My Bestie’s Billionaire Brother (Emerald City Billionaires #2)

1. Tess

Tess

I grip Oliver's lunge line with white knuckles, my palm damp despite the crisp morning air. He circles me with an overabundance of energy, those four flashy white legs striking the ground in a rhythmic cadence. This is his first major show and I hope we both survive it.

"Easy, boy," I murmur, my voice low beneath the ambient chaos of the Pacific Northwest Jumper Invitational. Around us, horses and riders are warming up. A chestnut gelding passes too close to us, his rider's face a mask of pre-competition concentration.

Jane stands by the rail, her blonde hair caught in a ponytail, watching with the knowing eyes of someone who's seen me through two decades of equestrian triumphs and disasters. "He looks a bit fresh," she calls, the understatement hanging in the air between us.

"Fresh is one word for it," I reply, adjusting my grip as Oliver makes an unnecessary leap over absolutely nothing. "I'd go with 'possessed by demons,' personally."

The morning sun catches his gleaming bay coat, highlighting the ripple of muscles beneath.

He's beautiful—I'll give him that—with his perfect white blaze running down the middle of his face like a lightning strike.

Beautiful and challenging in equal measure.

I bought him three months ago, and each day is a negotiation between his raw talent and his determination to test every boundary.

I extend my arm, asking him to move out on the circle. For a moment, he complies, stretching into a surprisingly elegant trot that reminds me why I emptied my savings account for him. When he's good, he's very good.

"That's it," I encourage, feeling a flutter of hope. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today, he'll remember he's a show jumper and not a rodeo bronc.

A man leads a skittish mare past us. I see the moment Oliver notices her—his ears pinning flat against his head, nostrils flaring wide. I shorten the line immediately, my muscles tensing in anticipation.

"Heads up," I call to the man, who barely glances back. The mare tosses her head, whinnying as she passes.

That's all it takes.

Oliver freezes, plants his front hooves, and snakes his head around to stare at the retreating mare. I recognize the warning signs—the sudden stillness, the bunching of muscles across his withers—but I'm a beat too slow to react.

"Oliver, no—" The words barely leave my mouth before he explodes.

His back legs kick skyward with shocking force, and the lunge line burns through my gloved fingers. I should let go—I know I should let go—but some stubborn part of my brain insists I can regain control if I just hold on long enough.

Oliver bucks again, twisting in mid-air with an athleticism that would be impressive if it weren't so terrifying. The lunge line snaps taut, yanking me forward off my feet. My knees hit the dirt first, then my palms. But I still don't let go.

My face scrapes against the ground, and some primal instinct for self-preservation finally overrides my stubbornness. I let go of the line.

Oliver bolts, trailing the lunge line behind him like a victory banner. He thunders toward the gate, surprising a group of spectators who scatter like birds.

I push myself to my knees, tasting blood where I've bitten my lip. My once-pristine white show shirt is now a modern art project of dirt and grass stains. Pain radiates from my shoulder in dull waves.

Jane is at my side in an instant, her hands steady on my elbow as she helps me stand. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lie, brushing ineffectually at the dirt coating my jodhpurs. "Just my pride."

"Your pride will recover," she says, practical as always. "We need to catch your demon horse before he destroys the entire showgrounds."

We exit the lunging area just in time to see Oliver tearing past the warm-up ring, spooking several horses and surprised looks from their riders. The show steward spots us and points accusingly in Oliver's direction, as if I might somehow not have noticed my horse running amok.

"I'm so sorry," I call to her, breaking into a run despite my protesting muscles. "We'll get him."

"This is what I get for buying a young horse," I mutter to Jane as we follow the trail of chaos. "I should have stuck with something steady and boring."

Oliver has now attracted a small audience of riders and spectators, some helpfully pointing in his direction, others simply recording the entertainment on their phones. Perfect. By dinner, I'll be trending on equestrian social media as a cautionary tale.

He disappears around the corner of the stable, the lunge line still trailing dangerously behind him. I pick up my pace, ignoring the throbbing in my knee. All I can think about is the line catching on something and Oliver panicking and injuring himself or someone else.

Jane and I round the corner, breathless, just in time to see Oliver charging toward the VIP parking area, where gleaming trucks and trailers worth more than my annual salary sit in neat rows.

"Oh no," I groan, picturing the insurance claims. "No, no, no."

We run even faster, my boots slipping slightly on the grass. My physical discomfort fades beneath more pressing concerns: Oliver's safety, the vet bills I can't afford, the possibility of him injuring someone.

And then, a tall figure steps calmly into Oliver's path.

Charlie Astor—Jane's older brother and Seattle coffee mogul—stands in the middle of the gravel path with one hand raised confidently, as if catching runaway horses is something he does between board meetings.

Oliver miraculously slows to a trot, then stops completely, lowering his head to sniff Charlie's outstretched palm.

"Whoa there, big guy," Charlie murmurs, his deep voice carrying an authoritative warmth. He catches the trailing lunge line with practiced ease, loops it securely, and gives Oliver a firm pat on the neck. Oliver actually leans into his touch like a puppy.

Jane reaches them first. "Oh my God! Charlie? What are you doing here?"

I hang back a few steps, suddenly and acutely aware of my appearance.

I’m covered in dirt. My hair has escaped its neat bun to hang in sweaty tendrils around my face.

There's a tear in my left jodhpur leg, and I can feel a warm trickle that might be blood on my knee.

Perfect. Just how I wanted Charlie Astor to see me after all this time—like I've been dragged through a field. Which, technically, I have.

"Surprise." Charlie flashes that grin that melts hearts.

At six-foot-five, he towers over Jane, his dirty blonde hair catching the morning sun.

He's wearing dark jeans and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly put-together in a way that makes me feel like even more of a mess.

"I had a meeting in Portland yesterday and thought I'd swing by to see my favorite sister. "

"I'm your only sister," Jane points out, giving him a hug.

"Details." His eyes find mine over Jane's shoulder, and my stomach performs the equivalent of Oliver's earlier bucking routine. "Hey, Tess. Making dramatic entrances, as usual, I see."

I force my feet to move, approaching them slowly. "Not intentionally. Thanks for catching my naughty escape artist." I reach for Oliver's lead, and our fingers brush as Charlie passes it to me. A small electric shock runs through me.

"My pleasure." His smile shifts, softening at the edges. "You're bleeding."

I touch my cheek self-consciously, fingertips coming away with a small smear of red. "It's nothing. Just a scratch."

"And your knee," he adds, his gaze dropping briefly to the torn fabric at my leg.

"Battle wounds," I say with forced lightness. "All part of the glamorous life of an equestrian."

Jane circles Oliver, checking him for injuries with the efficient movements of someone who's done this a thousand times. "Not a scratch on him, the little monster."

Charlie steps closer to me, and I catch the scent of his cologne—something expensive and subtle that makes me painfully aware of how I must smell: horse sweat and arena dirt. "That cut might need attention,” he says, his voice lower.

"I'm fine," I insist, though my knee is throbbing and my shoulder feels like it's been wrenched from its socket.

Oliver nuzzles Charlie's chest, leaving a streak of horse slobber on his shirt. I wince, but Charlie just laughs, a deep sound that vibrates.

"He likes you," I say, tugging gently on the lunge line.

"I've always had a way with difficult cases." Charlie winks and reaches up to stroke Oliver's face, his long fingers tracing the white marking with surprising gentleness. "He’s a handsome devil."

There's something surreal about watching Charlie Astor—CEO of Emerald City Coffee and son of Seattle royalty—standing in the morning sun handling my horse with unexpected expertise.

I've known Charlie since Jane and I became best friends in middle school. My parents were going through a messy divorce, and I spent a lot of time at the Astors’ trying to escape the chaos.

"Well, thank you," I say, meaning it despite my mortification. "You saved me from having to explain to the show committee why my horse was rearranging the VIP parking area."

We begin walking back toward the stables, Oliver now docile between us. Jane leads the way, on her phone, presumably messaging her husband, Trey, about the morning’s events. Charlie falls into step beside me, shortening his stride to match mine as I limp slightly.

"So," he says, "Are you still going to be able to show today?"

I nod. "If this one decides to cooperate. First show with him. Obviously going great so far."

"You'll be fine." His confidence seems absolute. "I've watched you ride since you were a kid, Tess. You've never met a horse you couldn't master eventually."

The compliment warms me unexpectedly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Not sure it's warranted given what you just witnessed."