Page 51 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends

“You tired?”

“Mmm,” she says again, a small smile in her voice. “You wore me out.”

I chuckle. “Happy to be of service.”

She goes quiet for a beat. Then, softly, “This doesn’t feel like a mistake.”

My chest tightens. “It’s not,” I say. “It never was.”

She nods. I feel it. A soft bob of her head against my shoulder. I think she’s asleep when she says it. “I feel safe with you.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I open my mouth, I’m afraid I’ll say the thing I’ve been choking on since the moment I let her kiss me.

I’m falling. I’ve done the math. I know how stupid that is. But I’ve never felt anything like this before. I’d give it all up for her if she asked.

But she doesn’t ask, so I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I stay still and let her sleep. And I tell myself that, for tonight, this is enough.

Tomorrow? That’s a problem for future me.

13

PARKER

Coming home feelslike walking straight into a tangle of soft noise and sharp guilt.

Lyra’s squeal is the first thing I hear. Then the thump-thump-thump of her socked feet slapping against the wood floor before she crashes into me full-speed and wraps both arms around my waist like she’s trying to fuse us back together. “Mommy! You’re home!”

I drop my duffel by the door, kneel, and hug her tightly, her little face smashed into my sweater, her curls catching under my chin.

“Hey, baby,” I breathe into her hair. “I missed you.”

She pulls back and squints at me, accusing. “Grandma made me eatvegetables.”

“God forbid.”

“Green ones. With flecks.”

“Flecks?”

“I dunno. She said it was healthy.” She makes a face I suspect she’ll master by the time she’s a teenager. Part eye roll, part yuck mouth.

I laugh and ruffle her hair. “You survived.”

“Nuh-uh. Ask Levi.”

I look up in time to see my son emerge from behind the couch like a ninja. His pajamas are inside out. He’s holding a cheese stick in one hand and a paper towel cape is safety-pinned around his shoulders. He’s six going on vigilante.

“Tell her about the broccoli,” Lyra says.

Levi shrugs. “I like broccoli.”

“Traitor,” she hisses.

I try not to laugh and fail. God, I missed this chaos.

My mom appears in the kitchen doorway a moment later, a tea towel in one hand, the other planted on her hip like she’s auditioning for a detergent commercial. She looks tired but smug. “Welcome back,” she says. “They’re still alive. You’re welcome.”

“Barely,” Lyra mutters under her breath, slinking off toward the hallway with her tiny chin in the air. Levi sits cross-legged on the floor at my feet like we’re starting a story session.