Page 17 of Her Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

I took the elevator down to the lobby of the hotel, where I stood for what seemed like an age, adjusting my cufflinks and checking my hair in the mirror. I’d agreed to meet Laura there at 8 pm. It was 8.01 pm now, and for a moment, I reassured myself. She’s not coming. And why would she? After all, it wasn’t like Laura could be looking forward to spending time with me.

But as I waited there, my eyes scanning the happy, smiling faces of the people passing me, I felt a hand on my arm. I span around, ready to strike.

It was Laura.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“Sorry,” she giggled. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You did NOT startle me,” I growled.

“Have you been waiting long?”

“I—” I was about to tell her that yes, I’d been waiting since forever. But when I checked the clock on the wall, it read 8.02 pm. And yet, I had been waiting a while. Ten minutes, in fact. I’d arrived early.

“Come on,” I signaled, dodging the question. “We’re going to miss our reservation.” The automatic doors opened and we descended down the steps of the hotel. At night, Vancouver was a beautiful city, and the hotel Laura had booked me into was in a gorgeous plaza, full of fountains and glowing with the signs of shops and streets. I’d had Ronnie arrange to pick us up out front. But as the Black Mercedes I’d arranged pulled up on the kerb, Laura coughed.

“What?” I growled,

“‘Why, you look lovely tonight, Miss Solomon.’ ‘Nice dress, Miss Solomon.’”

I turned to make a sharp rebuke. But then I looked at her—really looked. And even I couldn’t deny that I liked what I saw.

Laura was dressed in shining black, a dress that hugged her figure and accentuated her curves. She was wearing a pair of dark, bronze wedges and I looked briefly at her long legs, a little tanned, before my eyes came up front and I looked into her face.

Even now, twelve years since I’d last seen her, Laura looked wonderful. Her face was graceful, the angles soft and inviting. And she looked at me with her crystal blue eyes. I thought about the way the sea had looked, and then turned away.

“Yes,” I retorted. “You look very… nice.” Mercifully, Ronnie pulled up on the sidewalk, and I opened the door for her.

Inside the Mercedes, it was cool, in contrast to the warm temperature.

“So,” she said. “Where do billionaires eat?”

“I got us a table at Bellaire,” I said.

“Is it nice?”

“Very.”

I tried to keep my answers short—keep from talking too much. But try as I might, Laura was teasing information out of me, piece by piece.

“How often do you come here?” she asked.

“Not often. Once or twice a year, maybe. Why?”

“It’s just, this all seems so familiar to you.”

“One place is much like another, don’t you think?”

“Maybe to you. But I find that cities are all so different. When I lived in San Francisco, I had to take cabs everywhere because of the hills. It wasn’t like I could walk to work there.”

“I always wondered about that,” I said. “Don’t you find it odd, living in a city that’s so hard to get around?”

“It’s not that hard,” she said. “Besides, I like the bay area more than the city. It’s beautiful there.”

“You, uh, write a lot there in your journalism days?”

Why had I asked that? I tried to tell myself I wasn’t interested. But Laura’s eyes lit up in the car as we made our way through the city blocks.