Milo Ives is Emory’s cousin and one of my most successful clients. Of course, because of my natural likability, he loves me and considers me one of his good friends.
I’ve gone along with it. You know, for his sake.
God, I’m funny. If only I could wink at myself.
Seriously, though, our friendship means I’ve seen him in all sorts of situations, including, but not limited to: a drunken brawl, a revolving door of women, and the kind of success that recently put him on Forbes list of richest men in the world.
“Congratulations, guys,” he says as he steps toward the hospital bed and takes a peek at a now sleeping Hudson in Quince’s arms. “Goddamn, what a beauty.”
The brand-new mother and queen of glam smiles proudly. “Obviously, she gets her looks from me.”
Greer snorts. “Honestly, it’s hard to tell with all that makeup you’ve got caked on your face.”
Emory’s responding look is a glare that could penetrate walls. “At least I met my daughter without looking like I just rolled out of bed.”
“You and I both know that is exactly how I will meet my future daughter.” Greer laughs. “And you know I’m just kidding, Em. You look gorgeous. Kim Kardashian’s glam squad fucking wishes they could make her look that good post-birth.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. No matter how much of a lovesick bastard Greer Hudson has turned my best friend into, she cracks me up.
“Don’t even start, Cap,” Emory retorts, and I just shrug.
“I didn’t say a word.”
The conversation switches back to the baby, and it’s hard to believe that one little human being holds the kind of power to mesmerize a room full of grown-ass adults.
I’m just about to give my formal congratulations when Greer informs us we need to exit the room. “Okay, it’s time for you bastards to get out of here. Emory needs to get her tits out.”
“Jesus Christ,” Emory mutters. “Stop saying that.”
“Fine. Emory has to get her boobs out.”
Emory rolls her eyes. “I have to breastfeed.”
It sounds like the kind of activity I’d love to stick around for, but Quince spears me with a look I can’t mistake—a silent threat against my most favorite appendage.
I follow Milo out of the room without spying any nipples.
“Where are you headed now?” I ask as we walk the short hall to the elevators. There’s some weird voodoo energy surging through my body still, an aftereffect of all the deadly gas, I’m sure, and I need some way to burn it off.
Manly stuff. Wild stuff. Bachelor stuff.
“Back to work.”
“That’s fucking boring.” I groan and tap the down button between the two elevator carts. The one on the left dings its arrival almost immediately.
Milo laughs before stepping onto the elevator with me, and I scowl.
Why doesn’t it seem like he’s feeling what I’m feeling?
Agitated, I stir the pot.
I’m pretty sure our friend Evan—and the CFO of Milo’s company Fuse—is due to get married soon, and there’s no way he’s not feeling the same way about it as I am about all of this.
“Is Evan really getting married?” I ask, and Milo tilts his head to meet my gaze as the elevator doors close shut.
“Yeah.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I mean, he’s been engaged for nearly a year. Seems like the natural next step,” he says, unflustered.
Why the fuck isn’t he commiserating with me?
“First, Quince. Now, Evan and Trent.” I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Goddamn everyone’s dropping like flies.”
Milo laughs. “Well, if that isn’t the worst way I’ve ever heard anyone describe marriage…”
“You know it’s true, dude. Marriage. Babies. Shit is going down within our friend circle.”
“Aw,” he teases. “You feeling left out, sweetheart?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I retort on a chuckle, and we step out of the elevator and head toward the hospital lobby. “I’m terrified…for them.”
“Oh…” He pauses and smirks, the collected, self-assured bastard. “So, you’re just scared for them. Not scared in general? Or projecting your commitment fears onto them? Of course, that makes total sense.”
“You bet your ass, it does,” I say without a second thought. “I don’t have any fears of commitment. I just prefer not to commit.”
“So, this is more of an altruistic kind of concern you’re harboring, then.”
“Exactly.”
“If that isn’t a good friend, I don’t know what is,” he teases, and I roll my eyes.
“You know, I almost forgot how much of a fucking smartass you are.”
Just before he opens his mouth to most likely offer some witty retort, his phone pings several times, and he pulls it out to check the screen.
I watch as his brow furrows, and with one tap of his finger, he unlocks his phone to read the messages.
I’m all ready to assume it’s some software/techie/business bullshit, but before I can avert my eyes to seek out something more interesting than watching Mr. Brainchild text over boring computer shit, his reaction reels me back in.