Her Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend (Her Billionaire #1)

Chapter One

(Charlotte)

To take the pink bikini or not to take the pink bikini…

“You’re taking the pink bikini, right?”

I turned my dropped-jaw expression on my best friend. “Are you reading my mind?”

Sarrah shrugged, looking as effortlessly cool as ever as she lounged on the sofa that provided a line of demarcation between my bedroom area and my living room area. She tossed her glossy black ringlets, and the beads of her dangly boho earrings clicked together. “I’m just here to play costume designer.”

“I’m packing for my brother’s wedding. Not playing Madison Square Garden.” I turned back to the mound of clothing on my bed. I didn’t need a costume designer, but I definitely needed someone who could stop me from trying to take every item of clothing I owned along for my brother’s destination wedding.

Sarrah sighed her patented fed-up-with-Charlotte’s-bullshit sigh. “Packing for your brother’s wedding at a tropical resort—”

“It’s in South Carolina.”

“Packing for your brother’s wedding at a resort where there is still going to be a pool and an ocean and plenty of opportunities to wear the tiniest swimsuit you own,” Sarrah amended. “Believe me, you need to look hot. Twenty percent of married people met at other people’s weddings.”

“That’s not true.” I picked up a much safer pink gingham one-piece—when one lived in one’s parents’ pool-house-slash-guesthouse, one tended to have enough swimsuits to choose from.

“It’s probably not,” Sarrah conceded. “But you do know that at least one eligible bachelor will be there.”

“Ah yes.” I snorted a laugh. “The elusive billionaire my brother mooches off.”

“Says the woman who lives in her parents’ guesthouse,” Sarrah pointed out. “Besides, if you had a superrich best friend to finance an amazing destination wedding at a four-star resort—”

“Which he owns, okay?” I kept reminding everyone of that; it wasn’t like Matthew Ashe had dug deep into his pockets and saved his pennies to pay for my brother’s fiancé’s dream wedding.

“We take what we are offered.” She finished with a satisfied flourish of her wrists.

She had a point. My parents weren’t hurting financially—a guesthouse, for Chrissake—but they didn’t have resort-wedding-on-Hilton-Head money.

They would have, if you hadn’t wasted it. The closer the date of my brother’s wedding got, the more critical of myself I became. I didn’t want Sarrah’s evaluation of my situation to sting, but it did. I’d dropped out of college. I’d wasted a huge chunk of money that could have paid for a beautiful wedding for my brother. I had nothing to show for my frustrating, on-and-off relationship with college. They might as well have used those funds on the non-disappointing child.

“Isn’t the bride’s family supposed to pay for the wedding?” I grumbled under my breath.

“What?” Sarrah asked.

I shook my head. “Never mind. I think you’re probably right, though. Scott does have a lot of rich friends. Maybe it’s time to consider the life of a trophy wife.”

“Right, better get hitched before you’re an old maid.” Sarrah gave me two thumbs up. “You’re twenty-five and unmarried. You’re a burden to your parents.”

“I know you’re joking, but ouch.” Not that it was Sarrah’s fault my feelings were hurt. I’d spent most of my life feeling like I let everyone down. Especially my brother. Scott deserved a nice wedding.

And why was I being so bitter about the fact that his best friend was rich? I had the best best friend.

And she gave good advice. I wadded up the pink bikini and tossed it in my suitcase. “Fine. But I refuse to become a cliché. I’m not going to throw myself in front of the rich guy.”

“Agreed. Financially comfortable guy. Or girl.” Sarrah paused. “Does your brother even have any women friends?”

I scoffed. “Of course he does. He’s not some kind of misogynist weirdo.”

“Well, you make his friends sound so unappealing,” she pointed out.

“Unfair of me. I haven’t met them. It’s not like we hang out a lot, socially.” Scott had been fourteen when I was born. He’d been out of the house before I remembered him living with us.

“Well, this weekend is as good a time as any to get to know one. Or two. At the same time.” She waggled her eyebrows.

I ignored her and zipped my suitcase shut. “There. One bag. Nobody can complain that I took too much.”

A knock on the door drew my attention. Through the blinds, I saw the tanned forearm that indicated my father was back from the golf course.

“It’s open,” I called.

“Hey, Sport,” Dad said as he stepped in. He noticed Sarrah on the couch. “And Sarrah. Am I interrupting?”

“I’m helping Charlotte winnow down her wardrobe choices, Mr. Holmes,” Sarrah said in her most kiss-ass voice.

“Good. There’s a weight limit on planes. We don’t want to crash.” Dad chuckled at his own remark.

I groaned inwardly and patted my suitcase. “This is the only one I’m taking.”

Dad’s expression took on a worried cast. “Are you feeling okay?”

I shook my head in annoyance as he broke into a grin. “Does your sense of humor wear off slowly after becoming a dad or do they have to surgically remove it at the hospital and replace it with a new, worse one?”

Sarrah’s phone alarm went off, and she shot up from the sofa. “That’s my time. Do you need me to pick up anything for you after work?”

“We won’t even be here,” I explained with a wave of my hand. “Our flight leaves at six.”

“And it’s wheels up at four-thirty,” Dad added.

“Wheels up refers to the plane, not the taxi taking us to the airport,” I corrected him. I put my arms out for a hug from Sarrah. Yeah, I was only going away for a long weekend, but I didn’t know how much we’d get to text while I was busy with wedding stuff, and we saw each other almost every single day. When she released me from her crushing squeeze, I downplayed my separation anxiety. “Chill. I’m going to a wedding. Not my own funeral.”

“Plane crashes happen.” Leave it to Sarrah to say exactly the wrong thing to a nervous flyer. “Not yours, obviously. Because you’re never going to die.”

“Neither of us are,” I agreed. “Ever.”

“Okay, I’m holding you to that,” she said and headed for the door.

When it closed behind her, Dad got to the point of his rare visit to his own guesthouse. “I heard about the interview.”

I cringed a little. “Yeah, not my finest hour.”

“The job market is tough right now.” Dad always had some kind of excuse as to why the problem wasn’t me. “You’ll get ’em next time.”

I knew he didn’t mean to sound condescending. “Next time what? Next time I get told I’m not ‘the right fit’ for telemarketing? That one really hurts.”

Dad’s graying eyebrows rose in an expression I’ve seen on my own face an uncomfortable number of times. “Does it, though? I think most people would feel like they dodged a bullet missing out on a job in a dying industry.”

While my father and I shared the same coppery-blond hair and bright blue eyes, I had my mother’s porcelain skin and deep sense of cynicism.

“I know this weekend is going to be hard for you,” he began. “People will ask you what you’re doing, and you’re going to want to say, ‘nothing, I’m a failure.’”

“You don’t know what I’m going to say,” I grumbled, because absolutely, that was what I would say.

“Your brother is fourteen years ahead of you. He’s had a lot more time to build the life he has. You have to stop measuring yourself against him.” Dad’s eyes were kind, but his words ignored the core problem. I would always measure myself against my brother.

He was the only reason I was born in the first place.

When Scott had been twelve, he was diagnosed with leukemia. His best hope had been a bone marrow transplant, but neither of our parents had been a good enough match. Mom and Dad took a chance that a sibling might be, though.

And then I hadn’t been.

Obviously, Scott had survived. He’d gotten his bone marrow transplant from the registry, and I’d gotten to enter this world a crushing disappointment. My parents had tried to reassure me throughout my entire life that they wouldn’t have had me if they hadn’t wanted another baby, that they loved me even though I didn’t work as spare parts, that even thinking about myself as spare parts was absurd. But it had been impossible for me to shake the conviction that if my brother hadn’t gotten cancer, I wouldn’t be around.

Failing at everything else? Didn’t make the situation any better.

“Look,” Dad said with a sigh of resignation. “Your only job this weekend is to go to a wedding. You’re not in the wedding party—”

“Thank god!”

“—and you’re getting a stay at a luxury resort where everything is paid for and there are plenty of swim-up bars. I think you should take a modest swimsuit and spend the entire weekend drunk.” He paused. “Just as long as you’re not too drunk to make it to the wedding.”

“Thanks, Dad. I think that’s a good plan.”

Even if the bathing suit wasn’t going to be modest.

* * * *

(Matthew)

It wasn’t every day that I got a chance to surprise my best friend, especially since our jobs had basically kept us in different countries ever since college. We’d gotten together every chance we could, but for the past decade it had been a once-per-year affair. And now that he was about to get married and start a family, that number would likely be reduced.

Wearing my driver’s hat and standing in the baggage area of Hilton Head Island Airport, I felt a pang of anticipated loneliness at the thought. Scott getting married shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did.

I flexed my left hand, where I could still feel the phantom weight of my recently discarded ring, pulled my chauffer’s cap lower on my brow, and held up the sign I’d scrawled with a black permanent marker on the ride over. There was a surge of people into the baggage claim area, and I spotted Scott’s familiar blond head bobbing among the rest. As my bewildered friend staggered in my vague direction, I called out, “Chucklenuts? I’m waiting on a Mr. Chucklenuts?”

That directed his attention immediately, and I saw the mixture of exhaustion-heightened annoyance and grudging appreciation for my juvenile humor.

“Yes, I’m Mr. Chucklenuts,” he said, dropping his bag at my feet. “And you’re Mr. Minidick’s driver, I presume?”

I let the sign fall and pulled Scott into a bear hug. “Dumbfuck. How was the flight?”

“Bumpy.” He kicked the bag on the ground. “Carry that. It’s my day.”

“It’s the bride’s day,” I corrected him. “Who the fuck brings a duffel bag to his destination wedding?”

I hefted the bag over my shoulder—a little manual labor wouldn’t kill me—and headed toward the doors. My driver waited outside, leaning against the Maybach. I gave him his hat back and passed off the bag but took the job of opening Scott’s door.

“Okay, this is sick,” Scott said, settling into one of the leather seats. “This is like a living room. It might be the size of my living room.”

“Come work for me, man,” I offered, yet again. “Anywhere you want on the globe.”

“Not space?” he quipped. “Bezos offered me space.”

I snorted. “I can think of better things to do with my money than wasting it on a dick rocket.”

“Like wasting it on your best friend’s wedding?” he asked as I settled into my seat.

“It’s not a waste.” In fact, it wasn’t even the first time I’d helped a friend out with their wedding. Scott happened to be the last one to tie the knot.

Well, with one exception.

“It’s not like I’m ever getting married,” I went on, lifting my left hand to display my lack of ring.

Scott’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Matt. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to ruin your wedding weekend.” Being a huge bummer during one of the most important events of my best friend’s life wasn’t going to bring Brett back. “Before you ask, it was me. I called it off. And not because I’m afraid of commitment, this time.”

“Right.”

“It wasn’t.” God, did I have to admit it? “He cheated on me.”

Scott sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. So, that’s engagement number four down the drain.” In a rare moment of indulgent self-pity, I ticked them off on my fingers, in reverse order. “Brett, Sadie, Ashleigh, Ana. I’m thinking I need to have two more unsuccessful engagements with dudes and then I’ll have a complete set.”

“Or you could stop getting engaged,” Scott suggested. “You can date people for as long as you want without the specter of marriage looming over you.”

“I know that. I don’t ever seem to date people who know that.” Or who wanted to remain faithful. Or would sign a prenup. Or didn’t lie about birth control. Or wouldn’t care about my bisexuality. “I’m starting to think I’m a unique case here. There might not be anyone out there for me. The least I can do is make you and Laura happy.”

“Lauren. You know her name is Lauren,” he replied with a beleaguered exhale.

I raised my hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. It was a joke. Honestly, it was. You know how much I like Laurel.”

“You want to start this weekend off with a physical fight in the back of your fancy fucking car?” Scott warned. “Speaking of Lauren, I haven’t heard from her all morning. I expected at least a text or something—”

“They got in late last night,” I interrupted. “Her and her parents.”

“What about mine?” Scott’s knee bounced anxiously.

“They’re getting in tonight.” I grinned at him. “It’s eating you up inside to sit back and let someone else handle things.”

“Yeah, it’s so foolish of me to double-check on arrangements made by a guy who once got so high he forgot what day it was and thought Fourth of July fireworks were a terrorist attack.” Scott was never going to let that one go.

“Pardon me for being jumpy in the aughts.” Though I did owe him a debt of gratitude for not letting me call the cops and incriminate myself. “I would think that building a hospitality empire would have absolved me of my youthful indiscretions.”

“It’s my wedding,” Scott said apologetically.

“I know. And I know you want it to be perfect. But trust me, Lauren had more of a hand in planning any of this than I did. I just gave her the phone numbers and my credit card.” I hadn’t had time to do much more. I’d been working practically nonstop for the past fifteen years.

Maybe after the wedding, I’d take a vacation. A real one, not a work trip I called a vacation because I went clubbing after meetings.

Scott looked a bit more at ease knowing that I wasn’t behind any of the fine details.

Maybe I should have taken offense at that.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your family though. Finally,” I added, fluttering my eyelids. I affected a goofy, girly voice. “Are you ashamed of me? Is that why you never took me home to meet your parents?”

“Yeah, I don’t generally take people home to meet the parents. Mainly because I’m never at home with my parents. I don’t make it to the West Coast that often. Hell, you’ve probably been in California more often than I have in the past ten years,” Scott said with a shrug. A flicker of sadness crossed his face. “The last time I saw them was the cruise.”

“Yikes.” That was unusual for Scott. Though I wasn’t exactly close with my own family—except my mother—, Scott talked about his parents and his little sister like he worshipped them.

“Do me a favor, though,” Scott began, wincing. “You don’t want to get involved with my sister—”

“Whoa, hold up. Do you really think I’m going to try to fuck your little sister?” That would be low, even for me.

“No, I was going to warn you about her.” Scott half-groaned, half-laughed. “Look, she’s…kind of free-spirited.”

“You said she, direct quote, ‘knew every passenger with an upside-down pineapple on their cabin door’ after that cruise.”

“Yeah, and not because she liked fruit.”

“Oh, I think there was probably some eating of—”

“Don’t.” Scott held up a warning index finger. “What I’m saying is, you just got out of an engagement. I know what you’re like on the rebound. And she will decimate your heart. She’s brutal.”

“I like that kind of confidence,” I needled him. “It’s sexy.”

“I know you’re fucking with me,” he prefaced his statement, “but I’m serious. She’s my sister. I love her, and I would bust anyone’s face in a heartbeat if they hurt her. But it’s more likely you would get hurt.”

“What makes you think I’m in grave danger here?” I demanded. “I feel like this is a conversation that a person has with a little sister, not about one.”

“Because you are exactly her type. Older—”

“Watch it!”

“Than her, Father Time.” Scott rolled his eyes. “You’re older than her, you’re funny, and you’re fucking jacked.”

“Thanks for noticing.” I had been working out more the past few months. My looming fortieth birthday had increased my thoughts of mortality and the frailty of the human body.

“I don’t want there to be weirdness, okay?” Scott finally gave up. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He had warned me. The problem was, the warning had only piqued my interest.