Page 39 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
The sky is just starting to shift when I head downstairs—bare feet on warm wood, hair still damp from the quick shower. I expect silence. Maybe the hum of the fridge. A creaking floorboard. That’s usually all I get this time of day.
But the lights are on. Soft. Cozy. And I smell coffee.
I round the corner into the kitchen and stop short. Parker is sitting on one of the stools at the island, her knees drawn up beneath her in leggings, hoodie slouched off one shoulder, a mug between her hands. Her hair’s a little messy. She looks half asleep and completely perfect.
“Morning,” she says.
I blink. “You’re up.”
She shrugs, sips. “Mom life. Six years of being woken up by tiny humans at dawn. My body doesn’t remember how to sleep in anymore.”
I pour a mug for myself and join her at the counter. “I didn’t even hear you come down.”
“I’ve been up for a while.” She doesn’t offer anything else, and I don’t ask.
We sip our coffee in companionable silence, the kind that hums with too many words left unsaid. I glance at her bare feet, the way her toes curl around the rung of the stool, and try not to stare at her legs, folded like that. Try not to remember how they wrapped around my waist last night.
Fail.
She catches me. I clear my throat and look away. She asks, “You always up this early?”
“Yeah. Habit.”
“You ever do anything with it? Or just brood into your mug and judge the sunrise?”
I glance at her. “Both.”
She grins.
I take a long sip and say, “There’s a trail behind the cabin. Leads down to the lake. You feel like getting out of here for a bit?”
She hesitates.
I can see her thinking. Weighing. We’re past pretending we’re just coworkers. But she’s still not sure what we are instead. That’s okay. I don’t know either.
Eventually, she nods. “Let me grab shoes.” Five minutes later, we’re out the back door.
The morning air is crisp, laced with pine and woodsmoke and the earthy dampness of dew. The trail is narrow, winding through tall trees and brush that rustles when the wind shifts. It’s quiet, but not silent—birds waking up, leaves sighing.
She walks beside me, hoodie sleeves pushed up. She’s quiet for a while. Then, she mutters, “This place is beautiful.”
“It’s a good reset.”
“I can see that.”
I glance at her. “You seem better this morning.”
She huffs a laugh. “Define better.”
“You’re not bolting.”
She winces. “I’ve thought about it.”
“I figured.”
She glances sideways at me. “You mad?”
“No.”
