Page 42 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

I was such a bitch to him after that horrid woman Claire said those nasty things to me. Instead of talking about it, I just mentally checked out of our weekend together.

The confusion and hurt that had flashed across his face—God, I can still see it now as my fingers find the next passage of music.

I’d kept retreating, leaving him standing there, confusion replacing the warmth in those blue eyes. I'd avoided him as much as I could, trying to make him pay for what Claire said to me.

My bow glides across the strings, drawing out a long, melancholy note that seems to mirror the ache in my chest. What is wrong with me? I should have just talked to him.

The day after the wedding, I had settled down and wasn’t so avoidant. But I never explained what was going through my mind.

Our concertmaster stands for his solo, giving me a moment to breathe, to reset. I close my eyes briefly, feeling the weight of my cello against my body, trying to ground myself in the music rather than the chaos of my thoughts. But my eyes betray me, opening again to look at Charlie.

He's leaning forward slightly, his focus absolute. I didn’t realize he liked classical music this much. There's so much I don't know about him, despite how long I've known him peripherally through Jane.

That's what scares me. Jane and Claire's voices both ring in my head, telling me essentially the same thing. "He’s not boyfriend material…He’ll never settle down… He’s a playboy…"

Their words had confirmed every fear I already had. How could someone like Charlie—confident, charming, impossibly successful—be genuinely interested in me? I'm just a cellist who spends more time with horses than people, who'd rather practicethan party, who second-guesses most decisions. We're opposites in every way that matters.

And yet.

And yet he's here, sitting in the audience, with peonies in his lap and his eyes never leaving me.

The movement concludes, and during the brief pause, our eyes lock again. My breath catches. There's something in his gaze—determination, maybe—that makes my stomach flip. I should be thinking about the music, preparing for the challenging passages ahead, but all I can think is: I've been an idiot.

I've been rude and immature and defensive, pushing away a man who's showing every sign of genuinely caring. But the fear still whispers: what if he hurts you? What if you fall for him and he walks away?

After what seems like hours, the final piece begins, building toward a crescendo that seems to mirror my emotions. By the time we reach the finale, I'm playing with a fervor that surprises me, channeling every ounce of regret into the music.

As the last note resonates through the hall, there's a moment of perfect silence before the applause begins. When I look up again, searching for those blue eyes, Charlie is already on his feet, applauding with the rest of the audience.

A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. He came. He's here. And now I need to figure out what the hell I'm going to say to him.

I'm still in my concert blacks, my hair pulled back in its performance-tight bun, when I get home and place my cello carefully in its stand. The house feels very quiet after all the music.

I looked for Charlie after the performance was over but I was delayed coming out and he must have gotten impatient and left.

I keep replaying the moment our eyes met across the concert hall, wondering if Charlie will call. Wondering if I even want him to.

I slip off my heels and pad to the kitchen in bare feet, pouring a glass of wine with unsteady hands.

When a knock comes at my door ten minutes later, I nearly drop the glass.

It can't be him, can it? I set the wine down and cross to the door, running a hand over my hair in a useless attempt to smooth the flyaways that have escaped my bun.

When I peer through the peephole, my stomach drops. Charlie, all six-foot-five of him, stands on my porch with the bouquet of peonies clutched in one hand. He's changed out of what he wore to the performance—now he's in jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that somehow makes him look even more handsome.

I open the door quickly.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi." Charlie shifts his weight, those blue eyes impossibly earnest. "I hope it's okay that I stopped by."

"Of course. Do you want to come in?" I ask, my pulse racing.Of course he wants to come in, Tess. Why else would he be here?

He nods, and I step back, suddenly hyper-aware of my small house. It's neat but lived-in, shelves overflowing with music books and novels, framed concert programs on the walls alongside photos of horses I've owned through the years. Charlie walks into my foyer, making the space feel even smaller.

"These are for you," he says, holding out the peonies. "I remembered Jane mentioning they were your favorite."

I take them, our fingers brushing briefly, sending a tingle up my arm. "Thank you. They're beautiful."

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