Crushing on My Billionaire Best Friend: A Hot Romantic Comedy Read online

  Okay, think, Elaine. One thing at a time. What comes next? I glanced over to the stacks of papers around my computer and the slides glowing from the screen. Obviously not that. What comes after work? Home. Bed. I have no home, but I have to find a bed to sleep in.

  One downside of working all the time was that it left me with no time to socialize, which meant I didn’t have many close friends. That’s why any recent noise from my phone was usually a notification from Oliver—one of the only people I ever bothered getting to know and keeping around in my life.

  With one exception: Lisa. She was a hairdresser I’d run into outside of my regular morning bodega stop, while she ducked out of the salon to grab some coffee in between clients. She’d complimented my outfit and my figure. It’d been one of the rare moments in my life when I could eye another woman up and down, and realize that she was fierce…and yet, she didn’t fit all the cookie-cutter beauty standards.

  She had dark skin, was tall, slender, but not what you’d call typically beautiful—she wasn’t one of the fake-breasted, nose-in-the-air NYC-model types you’d normally see. No, Lisa barely had a chest at all, and she didn’t care. People often called her a tomboy (her words), but I didn’t see it. She carried herself with grace and confidence. I’d stood there on the street corner in awe of her—a feeling which only intensified as we’d gotten to know each other.

  All I could stutter back in reply was, “I want to be just like you.” And I meant it. I wanted to know how to wear my flaws (if you could call them that) like pearls around my neck.

  “Girl, I want to be just like you”—She’d smiled back without missing a beat—“and have those girls!” She’d gestured to my breasts and then to her own boyish chest (again, her words), then shrugged it off like, “Oh, well.” She’d laughed and asked if I wanted to go and get a cup of coffee. I nodded and followed her like a lost little puppy. The rest was history. Lisa was my go-to girl for support, and she taught me a thing or two about being a sassy, confident woman—and owning it. She started cutting and styling my hair in exchange for me helping her out with her taxes and other business things—she wanted to learn to branch out on her own as an independent hairdresser. I had always been good with numbers, graphs, finances—you name it. I brought my analytical brain to the table, and she always knew how to make me laugh or bring me out of my shell.

  And right now, I wanted nothing more than to cry on her shoulder. Especially because I knew with her talent for styling, she could help me shop for new clothes that would actually fit me (my boobs in particular) and look good. And clothes were one of many things my life was suddenly void of.

  I yanked out my phone and scrolled to Lisa’s number. The split second before I could hit the “Dial” button, I shook my head and cursed the heavens. Shit. Of course, not even an hour ago, Lisa had told me she’d be jet-setting off on some fabulous mini-vacay with her boyfriend Chad and wouldn’t be home for a couple of weeks.

  I scrolled to my dad’s number, but the mere thought of how he would react to this news was too daunting to face. He’d always been overprotective and would go into a full-blown panic attack over something like this. My childhood home was a last resort, but if I could delay telling my dad about the fire until I had a chance to process it myself—we’d both be better off. There was my sweet grandma Thelma, but she lived too far away in Upstate New York. Dammit. My crazy aunt Lois—nope. I stopped that thought before it even gained traction. That would be worse than being homeless. I’d rather sleep under a freaking bridge. That woman was certifiably batshit, and she hated my mother for unknown reasons, and still did to this day, even though Mom had died years ago in a car accident. Hard. Nope.

  And, of course, there was Lizzie, another friend I’d met years ago. She was an exotic dancer who’d just moved in with her new roommate and worked two jobs. I didn’t want to bother her. Lizzie had enough on her plate as it was. I’d helped her move and knew how tiny her apartment was. There wasn’t even room for a spare couch, much less another woman and her baggage. The only other option I could possibly think of would be a couple of my neighbors, but they were facing the same dilemma as me. Hell, I couldn’t afford to stay in a long-term hotel until I found another apartment, either, or if they decided to renovate mine. Double damn. I was up shit creek without a paddle.

  Burying my face in my hands, while also kicking myself for not having more friends, I began reliving everything that had happened. It was as if I needed to relive each moment of it, just to believe it was real. Mr. Cruz’s words ran through my mind on repeat over and over, seeming less believable each and every time.

  I pushed those thoughts aside and racked my brain for somebody else I could call.

  Okay, yes… There was another friend. Oliver. But dammit… Calling my lifelong, drop-dead gorgeous crush in a time of crisis wasn’t exactly ideal, but he was the only person left I could turn to. Especially at that hour. I started looking around, digging through the clutter on my desk, frantically trying to find my phone. The empty takeout box fell to the floor around me, and it wasn’t until I lifted an oncology reference book that I saw the damn thing right there in my hand—where it had been the whole time.

  Oh. My. God. I needed to get my shit together. For. Real.

  My hand was shaking as I lifted the phone back to my ear and held my breath through the ringtone. If Oliver didn’t pick up, I was screwed.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Why the hell isn’t he picking up?

  Ring. Ring.

  Pick up. Pick up.

  Rin—

  “Yeah?” He finally huffed, sounding out of breath. “This is…pretty bad timing…”

  Oh, thank you, Jesus.

  I closed my eyes and said a brief silent prayer of gratitude before yelling everything out in a burst of speed even I didn’t know I was capable of. He was my only lifeline, and I felt the urgent need to get everything out all at once.

  “Oliver? Don’t hang up! You’re not going to believe this…but something crazy happened. My apartment. There’s this cute little white fluffy dog, Princess Bubbles, on my floor, and apparently, she knocked over this big candle and sent it crashing into these rayon curtains…Oh, do you have rayon curtains by the way? Because they’re apparently super flammable. Like combustible-level flammable. And—”

  “Laney?” Oliver cut me off. He seemed like he’d been so focused on placing who I was that he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. There was a tension in his voice that made it sound like he was straining. Was he working out or something?

  “Yes. It’s Laney.” I didn’t hide the impatience in my tone. “Didn’t you look at the caller ID? Anyway, listen carefully because this is really important.”

  “Princess Bubbles? Ohh…okay?” There was a strange grunting noise in between his words.

  I groaned and rolled my eyes, pressing my palm flat to the part of my head that hurt the most. Everything in my skull was pounding in one way or another. Leave it to a man to barely listen to you even when you specifically say, “listen carefully.”

  “My apartment. It’s gone. There was a fire, and…well, everything I own is gone, aside from what I’m wearing right now and whatever random odds and ends are in my purse. Which might be a lot, actually.” I shook my head, trying to focus on what was most important. “Anyway, can I come over? I need a place to crash. Just for tonight.”

  “Oh, my God,” he panted away from the phone. He must have been just as shocked as I was.

  “I know! It’s crazy, right? I’m just so glad I wasn’t home when it happened.”

  “What? Laney? Sorry… Can I call you back?”

  “Huh? Haven’t you been listening to me at all? Oliver! Okay, again. Can. I. Please. Stay. At. Your. Place. Tonight. Please?” I repeated slowly, making a point to emphasize each word more carefully this time. Whatever part of space his head was floating in at that moment was obviously a place where the workout gods only had ears for weights and “give me more.” Men and their tools—or we
ightlifting in this scenario.

  He let out an even louder grunt, and for the first time, I realized I didn’t think I wanted to know what he was doing. “My place? Oh, yeah. Oh, fuck…yeah. You know you’re always welcome…any…time, Laney.”

  “Oh. Uh…okay. Great. I didn’t expect you to be so…enthusiastic about it? Thank you, Oliver. You’re a lifesaver. I’m leaving the lab now, so I’ll be there in about twenty minutes or so. See you soon.”

  “Yup. See you later, La—”

  The call dropped before he even finished saying my name.

  Okay, so…Oliver was obviously drunk, and not working out. Whatever. Not the ideal thing to be around right now. But that was okay. Beggars can’t be choosers. And on second thought…maybe it was exactly what I needed to be around right now. Maybe I need to be drunk.

  I certainly wouldn’t be able to concentrate on work tonight. A nice glass of red wine was just what I needed. I bolted up from the chair, sending it rolling backward into the desk behind me. Quickly, I slipped out of my white lab coat before rushing over to the hooks near the exit, where my enormous bag and jacket were hanging. For once, I was glad I carried such a big purse, often throwing in apples, books, bottles of water, tissues, Chapstick, and who knew what else. It always seemed like such a bad habit before, but now that bag carried the entirety of what was left of my belongings.

  I flashed my badge across all the security keycard access panels that opened the ridiculous number of doors between me and the main lobby. Before I stepped foot outside, though, I made a mad dash to the ladies’ room to check my hair and makeup. I’d been working all day, so what had been a cute up-do was now a mess. I took it down and shook out my long, brown hair, finger-combing it and my curls as best I could. It didn’t look half bad (kind of like that sexy, wind-blown look). I dug through my bag and found my cherry-stained lip gloss. Perfect! Swiping it across my lips, and then blotting with a tissue, I smiled in the mirror. I was missing something. Yes! I needed a fresh application of kohl and mascara to make my green eyes pop. Posing in the mirror and analyzing my reflection one final time, I pushed up the girls for good measure (because Oliver!) and straightened my slacks.

  I was ready.

  Soon enough (after I’d properly primped), I found myself out on the street corner in front of the Linzar headquarters, which were mostly empty that time of night. I was glad I didn’t have to make small talk with anybody on my way out. Dropping the bomb of “my apartment just burned with everything I own inside” wasn’t exactly the most pleasant evening conversation.

  Once I was safely settled into the warm (slightly smelly), comfort of the backseat of a taxi, I gave Oliver’s address to the driver and set myself to the task of dumping my bag’s contents out onto the backseat, taking inventory of what I owned.

  Lip gloss, mascara, and eyeliner—check. Keys to an apartment that was now burnt to a crisp. Phone. Glasses. Work badges—used daily. Gym badge—used never. Takeout menus and receipts galore. An apple, and a bag of my favorite cookies—with only three left inside. There was a banana that was a little too brown and starting to slip out of its peel—gross. A book and a magazine—both bought at random at the corner drugstore, neither of which had been read. Approximately fifty bobby pins, but only three hair ties. A funny face mask with a toothy laughing mouth that had been a gift from Lisa. Tissues, hand sanitizer, aspirin, tampons, a bottle of water, and two small notebooks filled to the brim with random work notes and to-do lists.

  So, basically, I now owned a pile of things that could easily be bought at any pharmacy or convenience store. In other words, nothing that really mattered to me, aside from Lisa’s face mask. I turned the bag inside out to make sure nothing else was hiding in there, which sent one thick strip of glossy paper and a few wrapped pieces of chocolate, gum, and mints falling onto the seat.

  I picked up the mints, while pulling the wrappers off (because, bad turkey on rye breath—Yuck!), one by one, before tossing a couple into my mouth, flipping the strip over to reveal five black-and-white photos of Oliver and me from the time we’d gone to Coney Island as teenagers. I ran my thumb over our smiling faces, remembering what a great day it had been. It was the first time we’d ever hung out outside of school, and I’d been ridiculously happy. I loved that photo. I actually looked good in it (I hated taking pictures). My boobs were on point. And my legs! Watching the “How to angle photos to take the perfect shot” video on IG had paid off.

  Oliver had caught me outside school one day bawling my eyes out. He’d stopped and asked if I was okay, assuming I was just having trouble with bullies again. He’d gotten way more than he bargained for when I’d tearfully explained that it was the anniversary of my mom’s death. Some years were harder than others, and that one had been particularly rough since I was throttling full force into my teen years.

  “I know just the thing to cheer you up.” He had grinned, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. It was the closest he’d ever been to me. I’d cried against his chest for a little bit (but honestly, I’d been quickly distracted by how his skin felt against mine and how wonderful he’d smelled). And can you believe it? The next day he’d whisked me off to Coney Island.

  Sure, it might have had something to do with the fact that all of his cool friends were off to the Hamptons (and his parents couldn’t take them until the next week). But I didn’t care. His kindness at that time meant everything to me. No one had ever known how much losing my mother had affected me. But Oliver, he’d made the sun shine when all I could see were dark clouds and rain. He was my lone star in a dreary black night. Maybe it sounded corny, but he’d been there for me when I’d had no one else.

  The small stuffed bear he’d won for me at one of the carnival games, whose fur was a horrid shade of neon green for some reason, still sat on my dresser at home, hidden carefully behind several framed photos.

  Or at least it used to. Oh. Oh, damn.

  I could do without my yearbooks. I could do without other things that reminded me of some of the worst years of my life. Honestly, I even felt a little relieved that my old diaries, riddled with Oliver’s name or my own paired with his last name, were no longer drifting around in the world. Pfft. Who am I kidding? Elaine Humphries sounds so totally perfect.

  But in that moment, as I stared at that photo-booth strip, I felt the sting of missing that stupid little stuffed bear so much that tears were threatening to spill from the corners of my eyes.

  I wanted to curl up in my bed, holding it tight. But instead, all I had was the freaking chocolate I’d tossed back in my purse, and there was no way in hell I was going inside his place with the possibility of yummy goodness stuck in my teeth. Nope. I ate another damn mint.

  If I couldn’t have that little souvenir, I guessed seeing Oliver in person wasn’t such a bad alternative.

  The taxi stopped, and when I glanced up, I saw his “richy-rich” apartment building towering above me. I grabbed my lip gloss for one more swipe. Hell, what could it hurt?

  I paid the cabbie, opened the door, and stepped out—steeling my nerve… I was about to see Oliver.

  2

  Oliver

  Nadine. With her silky, long blonde hair, the hem of her mini dress that cupped her round ass, and her long tan legs perched on top of red stiletto heels, my dick jumped in response at the thought of having several hours of uninterrupted fun. She walked in front of me toward the main door of my penthouse, shooting me a “come and get it” smile over her shoulder as she went. Game on.

  I’d noticed her at the bar of the nightclub opening. A few minutes later, I’d talked her up over a few drinks. Details like her last name, career, and where she’d grown up were all discussed, but I couldn’t give two shits about any of that when I brought her inside my place.

  I had a flawless strategy for getting a woman into my bed. It usually worked like a charm.

  Three-to-four steps usually sealed the deal.

  I never turned the lights on all the way—Check.

/>   I had a second switch that activated just enough accent lighting to create a dim, sexy atmosphere—Check.

  I lit a few candles and opened a bottle of red wine, handing her a glass while she perused my classic jazz record collection—Check. Check. Check.

  She was eyeing the obvious choices like Prince and Marvin Gaye. I was eyeing her breasts that threatened to spill out of her sheer and curve-hugging dress. More often than not the secret was to put on jazz—it got women to let their guard down. It helped them relax and get into the mood…and all the more likely to prove their freaky sophistication in the bedroom.

  At least in my experience, and, to be fair, I had a lot. I’d admit, there had been a time when I hadn’t known my ass from my dick. But at least women didn’t run out of here clutching their purses and heels in a rush to get the hell away from me.

  “Beautiful place.” She glanced around with an impressed smile on her face, thrusting her chest forward.

  I clinked my glass to hers. “Looks a lot more beautiful with you in it.”

  She laughed and shook her head, and I knew she was about to call me on my generic come-on line. But I also knew she was flattered, regardless of how hard she tried to deny it to herself.

  She arched an eyebrow and lifted her wineglass to her lips. “Does that work on all the girls?”

  “Sure does.” I flashed a wide smile, staring her directly in the eyes. “It only needs to work on one. Preferably you.” Cheesy, yeah. Worked every time—well, almost.