Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)

Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)

Lauren Landish




CHAPTER

ONE





CARTER





“Son of a bitch!”

I slam the door to my office behind me, well aware that it was a second too late to muffle my outburst. I snarl over my shoulder, muttering under my breath the way my grandma taught me to do when you don’t have anything nice to say. “Cam’s nose is so far up Dad’s ass, he can probably tell what he ate for dinner last night.”

I can’t help that Cameron is the golden child—the oldest, most brilliant, the most like our father and grandfather. Except we all know Cam’s flawed in the worst way possible with a soul-deep scar from the accident that took his wife and left him a single parent.

That’s not something we discuss out loud, even in an empty room under our breath. But Cameron’s ever-present ability to stay in Dad’s good graces and make me come out looking like a hack? That’s fair game.

I throw the report Cameron presented onto my desk, glaring at it as if my brother can feel my anger through its perfectly formatted brilliance. I pace left, glare, then right, sighing as I try to find fault with any detail of his plan. But there’s none. I know it. Cameron wouldn’t have presented it otherwise.

He might be an ass, but he’s a damn good businessman.

The door opens behind me and Zack comes in.

“Fuck off. Not now.”

Considering he’s my best friend, he doesn’t take the slightest offense. Nor does he listen. Instead, he walks in like he owns the place. He doesn’t even work here, and the meeting for our private real estate company is supposed to be over dinner tonight, so he shouldn’t even be here.

Not that anything like that has ever stopped him. I don’t think Zack has met a single obstacle in his life that he didn’t tackle with single-minded, obstinate determination. Or steel balls, whatever the case may call for.

“Whoa, who pissed in your grits this morning?”

His humor makes me even angrier. Launching in without preamble, I inform him, “Cameron did a big-ass, full-court presentation today. I had no idea he was even working on anything, but then he goes and throws out a whole business plan with plotted out progress points and fully developed return on investment figures like he shit it out after his morning Metamucil.”

I wave a hand at the report on my desk, shooting it another sour look for good measure. I hope Cameron feels the glare like a solid kick to his family jewels. Not that he fucking needs them. He’s head-down, focused on work or his daughter, twenty-four-seven. I’d be surprised if he ever distracts himself with something as frivolous as jacking off.

Zack picks up the paperwork and helps himself to one of the chairs in front of my desk, flipping pages as he scans to get the gist of Cameron’s new grand plan. “Venture capital?” he surmises as he throws it back to the desk carelessly.

“Yeah, some hotshot chef’s opening a restaurant. Somehow, the damn thing already has a waiting list before they’ve even begun construction. It’s a ‘sure bet’, or at least Cam thinks so.” I add finger quotes to make sure Zack understands how idiotic this proposal is. I would never admit it, but I’m pouting.

Normally, I’d be laughing that he brought in an investment into a restaurant because generally, they’re risky, but I’ll admit this is gold. But only to myself, not to Zack.

My grandfather began the family business decades ago with a profit-sharing deal with a friend, and it’s grown exponentially since then. We have our well-manicured fingers in business deals around the globe, in everything from real estate to stock markets to small start-ups to portfolio management.

We’re the archangels of angel investors. Anything we can do to make money, or make someone else money, which in turn also makes us money, is our specialty. And in a business that traditionally has more misses than hits, we have a remarkable ‘batting average’.

Because of deals like Cameron’s Hottie McHottie chef.

I also have a side hustle business with Zack, using my funds and his brains. Not that he doesn’t have money or I don’t have a brain, but we started it long ago when my focus was on making my way in the family business and he needed an influx of start-up cash.

Zack holds up his hand, rubbing his fingertip against his thumb. “Want me to play you a sad song on a tiny violin the size of your teeny-tiny dick? You can cry your whiny tears ’til you blow snot bubbles out of your nose.” His voice is gratingly pitying as though I’m a fussy toddler demanding their way.

“My dick is not teeny-tiny,” I correct, focusing on the most important part of what he said and purposefully ignoring the rest as I plop into the chair next to him.

“That’s the spirit!” Zack cheers sarcastically. “Not that there’s a need to go crossing swords with your brother, but you’re too good to pout about a done deal. What you need is a deal of your own. Not coincidentally, that’s why I’m here.” He holds his hands out wide like he’s God’s gift to fix my bad mood.

I can sense the carrot he’s dangling, and while there’s a part of me that wants to be angry—fine, jealous—a bit longer, I can’t deny the appeal of the next new thing. Dad definitely bred that into Cameron, but he also put a good dose of those genes into me too, along with a fair amount of brotherly competition.

“What’ve you got?”

“A little birdie told me about a widow—” he starts.

“Weak,” I interject. “I need something big.”

“As I was saying,” Zack continues, not slowing down, “portfolio management for a widow with a huge estate. I’m talking property, an art collection worth well into the eight figures, investments, and more.”

Looking his way, I concede. “I’m listening.”

Zack grins triumphantly, knowing he’s got me solidly wiggling on his hook and he’s a patient and skilled fisherman. “She’s only considering outsourcing, but I think you could sway her with that magic charm of yours. Seems to work with every other woman between twenty-two and ninety-two.”

I flash him my signature smile. “Now who’s jealous?” He doesn’t answer, merely stares back, waiting me out. “Fine, tell me more. Please.”

Pleased as punch with himself, he reels me in slowly. “Elena Cartwright, seventy-five, but spry and sharp. Her estate is out past Pearl, about ten thousand acres. But who’s counting at that point?” He rolls his eyes, well aware that my family owns that much too, though not in one plot. Land like that comes from more than three generations of wealth like us Harringtons, but Pearl is far enough away that I don’t know the Cartwright legacy.