Page 69 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
“I can’t afford anything in there.”
I hold the door open for her. “Let me be clear. You’re not paying. You’re modeling. We’re investing in the company’s best-kept secret weapon.”
“I’m not a weapon.”
“You are when you walk into a room like you own it.”
She blinks at that. Then follows me inside.
The boutique smells like expensive perfume and well-aged champagne, even though I don’t see either in the room. The walls are white. The lighting is soft. Every dress on display is behind glass like it’s a piece of art instead of something to sweat in.
A woman approaches us, perfectly styled, polite but sharp-eyed. I introduce Parker. I don’t say who she is to me—just that she’s VT’s gala lead and needs a dress worthy of the role.
Within minutes, we’re surrounded by color and fabric and options with price tags that could pay off a student loan. I offer to wait, but Parker insists I come with her to help narrow down styles. “You’re the one making me do this,” she says. “You get to suffer through chiffon.”
So I do. And it’s not suffering. Not even close.
She tries on navy first, simple and clean. It fits her like a second skin, and I have to look away when she steps out because I already know I’m in trouble. Then there’s a red one—low cut, slit up the thigh. She spins once in front of the mirror, looking over her shoulder at the way the back dips almost to her waist.
I can’t stop staring.
“You hate it,” she says.
“Idon’thate it,” I say, voice tight.
She smirks. “You look like you’re about to break something.”
“Trying not to.”
Her next dress is black and dramatic and practically made of shadows. She doesn’t like it, but I do. She looks like something you dream about and then wake up sweating. In a good way.
She settles, finally, on a dark green satin that hugs her in all the right places and leaves just enough to the imagination. When she steps out in it, I forget how to breathe for a second. Her expression shifts when she sees mine. “You like this one.”
“Yeah,” I say. “A lot.”
She bites her lip. “It’s too much.”
“Not even close.”
She looks down at herself in the mirror. Then she smiles. “Okay,” she says. “This one.”
We walk out with the dress boxed and bagged, the boutique staff smiling like they know a secret. We grab a late lunch nearby. Just a little Italian place with a shaded patio and good wine I don’t drink because I’m driving. Parker picks at her salad while I inhale pasta like I haven’t eaten in three days.
The sun is warm. Her hair is catching the light. And for the first time in what feels like a month, things don’t feel like they’re falling apart.
She looks up halfway through the meal and says, “You know this doesn’t fix everything.”
“I know.”
“I’m still your assistant.”
“I’m still your CFO.”
She tilts her head. “You think we can keep pretending?”
“No.”
She sighs, like she knew I’d say that. Then she says, “Sometimes I think professionalism is a scam.”
