Loving My Best Friend

  Loving My Best Friend

  A Billionaire Boss Romance

  Roxy Reid

  Copyright © 2020 Roxy Reid

  All rights reserved. It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  For my incredible Friends and Family who have encouraged and supported me on my journey to becoming a writer.

  I would not wish

  Any companion in the world but you.

  William Shakespeare

  Contents

  About the Author

  1. Eva

  2. Jack

  3. Eva

  4. Jack

  5. Eva

  6. Jack

  7. Eva

  8. Eva

  9. Jack

  10. Eva

  11. Jack

  12. Eva

  13. Jack

  14. Eva

  15. Jack

  16. Eva

  17. Jack

  18. Eva

  19. Jack

  20. Eva

  21. Jack

  22. Jack

  23. Eva

  24. Jack

  25. Eva

  26. Jack

  Epilogue

  Also by Roxy Reid

  More from Roxy Reid

  About the Author

  Roxy Reid writes sizzling hot romance about kick-ass women and deliciously hot guys that are guaranteed to leave you with a smile on your face and a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

  Roxy’s first love is writing and a very close second is tea, oh and cake, don’t forget the cake. Most days you’ll find her in a cafe scribbling away in a notebook, dreaming up romantic stories to share with her readers.

  Follow Roxy on Facebook

  facebook.com/RoxyReidAuthor

  Send an email

  Roxy@RoxyReidAuthor.com

  1

  Eva

  For the last time, I DID NOT HAVE REBOUND SEX WITH JACK. We’re not like that. He’s just the person who shows up with ice cream when my life falls apart. Which, for your information, IS WAY BETTER THAN REBOUND SEX.

  —Eva Price, in a text to her college roommate, junior year

  The thing about being a scholarship kid at a New York prep school is that you get familiar with a lot of business dynasties, which is how I know it usually takes one generation to build the company, another to take it corporate, and then a third to completely tank it.

  Me? I did all that in less than ten years. Us scholarship kids are efficient like that.

  Now I’m sitting in a dim and cozy bar two weeks before I turn thirty, sipping whiskey while wearing a black skirt suit. They say you should dress well for bankruptcy, and today was the day that made it official.

  Eva Price Consulting is dead. It doesn’t matter how many high-profile clients I have rescued. It doesn’t matter how many awards I have. It doesn’t matter that my team liked working for me. No, all that matters is that one time, my PR advice backfired, and the asshole sued, and he has endless money, and I don’t. So, now I’m sitting alone at the bar, waiting for a man who probably won’t show up.

  I fight the urge to check my phone, but Jack won’t text if he’s running late. He won’t text if he forgets to show, either. He’ll just send an elaborate apology basket the next day with all my favorite bagels and schmear.

  I look down at my whiskey. Well, since I know that I’m getting free hangover food tomorrow.

  I toss back the whiskey and signal the bartender for another.

  I shouldn’t be disappointed. I’ve known Jack since the afore-mentioned snooty prep school. Even then, he could be flaky.

  Jack was not a scholarship kid. As one of the two heirs to the Rose Hotel chain, Jack got pulled out of school on a regular basis to learn the family business, whether that was touring a potential property in Paris or sitting in on a meeting with the hotel workers union rep in Las Vegas. It wasn’t until my parents moved us to California halfway through my junior year that I learned best friends don’t send apology baskets. They just show up when they say they will. Yet, a year and a half later, when I ran into Jack in the hallway of a freshman dorm at Columbia, we picked up exactly where we left off.

  One thing Jack’s always there for, though, are the horrible, rotten days where everything falls apart. Neither of us has had one of those in a while, but I thought for sure he would be here today,

  I nurse my second whiskey and scan the bar, trying not to look as hopeful and pathetic as I feel.

  It’s the kind of bar people drop into on their way home from work, so there’s a lot of slumped shoulders and loosened collars as men shout at the game on the screen. Two women are settled into a bar, cupping mugs of Irish coffee. You can tell at a glance they’re the kind of friends who tell each other everything, and I feel a pang of envy, missing Tracy. Logically, she’d be the person to call on a day like this, not Jack, but she’s out of the country on business.

  I look away, searching for Jack. My eyes slide past a tall, slightly out-of-breath man in a suit coming in from the bright, brisk cold. I can’t see him clearly with the light at his back like that, but his hair is cropped tight where Jack’s is long and curly, and a beard shadows his jaw in that way that seems improbable when seen on anything but a magazine cover.

  I lose him in the shadows, but I have a feeling he’s coming to the bar, and suddenly I’m not feeling so bad about being stood up.

  Until I remember I look like the Grim Reaper’s apprentice.

  I turn away, and the bartender slides me my third whiskey, right on cue. I drink gratefully as I feel the heat and bulk of the man sliding in next to me. He smells like fresh air and citrus, and I feel my hormones kick into gear as my stomach tightens.

  Then I recognize the scent and whip my head toward him.

  Dark hair. Gorgeous eyes. Slightly out of breath from running late and already taking up half of my personal space.

  “Jack,” I croak in shock. “Your hair. The beard.” I pinch the bridge of his nose. “Where are your glasses?”

  That’s the least of the changes, though. Jack looks good. I mean, he’s always looked good in a boyish sort of way, but now he looks like an adult. With the glasses gone, I notice the high cheekbones and the strong jawline. His expensive suit hugs his broad shoulders in a way that basically screams masculine power.

  I mean, I thought he looked cute in a hoodie, but this … this is hot.

  It’s unnerving. I don’t like it.

  Jack rolls his eyes and removes my hand from his face, squeezing it reassuringly before dropping it. “It’s not that big a change. I’ve grown lazy in my old age. Turns out, it’s a lot easier to get people to trust you with large sums of money if you don’t have the same haircut you’ve had since college.”

  I squint and sip my whiskey, still weirded out by having the hots for Jack, even for a second. The alcohol must be hitting me harder than I thought. I hadn’t thought about Jack like that since, well, not since a college costume party when he didn’t recognize me. I’d let the anonymity go to my head.

  That was one night. A long time ago. Also, he was dressed as Spiderman, even though he knew in high school, I had a thing for the upside-down kissing in the rain scene. My tastes have evolved. Mostly.

  I reach out and run my thumb over his beard, expecting it to be coarse, but he must be using beard oil or something because it’s softer than I expected. “I
didn’t even know you could grow a beard,” I say.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” he says, stealing my whiskey and finishing it off. “We’re getting you some food, and we’re sitting at a table so that I don’t get a crick in my neck from looking down at you all night.”

  I drop my forehead to the bar. “Tables are for women who aren’t bankrupt.”

  “You’re just saying that because you don’t have french fries,” he says, and the rest of what I said seems to catch up with him. “You’re bankrupt?”

  “My company is,” I mutter into the bar.

  “You mean that asshole … I thought you were winning the lawsuit. Fuck, why didn’t you ask me for help?”

  I turn my head and narrow my eyes in a glare, and he raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I forgot the rules.”

  The rules are really just one rule—except for birthday gifts, he’s not allowed to buy me things. The rule started in middle school when I overheard the mean girls making fun of me because Jack was always loaning me money for lunch, field trips, and club fees. It had never occurred to me to be ashamed of letting him help me like that until a bunch of sixth-grade girls made fun of me for it.

  Jack used to try to find ways to get around it if he thought there was something I needed. During our senior year in high school, when I was in California, I mentioned in an email that I was disappointed because my boyfriend thought prom was a waste of money. Low and behold, my boyfriend suddenly received an envelope full of cash with an anonymous note instructing him to man up and take me to prom. My boyfriend got pissed at me because it hurt his pride, and I got pissed at Jack for trying to control my life. Then, Jack got mad at me for being stubborn when he was just trying to make me happy. I didn’t talk to him again until I saw him at Columbia.

  After that, Jack followed the rule. At first, it was just to avoid another fight, but now I think he gets it. Money isn’t what I need from him.

  Hell, for the last five years, I haven’t needed money from anyone. I was doing well.

  I drop my head back to the bar and choke back the urge to give in and sob.

  “Price. Get your butt off that barstool, or I swear, I will move it for you,” Jack threatens.

  “Please. As if you’d do your own dirty work,” I taunt, and before I know it, he’s literally hauled me over his shoulder, startling a shriek and a laugh out of me.

  It’s the first time I’ve laughed in a really, really long time.

  “Three baskets of fries, macaroni and cheese, and a burger. Also, some water,” Jack tells the bartender before turning and heading back to an unoccupied booth in the back.

  “Also, two whiskeys,” I mouth to the bartender, holding up two fingers as Jack carries me away and dumps me in the booth.

  I’ll say this, he’s a lot stronger than he was in eighth grade when I beat him at push-ups.

  Jack slides into the booth across from me and smiles. The smile is already worming him back into my good graces, but he drank the last of my whiskey, and he got disturbingly hot in the eleven months since I saw him last.

  I jab a finger at him. “You were late, Jack McBride.”

  “You gave me less than an hour’s warning,” Jack protests. “I was at Ally’s wedding rehearsal.”

  I blink as that penetrates. “You left your cousin’s wedding rehearsal for me.”

  “You said you needed me,” he says simply.

  That right there is why I put up with his flakiness. Not the gift baskets. Not the years of history. It’s because if I say I need him, he’s here. This shit is also why I’m single. It’s hard to settle for less in a romantic relationship when your friendships are so awesome.

  Jack studies me across the table. “So, Evvie. What do we need to do to put you back together again?”

  I smile at the old nickname. He hasn’t called me that in forever.

  “Revenge on the asshole who sued you?” He continues. “Because I have ideas.”

  I snort.

  The fries arrive, and I dig in. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I’ve polished off the order of hot, greasy, salty starch.

  Jack wordlessly pushes the third plate toward me. “So, if not revenge, what do you want? A shoulder to cry on?”

  I roll my eyes. “What I really need is a job, but I’m toxic in crisis PR right now. No one wants to take advice on how to manage a crisis when your advice sank a man’s reputation.”

  “Give it time. They’ll forget.”

  “I don’t have time. I spent all my savings on the company, and I need to pay rent.”

  The rest of the food arrives, along with the two whiskeys I now regret ordering. Jack frowns down at his hamburger, thinking.

  “What? Overcooked? Because that’s probably good in a place like this.”

  “Come work for me,” Jack says.

  I choke on my mac and cheese. “Jack. No. I’m not taking some pity job—”

  “It’s not a pity job. My head of marketing and PR is on maternity leave for the next three months. The plan was just to have her team cover for her while she’s gone, but they’re drowning. They need another set of hands, and your specialty is coming in at the last second. I know you won’t spend the two months trying to lobby for a permanent spot on my team.”

  “You can say that again,” I say, reconsidering the whiskey.

  “Come on, Eva. I need you.”

  “That’s not fair! You can’t guilt-trip me into letting you help me.”

  He blinks those pretty blue eyes at me. He was right to get rid of the glasses, I think.

  “What else are you going to do for two months, Evvie? You just said no one will hire you.”

  I vengefully spear my mac and cheese. This is why I’m always telling clients, “Always tell the truth. Just not always the whole truth.”

  Jack folds his hands and waits.

  He’s not going to say anything until I agree to take the job or give him a real reason why I can’t. The only reason I can think of is, for a second back there, I thought he was hot, and it freaked me out.

  I can’t tell him that.

  Besides, it’s been a weird day. The hot thing was probably just alcohol and the bar light talking.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. “Now, tell me all about Ally’s wedding.”

  * * *

  It’s almost midnight before we leave the bar, and I feel the good kind of worn out that only comes from laughing and talking for hours with a good friend. I’ve been spending so much time trying not to lose the business that I haven’t done anything for myself in, well, in about eleven months.

  Jack hales me a cab, and I let him. Paying for my cab is allowed in the rules, on the grounds that if we weren’t New Yorkers, he would just give me a ride home. Or something. It’s been a while since we came up with that rule.

  I steal a glance at Jack, standing there with his hands in his pockets, completely at ease in the lights of the city at night.

  I’m so lucky to have him, I think. So damn lucky.

  “I’ll take the job,” I say suddenly, and his face splits into a giant grin.

  “Really?” He catches me in a bear hug and spins me around. “That’s a huge load off my chest. And this isn’t a pity hire. Hiring some of my cousins, those were pity hires, but you …” He sets me on the ground, but instead of letting me go, he just holds me tighter.

  “Thanks, Eva,” he says, his voice low and grumbly against my ear, his breath warm on my skin. He smells so good. I know it’s because he uses the lemon soap his grandma picked out for their hotels fifty years ago.

  It’s more than that, though. I’ve smelled that soap on other men, and it’s not … it’s not the same.

  He pulls back, and for once, I can’t read the look on his face. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he says, unknowingly mirroring my own thoughts.

  For a second, I think he’s going to say more, and for some weird reason, my heart speeds up.

  Then the cab pulls up, and Jack’
s opening the door, giving the cabby money and my address while I slide into the backseat, trying to get my world back on its axis.

  Jack’s my friend. Well, and my boss for a few months. That’s always been more than enough.

  Except for that night in college.

  No. I don’t think about that night.

  I definitely don’t think about that kiss.

  2

  Jack

  Humphrey Collins is a DICK

  —Jack McBride, graffitied on the boys’ bathroom wall, sixth grade

  “So this is where you work,” Eva says, walking around my office on the nineteenth floor of our flagship hotel in New York.

  There’s a beautiful view of Central Park, and the dark wood and elaborate white plaster moldings along the ceiling give the room an old-world feel. The dove gray carpet and the large leaded-glass windows give it a clean, airy feel. My interior designer said we were “valuing the past without getting bogged down by it.”

  Sometimes it feels like my whole career has been about that. More than my career, if I’m being honest.

  It feels like worlds clashing, having Eva in my office. She’s in a sharp, fitted navy pantsuit with sky-high heels that have me noticing her ankles for the first time in my life.

  They’re strangely delicate.

  I shake my head. Clearly, I need to get laid.