Page 7 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

The final invitation is for a wedding in La Jolla: Michael and Lillian. Michael’s family has been close with ours for as long as I can remember and his dad sits on the board for Emerald City Coffee. I definitely can’t miss this one.

Four weddings. Four opportunities to impress or disappoint my parents. Four chances to solidify business relationships worth millions. Four evenings of small talk, champagne, and judgment.

I stretch out on my leather sofa, letting the invitations fall onto my chest. Hans finally decides to join me, his nails clicking against the hardwood before he jumps up and settles against my side with a contented sigh.

"At leastyou'relow maintenance," I tell him, scratching behind his ears. "All you need is premium dog food, some long walks and the occasional belly rub."

The women I date tend to require much more. Not that I'm complaining—I enjoy the company of intelligent, beautiful women. The problem is finding one who can navigate the complex social dynamics of Seattle's upper crust without looking like she’s trying too hard or not trying hard enough.

I could call Vanessa. We broke up three months ago, but it was civilized. She's gorgeous, sharp, and knows how to work aroom. But showing up with an ex isn’t a great idea. People would talk.

There's Marissa from marketing. Quick-witted, legs for days. But bringing an employee crosses lines I'm not willing to step over, especially with my father watching.

I could pull from the rotation of women I've been casually seeing, but none of them feel right for this. These aren't just dates; they're auditions for the role of "Charlie Astor's wife" in the eyes of everyone who matters in my professional and personal circles.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Mom:Dinner tomorrow is at 7.

I text back a quick confirmation. My parents will want to know who I'm bringing. They’ll want to know if I've finally found someone "suitable." The translation of "suitable" being: someone they can brag about to their friends and who will give them grandchildren.

Feeling restless, I stand up, disturbing Hans who gives me the eye before resettling. I walk to the windows, press my forehead against the cool glass. Seattle sprawls before me, a network of lights and possibilities.

I click on some music in an attempt to relax and think about my options. Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” comes on, and I can feel myself settle just a bit.

I'm thirty-eight years old. CEO of a successful company. I own a kick-ass penthouse. My investment portfolio would make most financial advisors weep with joy. By any objective measure, I'm a catch.

So why does the thought of finding a wedding date make my stomach twist into knots?

Because it's not about finding a date—it's about finding therightdate. Someone who makes me look like I've got my personal life as together as my professional one. Someone whocan hold her own with my mother's subtle interrogations and my father's assessing stares. Someone who doesn’t get drunk and vomit all over the bride or hit on the groom. Unfortunately, those last two things have happened in the past.

I turn away from the window and walk to the bar cart in the corner of my living room. I pour two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler. The first sip burns, but the second one soothes.

My reflection in the mirror behind the bar looks confident, unconcerned. My hair is still damp from my post-gym shower, my jawline still defined despite approaching forty.

I carry my scotch back to the sofa and pick up the invitations again, fanning them out like playing cards.

"So who's it going to be, Hans?" I ask, looking down at my dog, who responds by rolling onto his back, exposing his furry belly. "Yeah, that's what I thought—no opinion."

I finish my scotch and set the glass aside. Tomorrow night, my parents will ask about my plans for these weddings. They'll ask who I'm bringing, and they'll have opinions about my answer, whatever it is.

I need someone perfect. Someone who fits in this world without trying too hard. Someone who makes me look good without overshadowing me. Someone my parents already approve of.

I just have no idea who that someone is.

My parents' house sits on a hill overlooking Lake Washington, a mix of glass and cedar that manages to be both imposing and tasteful. I park my Audi next to my mother's Mercedes and glance at myself in the rearview mirror before getting out.

The front door opens before I can knock. My mother stands there in an ice blue silk blouse, her blonde hair swept into an elegant twist that defies her sixty-two years. She's holding a martini glass with three olives—she always insists on three—and her smile is genuine.

"Charlie, darling." She kisses the air beside my cheek, her perfume wafting around me. "Right on time. Your father's in his study, finishing up a call."

Of course he is. Bill Astor has been "just finishing up a call" for the last forty years.

"How are you, Mom?" I ask, following her into the house. The interior is all clean lines and curated art pieces, a gallery of good taste with the warmth of a museum.

"Wonderful. Busy with the foundation gala next month. And you? You look tired." She gives me an appraising look.

"I'm fine. Just closing that deal with the suppliers in Colombia. It's been intense."

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