraines. The private eye’s photos of her with several men in pricy resorts. That one picture of her in the back seat of a convertible in a parking garage, riding her secret partner.
And now, Vivian thinks I should take her back. Her theories grind my gears. Vanessa is strategic. Understands expectations. Good for the brand.
The worst part?
Vanessawasgood for my image. When we were seen together, people took notice. She’s gorgeous, a former model. We looked good together, each of us boosting the other’s profile. They saw me as polished, stable. Controlled. The anti-Jamison.
But she never loved me. And it never felt real with her. With Vanessa, everything was presentation.
But with Parker?—
My hands tighten into fists at my sides.
With Parker, it’s different. And that’s exactly what scares my mother. Not that she’s worried about Phil—that’s a smoke screen, and I see right through it.
Parker is, to Mom’s mind, a secretary. And that means I’m following my father’s footsteps. That’s all Vivian needs to hear. I’ll be just like him. A man who couldn’t keep it in his pants. I’ll have a marriage that ends with a tabloid headline and a PR fire.
I stop at the edge of the lawn and sit on a stone bench beneath an olive tree. I let my head fall back. Let the filtered sunlight hit my closed eyes. Let the silence sit with me. But even now, I’m not alone.
Parker’s voice floats in behind my mother’s. Soft. Hesitant. The way she says my name.
But I have to get her out of my head. She’s younger. Phil’s sister. Our assistant. And yet, every time she walks into a room, my world tilts a little.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. The way her nose scrunches when she’s frustrated. The way she talks about her kids with that balance of exasperation and awe that tells me she actually likes being a mom, even when it’s hard.
The way she says my name. I keep coming back to that part. I didn’t even know I liked the sound of my name until she said it like that.
I open my eyes. The sky is too blue. Too cloudless. It doesn’t match the storm inside me. I pull out my phone. No new texts. Nothing from her.
I tap open her contact, stare at the screen, and start to type:We should talk.
Then I delete it. Because I don’t know what I’d say after that. That I’m sorry? That I want her? That I don’t know how to want someone without ruining it?
None of it feels fair. Not to me. Not to her.
She deserves someone simple. Someone who doesn’t carry a legacy like a noose. Someone who doesn’t hear his mother’s voice in his head every time he wants something for himself.
I pocket the phone and stand. Time to get back to reality. The valet hands me the keys with a smile, but I don’t look at him. I slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and sit there for a moment before pulling out of the lot.
At home, I shower, trying to scrub off the afternoon. The country club’s scent—sunblock, citrus, judgment—lingers in my brain. I stand under hot water for longer than I should, letting it burn across my shoulders, trying to carve out space to think.
When I step out, the steam is thick. I wipe a hand across the mirror, and my own reflection stares back at me.
Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. Tie tossed over the doorknob.
I look like him. I hate that I look like him. I never meant to become Jamison Thatcher’s son in more than name. I worked my whole life to avoid his choices, his scandals, his hunger. But now here I am, falling for a woman I can’t have, making mistakes in dark rooms and private elevators.
Only difference is, I feel it. He never did. I pull on a shirt and pour a glass of scotch I don’t even want. I just need to hold something. The apartment is too quiet. No music. No news.
