I spot my stepbrother immediately. Devon doesn’t sit, heholds court. One ankle casually draped over his knee, suit jacket tailored within an inch of its life, grin sharp enough to cut glass. He looks like a man who’s never had to wonder if his credit card would clear. Because he hasn’t. Unfortunately, I also look like a man who’s destined to live in his shadow. But that’s fine. It’s not about competition. I merely want to be taken seriously.
His eyes light with mischief once he sees me. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite underachiever.”
“And here I was hoping you would’ve choked on an olive by now,” I mutter as I approach.
He laughs, standing to clap me on the shoulder. “Still allergic to success, I see.”
“And apparently you’re still allergic to humility.”
Before he can reply, Devon straightens and grins toward someone approaching. “Becket Ryan,” he booms, spreading his arms wide. “It’s been too long, you fucker.”
“Me? When are you finally going to move to the States?” Becket laughs easily as they
clasp hands.
“Not anytime soon. You’d all get bored without me mysteriously disappearing every few months.”
Yes. I prefer that.My stepbrother is here a little too often for my liking.
Becket Ryan, Dr. Love himself. He lives on the western edge ofRichmond, works as an Ob/GYN at St. Luke’s, and made nearly a billion dollars before graduating medical school thanks to a patented lubricant that apparently changed the quality of life for a whole demographic of women. I’m sure there are Fortune 500 companies now tripping over themselves to discover additional patented items that can ease the life of perimenopausal and postmenopausal women.
Despite having more money than God, he still practices medicine. His office is littered with photos of babies he’s delivered. He claims it’s because he’ll never have kids of his own, lifelong bachelor and proud of it, but I’ve always wondered if that would change for the right woman. That is, if he ever slowed down long enough to notice Mrs. Right.
Across the room, Gianni Black nods in greeting. He’s the owner of the most discreetly private club in three states and somehow the most disciplined man in the room. You’d think he’d be the worst influence here.He’s not.Devon and Dr. Love are the biggest man whores I’ve ever come across. And trust me, I’ve met my fair share.
Then there’s Max. Maximillian Wilde, to be exact. He blends in if you’re not paying attention. He wears simple clothes, a calm posture, with quiet but studious eyes behind those black horned-rim glasses. But behind the modest exterior is one of the most dangerous minds in cybersecurity.
He’s a self-made billionaire and a straight shooter. The man has zero pretension. And the driest sense of humor you could imagine once he warms up to you. He slides into the leather chair beside me and flags a cocktail waitress over. He spends a fair amount of time here working, so I’m sure they have his usual choice of beverage at the ready. “You look like a man who hasn’t slept.”
“I feel like a man who’s made questionable emotional decisions when I should be focused on my job,” I reply. I realize I’ve shared too much with my stepbrother in the vicinity and start to backtrack. “Jesus, please don’t?—”
Max holds up a hand to stop me. “You know nothing you say willever get back to the old man.” Our gazes both slide over to where Devon and Becket are flirting with two striking women. They drift off into their own orbit of charisma, loud laughter, and money-soaked nonsense, leaving Max and me watching the crowd.
“How does his dick not fall off?”
Max snorts. “So what questionable choices have you been making?” Max smirks. “Is Ben finally in love?”
My hand flies up in protest. “Slow your roll. I’ve only met her once.”
He lifts a brow. “Ah, so itisa woman. Once is how it starts, my friend.”
I exhale. “I’m trying to get my business off the ground, but sometimes it feels like I’m standing at the bottom of a mountain with a teaspoon. I’m worried I’m going to make all of these risky financial decisions, sink tons of money into it, and no one will show when the place opens. I have a lot riding on this. The very last thing I need is to be distracted by a woman.”
“You’re a multimillionaire, Ben,” Max says calmly. “You’re not exactly destitute.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t fail,” I mutter. “Or end up alone.”
He studies me for a moment, gaze drifting to a stunning blonde cocktail waitress with a faint pink hue in her hair. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know a thing or two about building walls too high for anyone to climb.”
I’d always suspected as much, but it’s a different thing entirely hearing it confirmed out loud. I clear my throat. “So, as I was saying, there’s this girl.”
Max’s eyes snap back to me, interest sharpened. “And?”
“She helped me when she didn’t have to,” I admit. “And I can’t stop thinking about her. But I only know her first name and her license plate.”
He blinks. “You remember her license plate?”
“777 GLM,” I say without hesitation. “I remember thinking this glamorous girl felt like hitting lucky sevens at the casino. Shit. I don’t even know if it’s her car.”
