Page 60 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
“Glad you showed up as you today, man.”
“Yeah, well. It’s high time I did, right?” Gavin snorts a laugh. “This is gonna get fucked before it gets better.”
Harrison grins. “Let’s cause some chaos.”
15
GAVIN
I callmy mother the way I fire people. Politely. Firmly. Without offering options. “Thursday morning, ten sharp,” I say. “At my office.”
Vivian Thatcher doesn’t ask why. She never has to. She says she’ll be there with the sort of clipped elegance that carries undertones of disapproval and barely concealed curiosity.
Perfect.
I arrive twenty minutes early on Thursday and spend exactly ten of those staring at the glass wall that looks out over the executive floor, waiting for her.
When she arrives, she doesn’t stop at reception. She doesn’t greet the staff. She doesn’t look at the client decks being assembled on the table for this afternoon’s donor pre-meet. She simply walks in, her heels sharp on the hardwood, coat draped over one arm, sunglasses still on despite the fact that we’re fifty feet from any natural light.
And I watch her pass Parker’s desk.
Parker’s head is down, focused on her screen, dark hair pulled back into a sleek twist. She’s in navy today, a pencil skirt and a silk blouse that she wears like she forgot she’s beautiful. Her pen taps gently against her notepad, unconscious rhythm.
Vivian slows as she nears her.
My jaw tightens.
She doesn’t speak. Just spares Parker a glance that’s too quick to read, and then keeps walking. I watch her every step.
If she had so much as narrowed her eyes at Parker, I would have canceled the meeting and let her stew for another week. But she doesn’t. She reaches my door and knocks, once.
I stand. “Come in.”
She steps through like she’s entering a boardroom she already owns. “Darling,” she says, sliding her sunglasses off and tucking them into her handbag. “You’re looking very?—”
“Busy,” I finish. “Yes.”
She glances around my office like she hasn’t seen it a thousand times. “New art?”
“No.”
She sits in the chair across from my desk and crosses her legs. “You always keep it this cold in here?”
“I like to stay alert.”
“I like to feel my hands.”
“The bloodless usually have poor circulation.”
A beat of silence stretches between us. This is how it always starts. A dance of perfectly timed jabs dressed in cashmere and subtle eye rolls.
I sit.
She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve. Her nails are pale pink today. That’s her version of casual. “I assume this is about the gala.”
I smile. “Of course.”
“You’ve decided to take my advice, then?”
