Her Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend (Her Billionaire #1) Read Online Abigail Barnette

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Erotic Tags Authors: Series: Her Billionaire Series by Abigail Barnette
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Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
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He saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”

To me, the nurse said, “They’re going to keep him overnight to observe him. We’re waiting on a room. There’s a real risk of infection from wild animal attacks.” She paused. “How did he get attacked by a grizzly bear on the island?”

“It was the maid of honor in an aborted wedding.” It was the most succinct way of putting it.

“Ah ha,” she replied, in a tone that clearly conveyed, rich people have too much money for their own good.

“I’m sorry, I can’t fuck you tonight,” Matt said, squeezing my hand. “I have to be in the hospital. Did you know I got attacked by a bear?”

“I’m going to leave you two alone,” the nurse said, tapping something into the computer on the rolling stand at the foot of the bed. She took the whole stand with her and closed the curtain behind her.

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “There will be other times.”

I had wanted that time to be tonight, but unforeseen bear circumstances…

“I think Scott’s onto us,” Matt whispered.

“He’s definitely onto us,” I confirmed grimly. “You kind of shouted it at the whole wedding party.”

“No!” He covered his face with his hands, then abruptly dropped them. “Will you look at my leg? I don’t want to know if it’s really bad.”

I didn’t want to know, either, but I peeled back the thin woven cotton blanket. Pink had seeped onto the sheet below it. His entire calf was bandaged and there was a surgical drain full of fluid. I quickly dropped the blanket.

It hadn’t occurred to me that Matt had been so badly wounded. I’d expected to see some stitches, maybe those white butterfly bandages. One grizzly bear swipe could do a lot of damage, I guessed.

“Tell Scott I’m sorry,” Matt slurred, his eyes drifting closed. “He hates hospitals.”

“I know he does.” I hated the reminder of my brother’s childhood illness. I hated the fact that I was only alive because of my brother, hated the fact that the only reason I was sitting there at Matt’s bedside was because of my brother.

“No, he hates them.” Matt’s eyebrows lifted in lieu of his eyelids. “He loves you, though.” He drew out the “love” and punctuated the sentence with a sleepy laugh. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Okay, that’s enough talking right now.” I kissed his forehead. I didn’t know why, but it felt right.

“We’re still going to be pen pals with benefits, right?” he asked, and sounded far more lucid than he had the entire time I’d been with him. “I don’t want to get attacked by a bear and lose you in the same day.”

“You haven’t lost my friendship with benefits,” I promised. “Go to sleep.”

Matt mumbled something that sounded like, “Take care of Scott.”

“I will.” It was surprisingly difficult to walk away.

“I’m gonna call you!” he shouted after me as I pushed back the curtain. “And we are going to have sex! Whoo!”

That made it much easier.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

(Matthew)

As much as I loved my apartment in Manhattan with all of its sleek, modern appeal, I’d needed more help in the wake of the bear attack than I’d anticipated. When my mother had suggested sending her jet to pick me up and bring me straight from the hospital to the family farm, I hadn’t relished the idea but reluctantly accepted it.

The only thing farm-like about my parents’ home in Greenwich was the acreage. Before my father died, the stables had been full of his prized horses, but mom had sold them off shortly after he’d passed away. She’d always thought his interest in breeding them for racing was ghoulish and cruel; that distaste for genetic meddling did not extend to whatever designer yappy dog she was toting around this decade. Now, the “farm” was a mansion surrounded by untended fields of native flora that would have sent my ancestors into a classist frenzy.

My great-grandfather had built the compound in the thirties. He’d hired a landscape architect from Paris to make perfectly sculpted parks and avenues around the sprawling mansion of ivy-covered stone and mansard roofs. My grandfather had joked that his dad had built “a poor man’s Versailles.”

The problem with that comparison was that we had a lot more money than French royalty.

But what the farm lacked in modesty, it made up for in wide, arched doors and a full-time, round-the-clock staff, perfect for someone temporarily using a wheelchair and unable to fend for himself. And when I’d gotten out of the chair, the antique rugs on the parquet gave me more traction with my crutches than the bare polished marble in my apartment would have.

And I was definitely having more fun at the farm with my cane than I would have had all by myself back in New York.

“My dear penguins. We stand on a great threshold,” I called ahead of me as I exaggerated my limp into a waddle to enter the breakfast room. “It’s okay to be scared. Many of you won’t be coming back. Thanks to Batman—”



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