Page 100 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

My phone pings with a text from Charlie:Morning, beautiful. How are you feeling?

Good. Just having tea with Art. How are you?

Hans is trying to eat my slipper. Typical Sunday.

I smile, imagining them in Charlie's penthouse. I've spent more nights there lately than at my own place and I love it, but we both know his place isn't a good long term option.

"It's a glass box in the sky," Charlie said last weekend as we lay in his enormous bed, his hand resting on my stomach. "It’s been an amazing home for the last few years but it’s not a great option for raising kids."

My little house isn't much better. I glance around at my cozy kitchen, with its original wood trim and built-in china cabinet. I love this house but it’s size would leave us cramped from day one. The tiny yard might work for Art's bird-watching expeditions, but two energetic children and a dachshund would quickly outgrow it.

Our real estate agent, a no-nonsense woman with immaculately manicured nails is visibly losing patience with us. Last weekend, after showing us a perfectly nice Tudor in Queen Anne that neither of us liked, she'd closed her portfolio with a snap.

"You two are looking for a unicorn," she said, her smile tight. "Four bedrooms, yard, good schools, character, modernupdates, close to both your workplaces, and under five million dollars. It’s definitely a tall order."

She's shown us at least ten houses so far. There was the gorgeous Craftsman with a stunning kitchen but situated on a busy street that made Charlie frown and mutter about toddlers running into traffic. The sleek modern home in Madison Park with a beautiful yard that had strange acoustics throughout the house, making me worry I wouldn’t be able to practice properly. The charming Victorian with gorgeous details but a seriously creepy basement, was featured in a bad dream I had that night.

"We'll find it," Charlie keeps insisting, refusing to settle. "The perfect home is out there."

I wish I shared his optimism. My practical side is starting to think we should just renovate my place and squeeze in—at least for the first year or two. But as I look around at my tiny dining area, I can't imagine fitting two high chairs, let alone the mountain of equipment twins require.

For Charlie, it’s more about a certain feel. "I want our kids to have a real home," he told me last week. "A place that feels warm and safe, but gives them plenty of room to run."

Art headbutts my hand, demanding attention. I stroke his soft fur and wonder how he'll adapt to a new home with two babies and an enthusiastic dachshund. He and Hans have spent a few nights together at this point, and though it wasn’t horrible, Art definitely seems to be put out when Hans is here. I hope that changes.

I should practice—the Mozart we're performing next week still needs work. But instead, I linger over my cooling tea for a few more precious minutes.

Art jumps down from my lap as if he can read my thoughts, stretching once more before padding toward the living room where my cello waits.

I head to the bathroom first though for the tenth time just this morning. Pregnancy bladder is a real thing…

The following afternoon, my bow stills on the cello strings as my phone vibrates in my pocket. Maestro Cortez is working with the violins on a tricky passage, which gives me a moment to sneak a peek.

Charlie's text lights up my screen:Made a last minute appointment for a house showing. Any chance you can meet me there at 4?"

My heart sinks a little. Another house, another disappointment. I’m tired but I type back a quick "Sure" before asking for the address.

Cortez taps his baton on the stand. "Cellos, measure ninety-six. I need more weight in those quarter notes."

I slip my phone away and focus on the music, trying to push thoughts of real estate out of my mind. We play through the passage twice more before Cortez finally seems satisfied. When he moves on to work with the woodwinds, Rebecca, the second cellist, leans toward me.

"Everything okay?" she whispers.

"House hunting," I explain, adjusting my endpin slightly. "Charlie's found another one for us to look at this afternoon."

"No luck yet, huh?"

I shake my head. "The way things are going, the twins will be in college before we find a house we both love."

Rebecca smiles sympathetically. "My cousin went through fifteen houses before finding theirs. Now they couldn't imagine living anywhere else."

Everyone, including Cortez, has been wonderful about my pregnancy. All that worry over nothing. I’m so grateful every day that I got this job, even if it is still temporary. I have a good feeling that they’ll have an open spot for me when I get back from maternity leave.

Cortez clears his throat loudly, and we all straighten up, returning our attention to the score. By the time rehearsal ends at 3:30, my phone shows another text from Charlie with the address and a cryptic text. I think you’re really going to like this one.

I pack up my cello, my mind churning with curiosity. Charlie isn't usually the mysterious type—he's direct, practical, a problem-solver. I wish I had time to look up the property details but there’s no time.

The address takes me north of the city, away from the usual neighborhoods we’ve been looking in. I pull out of the symphony parking garage and plug it into my GPS, frowning at the unfamiliar street name. Twenty-five minutes, the screen tells me. I check the time—3:35. I'll be cutting it close.

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