My Brother's Rich Best Friends

PARKER

There's a reason people don't start new jobs the Friday before a long weekend.

It's weird.

Everyone's half-packed to escape the city, you're overdressed in a blazer that's already pilling under the arms, and the office smells vaguely like someone microwaved fish before they bolted out the door.

But when Gavin Thatcher-the silver-haired legend of celebrity damage control and CEO of VT Global-tells you to come in on a Friday "to get a feel for things," you don't argue. You show up fifteen minutes early with anxiety in your bloodstream and exactly twelve backup pens in your tote bag.

And you try not to throw up in your mouth when the elevator dings on the twentieth floor.

"Hey, baby sister," Phil says, standing there in his VT polo like a smug little gatekeeper to hell. "Ready to meet the wolves?"

"Wolves," I repeat, blinking at my brother. "You couldn't just say 'executives'? Or, I don't know...people?"

Phil's already grinning like this is the best part of his entire week. "They don't bite."

"That's a lie and you know it."

He chuckles. "Come on."

The offices are...stupid beautiful. Glass and steel everywhere, a fresh orchid on literally every surface, and the kind of diffused lighting that makes you feel like you're in a Vogue shoot instead of a workplace.

Phil leads me past the open bullpen-where glamorous assistants are clicking away at sleek desktops-and into a glass conference room.

And there they are. Jack Myers. Gavin Thatcher. Harrison Gunn. My three childhood crushes.

And me, wearing my best Target blouse and a deodorant-stained blazer.

"Gentlemen," Phil says, overly casual, "you remember Parker. She's stepping into Jenna's role starting today."

I lift a hand. "Hi. So nice to meet you-again."

Because, of course, we've met. Years ago. They're Phil's best friends. They used to come to our family gatherings. Unfortunately, they also happened to be at my sixteenth birthday where I snuck too much wine and sang an ill-advised acoustic version of "Pony," thus ruining any chance I had with them.

Oh-and there was that one night seven years ago when Jack and I hooked up and never spoke about it again.

So, you know. Mild history.

Jack stands first. Still tall. Still impossibly broad in the shoulders. He's tan, with close-cut black hair graying at the temples in a way that makes my libido feel deeply unsafe. His green eyes lock onto mine for exactly one second too long before he nods.

"Parker."

"Jack," I say, forcing my smile. My palms go clammy.

Next is Gavin-or rather, Thatcher, as the tabloids call him. VT's founding son. His hair is pure silver, combed back with Clark Kent precision. Tall and lean, with the kind of face you want to punch and kiss at the same time. Cold brown eyes. Crisp white shirt. No tie. Just power.

He glances at Phil, then back at me. "Hello again. Glad you could make it."

When he smiles, just a flicker of a smirk, I