Crushing on My Billionaire Best Friend: A Hot Romantic Comedy

by Jolie Day

  “Hey, I’ve come a long way since then,” I argued in a playful tone. “Thanks to you, really. Do you remember what you said to me when you were interviewing me for that school report?”

  “Ah, yes. The ‘infamous’ school report.” She grinned. “I had to do a report on successful family run businesses for economics class in college, and you just so happened to come from a very prominent family with its own business…conveniently enough.”

  “But I hated it.” The weight of my father’s expectations on my shoulders was still so vivid. “I was miserable in school, dreading falling in line with my family’s company. I didn’t want to do any of it.”

  “You just needed some tutoring in math,” she said with a shrug.

  “Which you did. And you helped me realize just how much I liked math and finance. It helped me set my sights on the Financial Officer position under my dad. And you told me with that job, I would be afforded the financial freedom to spend the rest of my time outside of work doing all the things I loved, while still making my family happy.”

  “Ugh, I was such a know-it-all.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Did I tell you the right thing? Maybe I should’ve encouraged you to go rogue. You could’ve told your dad off and left to do your own thing.”

  “I love my job and my life. And I owe a huge part of that to you. For helping me in high school and in college.”

  She flashed a shy smile. “You’ve helped me plenty in return.”

  I smirked. “If you say so. I feel like all I ever did was get you in trouble.”

  Laney sat up, smacking her hand against the pillow next to her. “All right. Enough gabbing. Are we going to watch something or not?”

  “Lead the way, Captain.” I winked, turning to the TV.

  She chose a documentary about the history of vaccinations to watch, and, as I predicted, my eyelids were heavy and dropping within minutes. With her bundled up on the opposite end of the couch, my head fell back, and I slipped off into a deep sleep.

  I woke up sometime in the middle of the night and realized she’d fallen asleep on my couch, too. Rubbing my eyes, I stood to grab a blanket to cover her up. When I stepped closer, I noticed that her shirt had slid up her torso, revealing her naked chest—gorgeous full tits with delicious peaks staring back at me. My dick jerked in response—it was rock hard, and I was turned on in a way I wasn’t accustomed to.

  The metaphorical angel on my shoulder scolded, “Turn and walk away.” While the devil on my other shoulder encouraged me to take a closer look. “Touch them.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I shook my head and muttered under my breath.

  She’s your best friend. She’s like your fucking sister, man. Get a grip, you fucking creep.

  Shaking off my internal debate, I placed the blanket over her before I turned and walked away.

  That night, I rubbed one out to glorious nudes of Nadine. Laney’s perfect tits may have tried to cross my mind a time or ten, but I quickly shoved them to the farthest corner of my brain.

  Fuck my life. I didn’t even know what I was thinking.

  4

  Laney

  I woke up with the distinct sharp pain in my neck that could only come from sleeping on the couch. Wincing, I tried to sit up and stretch, impressing myself by the three loud cracks popping down my spine. Had I fallen asleep in front of the TV again?

  The blanket wrapped around me seemed unfamiliar, and the give of the cushions was far nicer than my sofa. I panicked for a moment, glancing around to take in my surroundings.

  My heart sank into the pit of my stomach when it all started coming back to me. Sweet Princess Bubbles. The fire. Everything I owned—gone. And it all led me to my best friend and high school crush’s couch. Awesome.

  I didn’t remember falling asleep. But I recalled watching the documentary, and yes, Oliver had been right—it was boring as hell. He wasn’t here now, though. The other end of the couch where he’d been sleeping last night was empty. He must have gone to his room.

  Suddenly I thought of work and my boss. Crap! Bill would likely be freaking out right now because I wasn’t there. What time was it, anyway? I’d always been the first to arrive and the last to leave. Judging by the sunlight filtering through the windows, it had to be at least eight in the morning. Dammit!

  I threw back the covers and searched for my phone. Where had I put the stupid thing? My mind had been a freaking wreck, and now it was like I couldn’t remember to wind my head or scratch my watch. For the love of all things holy, I was a walking disaster.

  “Yes!” I shouted and did a little happy dance, then remembered Oliver was sleeping. Oops. My bad. I’d found my phone lying on the side table on the other end of the couch. But then I remembered Oliver slept like a rock. He always had. He used to sleep in school. One time, he even fell asleep on my couch while we were watching Alien. I mean, how could anybody fall asleep watching that movie? Besides, the apartment was so huge I could turn the music on full blast (you know, like Marty in Back to the Future), and he still wouldn’t wake up. Must be nice.

  Steeling my nerve for the conversation ahead, I dialed my boss and waited. I so did not want to talk about what had happened, nor did I want to hear anybody’s pity. I just wanted to get some semblance of normalcy back and return to work.

  After I talked to Bill for fifteen minutes, explaining what happened, and that I needed at least a week off to get my affairs in order, he was quick to agree. He told me to take all the time I needed and make sure to call him if there was anything he could do. The conversation brought everything crashing back again.

  I let the heartache and dread simmer for a moment before doing my best to push it down. I was starving, and cooking breakfast seemed like a good way to thank Oliver for offering to let me stay here. I stood up to fold the ridiculously soft, and likely expensive blanket before draping it over the back of the supple brown leather couch. How sweet of Oliver not to wake me up and send me to one of his guestrooms. He’d known I was down for the count. What had I ever done to deserve such a wonderful best friend? If only… I stopped myself from that wayward thought. Not going there right now.

  I shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes and chuckling under my breath at the T-shirt and shorts Oliver had loaned to me. The moment I’d slid into his clothes last night, I had been hit with his lingering sexy scent mixed in with laundry detergent—a smell I’d soaked up multiple times throughout the night. He was over a foot taller than me, but somehow my curves and petite stature amounted to something that fit perfectly in his baggy clothes.

  Oliver kept a few photos and cards pinned with magnets to the front of his fridge. I wrapped my hand around the handle but stopped for a moment to study them. There were a few pictures from high school, but most of them were with his family: he and his younger brother on their rock-climbing and skydiving adventures. A luxurious family cruise.

  But there, on the upper right-hand corner of the freezer door, was a familiar black-and-white strip of photos. I felt a flutter inside my belly as I grazed my fingers across it. His charming smile with his dirty sandy-blond hair. It was the same Coney Island photo-booth souvenir I’d found in my purse the night before. I’d never realized he had kept his copy, much less that he’d displayed it so prominently on his fridge. A faint smile curved the corners of my mouth.

  I pulled the fridge door open and felt the gush of cool air from inside as I surveyed its contents. It was well stocked for a bachelor—better than I’d expected. But I had to assume Oliver used some kind of service to deliver his groceries. A man with his job and financial status wasn’t exactly the type you’d see perusing the aisles of Trader Joes on a Saturday afternoon with the rest of New York.

  Pulling out milk, eggs, bacon, and butter, I started rifling through the contents of his pantry and cabinets to locate pots and pans and a loaf of bread. With everything gathered and spread across his black marble countertops, I got to work. This felt like a strange new world—cooking breakfa
st in Oliver’s kitchen while wearing his clothes. If high school me could have seen the sight, she would have melted into a puddle on the floor—literally—or combusted with emotional overload. Okay, I couldn’t deny some part of me didn’t relate to that old feeling, at least a little. I was grown and more realistic, but I figured some part of me would always love Oliver—even if it were in a way he would never feel for me in return.

  Still, the irony of the situation, along with the photos of us hanging on his fridge, it was easy to get swept away in a long-held fantasy for a moment. I’d spent countless hours—especially as a teenager—swooning on my bed (yes, I actually swooned), staring at the ceiling and imagining a life with Oliver. There in his kitchen while I cooked us breakfast, I could almost imagine it had finally come true. It was certainly a better alternative to my reality of being homeless, with almost zero possessions—and permanently stuck in the friend zone.

  I propped my phone up on the back of the countertop and put on some music. After cracking all the eggs and simmering the butter, I found it easy to drift deeper into my fantasy. I lost myself in this La-la-land where I was Oliver’s girlfriend making him breakfast. It got me dancing around the kitchen while I cooked, and that soon turned into singing along to the music, using kitchen utensils or bottles of seasoning as my microphone—whichever happened to be in my hand at the moment.

  I was right in the middle of a rather dramatic lip-synch performance of Aretha Franklin’s, You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman, when the photo strip of Oliver and me hanging on the fridge caught my eye. Wrapped up in the moment, I slid the photo from under the magnet and started dancing around the kitchen counter, holding it between my fingers, shaking my hips and butt. My lip-synch performance turned into an all-out belting solo.

  With the photo in one hand and a big pan of scrambled eggs in the other, I sang and danced (I even twerked!) my way between the stove and counter when, suddenly, a series of loud claps from the corner of the room turned my little private concert into a loud, shrill scream. So much for sleeping like a rock.

  My hand instinctively jerked back, sending a waterfall of eggs cascading around the room with pathetic little splats. Shit! They littered the floor and counters all around me. I’d closed my eyes from the scare, but I finally opened them to see Oliver standing there with a huge grin splitting his face. I cringed from embarrassment. Little bits of egg plopped onto the top of my head, catching in the curls of my hair as they slithered down.

  If that isn’t damn sexy, I don’t know what is.

  I’d been busted. Dancing. In Oliver’s kitchen. Singing. In Oliver’s kitchen. While cooking. And I just threw food all over the place.

  God, just let the floor open up and swallow me whole. Now.

  I wasn’t sure if anyone could actually die of embarrassment, but I was certain if it were possible, I’d be close. Like, really freaking close. Shitshitshit.

  “Oh, hey…I didn’t…I didn’t know you would be up so early,” I murmured awkwardly, feeling my cheeks turning blazing hot and red. I did a double take between him and the photos of us still between my fingers, quickly stuffing it around my back, into the waistband of my (his) shorts. I’d tried to play it cool and failed—miserably.

  He clapped a bit more, just to emphasize my humiliation. “I didn’t know I’d be waking up to a private show in my kitchen.”

  I wanted to say something—some kind of smartass comeback to save myself, but I was quickly distracted by Oliver’s tan, chiseled chest—completely bare and exposed. Oh…my…God. My gaze drifted along the muscles of his impressive body, down to the oh-so-sexy V-trail that led to his tight-fitting boxers, complete with the hint of a—quite impressive—morning bulge just above his perfect thighs and calves.

  My mouth went dry.

  “Oh, my God,” I gasped, quickly averting my gaze for a moment. Peering around, I abruptly covered my eyes with my hand, but I snuck a peek through my fingers. Hell, who could blame me?

  I caught the expression of realization registering on Oliver’s face, but his reaction wasn’t what I’d expected. His grin widened, and he winked. “Gotta take care of that.” He rocked on the balls of his feet. “Be right back.” Oliver turned and strolled toward his bedroom with a chuckle.

  My mouth fell open. Did he—? No. I’d been gawking at his morning wood and he just let me, then walked away? What had he been thinking? What was that supposed to mean? Crap! I didn’t have time to think about any of it right now.

  I made a frantic rush to the fridge to return the photo strip without him seeing, praying with all my might that he hadn’t noticed me serenading it when he walked in. Phew. That had been close. I’d just added another incident in the mental box of most embarrassing “Laney moments.” I had quite a few, unfortunately.

  “Sorry about that,” he called out to me. “Honestly, I was still half-asleep and kind of forgot you were here! Or else I would have put on my pants.” He emerged again in his sweats from the night before, still shirtless—both to my dismay and pleasure. “I got distracted by your little solo performance.” He grinned. Again.

  It was hard not to stare directly at his still-exposed torso, complete with six-pack abs, killer pecs, and that sexy-as-hell tattoo that stretched across his upper back—shoulder blade to shoulder blade, it looked like a pair of black wings—I’d say from his love of skydiving and flying high. My adrenaline junky, all the way. He must have gotten the tattoo recently. Good for him! Glad I got to see it. Damn…

  “Hey, that new?”

  “Yep, had it done a month ago.”

  “Nice,” I said, trying not to smile like an idiot. Likely failed, knowing me.

  He was also wearing some sort of cool, black leather band on his wrist, with silver wings engraved on the pendant that rested in the middle. Yet something else I’d never seen before. It seemed I was learning a lot about Oliver.

  Okay, I seriously needed to stop staring before it became too obvious. I didn’t think I could possibly embarrass myself any more than I already had, but the day was still young.

  So, clearing my mind straight out of the gutter, I abruptly diverted my attention to the huge mess of eggs scattered all around. “Well,” I shrugged with a sigh, “I tried to make us breakfast. There’s toast and bacon. Guess I’ll have to clean this up and start over, though.”

  “Don’t you dare.” He jumped in and shuffled me around the bar. He put his hands on my shoulders, causing my heart to give a big thwack against my ribcage, as a strong whiff of his delicious cologne and manly scent washed over me. Oliver gently grabbed my shoulders and forced me on to one of the stools with his strong hands. “You sit right here and don’t lift another finger. I’ll clean this up. Besides, the maid’s coming this afternoon. She’ll take care of the rest of it. You’ve done enough. I’ll cook us each a plate of eggs.”

  “You’re already doing more than enough by letting me stay here.” I tried to argue, but he ignored me and went about his business.

  A shirtless, barefoot Oliver, with his cool messy hair cooking for me was almost better than the fantasy I’d been lost in moments ago, but I did my best not to be too blatant in my ogling. He quickly cooked the eggs and piled them in heaping portions onto two plates, along with buttered toast and bacon.

  “It’s kind of nice having breakfast in here like this.” Oliver slid one of the plates over to me. “I’m usually in a rush in the mornings, so I grab breakfast with coffee on my way to work.”

  Probably just in a rush to get some girl out of his apartment, I thought. But my attention quickly diverted back to caffeine. “Ah, Coffee! Dammit. I totally meant to start a pot.” I jumped to my feet to do just that.

  “Hey. No, you sit back down,” he ordered with a stern raise of his brow. “You’re a guest in my home. And one who’s having some pretty shitty luck at that. I’ll take care of the coffee.”

  I would’ve fought him on it, but one look at his expensive coffee-everything machine with all its buttons and weird contraptio
ns, and I knew it was likely a job better suited for him.

  “Do you ever make your girlfriends breakfast?” I asked the question as inconspicuously as possible, watching him whir the thing into action.

  He gave me a sly smile. “I wouldn’t call them ‘girlfriends.’”

  “You always were a ladies’ man.” I had to bite back my jealousy as I brought a forkful of fluffy eggs to my mouth.

  “What’s going on with you these days? Got a potential boyfriend I might expect to see hanging around the penthouse while you’re staying here?”

  As close as Oliver and I were, I never broached the topic of our respective love lives by choice. He knew I wasn’t dating anybody. I hated to hear him bring it up.

  “Yeah, totally,” I quipped, lifting my fork to punctuate my smartass comment. “Two actually. One’s named Linzar, and the other one’s called my application for the PhD program at NYU.”

  “Weird names for dudes, but whatever floats your boat.” He spun around to hand me a steaming mug of delicious-smelling coffee.

  I inhaled the scent of my caffeinated yumminess before taking a slow sip. Whatever the hell kind of coffee-making contraption he had, it was worth every penny. “This is the best coffee in New York, I swear. If I’d known this is where the good stuff was being served, I would’ve started stopping by here for breakfast a long time ago.”

  “You’re always welcome here, Laney. You know that.” He turned to me with his own cup in hand. “Hey, whatever happened to that one guy you were dating in college?” he blurted out of nowhere. “What was his name? Herbert?”

  “Ha-ha! You got jokes this morning.” I nearly sprayed the coffee out of my mouth and through my nose from laughing. “Herbert?” I wiped my mouth with a cloth napkin. “His name wasn’t Herbert, Muffin. No, his name was Hugo. And that was a very short-lived…fling.” I had several nicknames for him. Obviously, Oliver wasn’t a muffin (and that’s just cheesy), but he liked them—a lot—especially banana nut. He always got annoyed when I called him by his “pet” names, and so…that’s why I did it. He just had to bring up Herbert. Game on.