The Everest Brothers: An Alpha Billionaires Series

by S. L. Scott

  Grabbing my book, I open it up to where I left off and start reading and continue to dream.

  3

  Singer

  People-watching is an Olympic sport in Central Park, and I’m a gold medalist. I can usually make it to the final qualifiers like a pro, but today my thoughts are elsewhere. I wish I could say they’re on the opened book on my stomach. That’s not it. It’s on tomorrow and a certain man of intrigue.

  I’m not sure what to think about the invitation to “hang out.” Should I guard my heart and restrain my hope? Should I look at the invite as merely an opportunity to make a new friend? Or is Melanie right? He’s hot, but way out of my league hot, almost godly. Makes me wonder whose league he’s in. No woman’s I’ve ever seen. Not even the ones who fill his time.

  Could there be more behind the afternoon invitation? Or is it as simple as hanging out at sports bar drinking beer . . . with Ethan Everest?

  Sitting up slowly, the book drops to my lap, and even though I lose my place, I don’t care. I’m suddenly hot, and definitely bothered, so I fan myself with my hand. When that doesn’t work, I take off my sweater. The thin straps of my tank top fall to the side, and the breeze feels good against my bare skin. I lie back on the grass still frustrated that I’m letting him affect me like this. Closing my eyes, I try to enjoy the sunshine instead.

  Friends.

  Hanging out.

  That’s all he wants. I need to set my expectations, so I don’t get hurt.

  Suddenly shadowed in darkness, I open my eyes to find the sun blocked. With my hand hooding my sight, I look up, and up, stopping on Mr. Sinful himself. His face is hidden by the bright sun, but I know that body outlined in light. I also know the voice when he says, “Singer.”

  That honeyed tone.

  Deep timbre.

  An R that lingers at the end of my name.

  “Say it again,” I plead silently.

  Ethan tilts his head and the sunlight hits my eyes, blinding me until he readjusts, securing me in his darkness once again. I see the phone, hear the click of a camera, and complain, “Hey, no fair. I wasn’t ready.”

  “That’s the point.” With ease, he lowers himself to sit next to me with a grin full of good fortune. “Hope I’m not bothering you.”

  I should be nervous like every other time I see him, but I’m not for some reason. Catching me off guard is working to his advantage. “You’re not at all.”

  “Good. You looked content alone.”

  “That sounds sad.”

  “I think it’s beautiful. Most people jump from one relationship to the next, desperate to avoid being alone, to avoid getting to know themselves. That sounds sadder to me.”

  Stealing a glance his way, I ask, “Do you know yourself?”

  “No. Not yet, but I’m finding my way.”

  I smile and lean back on my elbows. “Aren’t we all?”

  “Are you lost, Singer?” There’s a lilt of hope in his voice that draws my eyes back to him.

  “Finding my way,” I repeat his words, while tossing a few blades of grass into the wind. My answer makes him smile. Seeing him again apparently makes me smile. “Is this a coincidence or are you stalking me?”

  “Stalking. Definitely stalking you.”

  I start to laugh, but stop when he doesn’t laugh with me. My eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

  “No, not really.” He chuckles then adds, “I was walking in the park and saw you.” Tapping the book on the grass, he bends his neck to the side to read the spine. “What are you reading?”

  “Tales of unsettled hearts, otherwise known as a romance novel.”

  “Sounds heavy.” Chuckling again, he picks up the book and opens it. I watch as he scans the page, and then to my embarrassment he begins to read. “‘Her eyes. Her eyes drew me in and held me captive in the blue depths. Her lips. Her lips kissed mine, branding them with her signature red. Her heart.’ Wait, I thought romance novels were told from the female point of view? This is the male’s perspective and what the female looks like to him.”

  Shrugging, I confess, “Women like to know what goes on in a man’s head.”

  “And this book will give you that?”

  “No, this book will tell me what’s going on in that hero’s head.”

  “Fascinating,” he replies, turning the book over to look at the cover. Ethan reading to me has to be one of the sexiest things I’ve ever heard, so when he sets it down, disappointment settles in.

  I’m quick to recover though, more curious about him than worried about my book. “Do you always go around taking photos of strangers?”

  “We’re not strangers, Singer.”

  “The photo you took is probably awful. My face was scrunched.” I shake my head, trying to blow off the embarrassment and enjoy the fleeting minutes.

  “I don’t think you could take a bad photo if you tried.” Staring at the screen, he holds his phone up. “See?”

  “Ugh.” My eyes roll automatically after seeing it. “Are you going to keep that?”

  “Would you like me to delete it?”

  Our gazes hang a second or two longer, before I break the connection and watch a couple in the distance chasing their loose dog. I don’t know what I’m thinking, my mind mushy around him. “You can keep it if you like.”

  “I would like that.” The simple confession brings my eyes back to his as he lies down on the grass.

  His hand slides over his stomach, the tips of his fingers resting on the bared skin where the hem of his shirt has risen up. The waistband of his jeans exposes the top of his underwear and he makes no move to pull down the traitorous fabric. He says, “Nice view.”

  Glancing to his eyes again, my mouth falls open when I realize he caught me staring at his body. Signaling around us, he says, “This spot gives you a nice view of the park.”

  I laugh. We both know I was busted, but he’s polite enough not to call me out on it. Closing his eyes, he leaves a lingering smile on his lips.

  The movement of his hand draws my gaze again as it dips to the waistband again, piquing the age-old question: boxers or briefs? What does a man like Ethan Everest wear? The sun shines new light on taut skin over defined abs, and this time I appreciate the view.

  It’s been a few weeks since my last disaster of a date and more than a year since I indulged in anything more erotic than that little sliver of exposed skin. My mind is turning dirty, and by how relaxed he appears to be, I hope he intends to stay awhile.

  The green in his eyes is brighter today, vibrant like the grass. He looks happy. It’s a good look on him. “Why do you want to know what goes on in a man’s head?” He opens his eyes and looks at me, a look I remember from before.

  His gaze fixates on my mouth and I can’t stop myself from licking my lips. His confidence is sexy. He wagers, “If I were to guess the taste of those red lips, I’d go with cherry.”

  Holding my own, I touch the tip of my tongue to my upper lip then reply, “Strawberry, actually.”

  The half-smile, half-smirk that appears is intoxicating, and his close proximity makes me lightheaded. As hints of his cologne—ocean and musk—fill the air, we look into each other’s eyes, and a connection is made. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a girl, but instead like a woman, a woman he would make love to and then hold all night. Ethan makes me feel everything in those few seconds.

  With his eyes moving between my eyes and my mouth, he sighs. “God, I love strawberry.” My breath comes short when he leans in, his lips drawing closer to mine. He closes his eyes, and my heart begins to race. He gets so close I can almost taste him.

  “Oh um . . .” Thinking back on the book, I reply, “Women, speaking generally, of course, like to know a man’s deepest thoughts. In the case of romance novels, we like to know that love affects men like it does women. We get that through the male point of view.”

  “You make it sound a whole lot better than it is. Trust me, Singer. Our thoughts aren’t that deep. They’re simple
. We think about food, work, money, and sex. See? Simple.”

  “I think you underestimate the power of love.” I laugh, mainly at myself, feeling foolish for saying that out loud. “And try to forget that I just sounded like I should be part of a boy band from the nineties.”

  “Forgotten.” He laughs though, putting me at ease. Pushing up, he stands and dusts off his pants. “I should probably go.”

  “Oh, okay.” I remain seated, though I’m tempted to cling to his leg and force him to read to me again. Instead, I block the sun from my eyes and look up, not sure what to say.

  “We’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes. Three o’clock.”

  He nods. “Good. See you then, Singer.”

  “See you, Ethan.” I watch as he walks away, looking at the phone in his hand.

  Lying back, I pick up my book and find my place as if that gorgeous man didn’t shake up my day in the best of ways. Finding it hard to concentrate, I watch him, a swarm of butterflies filling my belly. I close my eyes and shake my head, convincing myself to let the most amazing accidental run-in go. It’s not easy, but then I remember how ridiculous I sounded about love. Ugh! Word vomit is never attractive.

  Too distracted by real life to give a fictional hero my time, I decide to pack up and go home. It’s not bad to be home on a Saturday night, or as Ethan mentioned, to be alone. It’s only bad if you’re unhappy, and I’m not.

  Melanie and I have a penchant for Romance Channel movies and gummy bears. Add a glass of white wine since white goes best with gummy bears, and we’re usually set for the night. Guess I’m flying solo with spicy ramen noodles and the bears for dessert tonight though.

  We occasionally joke about sitting here sixty years from now—spinsters in our golden years. Until we’ve had a few glasses of wine and the image makes us sad. That’s usually our cue to go to bed.

  By the time the sun starts to set, I’m sitting crossed-legged on my couch, digging into my noodles, and watching a Christmas movie when it’s still warm outside. My mind starts to drift to the encounter with Ethan today, and I call out to Melanie, who’s getting dressed, to sidetrack my thoughts, “Are you almost ready?”

  “I’m doing my hair.”

  “What time’s the date?”

  “Thirty minutes. I’m meeting him there, which means I’m going to be late since I’m not even dressed yet.” Her apologetic tone doesn’t hold sincerity. She’s always been one to believe that fashionably late to a date is not a choice, but a requirement. It tests their interest. The bonus, she always has a few extra minutes to get ready.

  Walking to the bathroom, I sit on the side of the tub. “Your makeup looks good.”

  “Thanks,” she replies, concentrating on securing a pin on the side of her hair. The color of her hair almost matches mine when pulled back. I set my food down and replace her hands with mine, tucking a section in that she struggles to reach. “How was your day? What’d you do?”

  Smoothing another section of hair and taking a pin from her, I keep my eyes on her hair to avoid the wide eyes I know I’ll see when I answer her question. “I went to the park, but something interesting happened.”

  “Oh yeah? What happened?”

  “Ethan happened.”

  “Ethan Everest?”

  I don’t have to look at her to see the excitement. Her voice pitching two octaves higher is all I need to hear. “The very one.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I thought so too. I don’t see him much, but now he’s everywhere.”

  “So coincidental. One could almost say serendipitous.”

  “One could, but one won’t. I’ll stick to coincidental.”

  “I expect no less.” She laughs. “Anyway, and much more importantly, how’d he look?” With her hair in place, I step back so she can do a complete onceover with a handheld mirror.

  “Does he ever look bad?”

  “I don’t think it’s possible.”

  “He looked amazing.”

  “T-shirt and jeans?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn, that’s rough. He looks good like that. He looks good in suits, too. Damn,” she repeats.

  “Totally.” I feel my body heating either from the spicy noodles or the talk of Ethan. I’m thinking it’s the latter, though I wish it were the former.

  “How do you keep from jumping him when you see him?”

  I laugh, loving that this is posed as a serious question. “Because I’m not a whore,” is my not-so-serious answer as I follow her into her bedroom.

  “I am. Proudly.” She’s not laughing at all. Taking a dress from the hanger, she holds it in front of her body and looks in the mirror. The best friend bracelet I gave her when we were fourteen still dangles from her wrist. Her half of a silver heart that has BEST engraved in it catches the light and shines. I don’t wear mine all the time like she does, but when I do, I feel closer to her. I’m lucky to have her. I can’t imagine life without her in it, even if she does push me to my limits socially sometimes, and my buttons other times.

  “You’re nuts, you know that, Mel?”

  “I do. I also know that he is completely purr-licious.”

  “Purr-licious?”

  “Yep. Purr-worthy and delicious. Purr-licious.”

  “Ah. Gotcha. Never change, my friend. Never change.”

  “I promise not to if you promise the same.”

  “That’s an easy promise to make.” Both of our pinkies pop out and

  tangle together. “Pinky promise.”

  “Pinky promise. On a different note, are you ready for tomorrow?”

  “I don’t even understand what tomorrow is, so how can I be ready for it?”

  “I’m telling you, Sing,” she says, looking me directly in the eyes, “the man has a thing for you. Stop giving him all the power. Go, have fun, and see if there’s any chemistry.”

  “Oh, there’s chemistry, at least on my side. He makes me nervous and then I start with the word vomit or go awkwardly silent. I think I’ll just think of it as two friends getting together to watch some football and drink beer.”

  “Baseball.”

  “Yes, that’s what I meant. See? I’m nervous.”

  Once her dress is on, I zip her up. “There. I’ll let you finish getting dressed. I have a date with some wine and a movie.”

  Five minutes later, I set my noodle container down, and say, “Wow, you are going to knock him off his socks.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe it’s knock him out of his socks.” I wave my hand. “Who knows? Anyway, you look great. Have fun.”

  Blowing me a kiss, she replies, “You know I intend to, so don’t wait up.”

  “I have no intentions of waiting up.” Her laughter subsides as she grabs her clutch from the table. I add, “I want all the details tomorrow.”

  “You’ve got it.” The door swings open. “Love you like a sis.”

  “Love you like a sis.”

  When I hear her key twist the lock, I get comfortable on the couch, pulling a blanket over me. I still worry about her getting her heart broken, but we have to put ourselves out into the dating scene to find love. A broken heart is a terrible side effect, but finding love is a great reward. I guess I need to give her space and let her figure out her future. In the meantime, I’m ready to have my heart broken and pieced back together by this movie. Sure beats having it done in real life.

  4

  Singer

  My feet stop as soon as I enter the pub, the door whacking me in the ass and scooting me farther inside. Something is cutting into my upper arm, so I reach up and yank the price tag off the shirt and tuck it into my pocket as I look around. I don’t see Ethan, but I do see a sea of orange. Shit. Figures.

  I start to back out, but my breath stops hard in my chest when I notice Ethan lean back from the row of people at the bar, smile at me while patting a guy on the back, and then come my way. Damn. The man can
work a sports jersey and a pair of jeans. Pointing at my shirt, he says, “I didn’t know you were a baseball fan.”

  “I’m not, but I wanted to fit in. I assumed we were going to watch the Yankees.”

  Eyeing me, he winks. “The Yankees never looked better.” The man knows how to charm a girl. He then leads me to a booth in the corner. “I got here early so we’d have a good seat for the game.”

  “You did?” I slip into the booth.

  “Sure,” he replies, resting his hands on the table. “What would you like to drink?”

  “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “I just ordered a pitcher.” The smirk that follows makes my tummy flip-flop in excitement.

  “Great.”

  “Be right back.”

  I watch as he walks to the bar and leans over an open seat. Big smile and a headful of teased hair is happy to serve him. She’s a flirty redhead, smiling a toothy grin while wearing an Astros T-shirt cut from the collar to the bottom of her cleavage. It’s tied tightly underneath her breasts to show off her assets. She definitely knows her audience.

  Turning my attention to the TV, the announcer says it’s the bottom of the third. Astros are leading. When Ethan returns, he slides into the rounded booth and glances between the TV and me. I ask, “So this is where Astros fans hangout?”

  He chuckles. “I think it’s where everyone but Yankees fans hang out.”

  I squeeze the handle of my purse, ready to bolt. “Should I go home and change?”

  “No.” He blatantly checks me out, and I can’t deny I like the way he looks at me. “I think you look great.”

  “Thanks.” A soft heat warms me while he pours the beer. To distract myself, I point to his shirt. “Are you from the South? You’re brave to be cheering for a Texas team in Manhattan.”

  “I’m a Texan, tried and true, but I moved here officially about eight months ago. I was here all the time before then.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “My business. Things have”—he pauses, his eyes leaving mine momentarily—“changed, been restructured, so I’m working on some things that require me to be here full-time. It’s complicated.”