Page 2 of Three Suave Billionaires and a Fake Chauffeur

I stand up, and in my attempt to get behind him so I can help lift him up, I step on his awkwardly lying wrist.

All this was not supposed to happen. Not one single bit of it.

Chapter Two

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Lucy

"Oh, I really should have gone to the gym." After wrapping a scarf around his head, I'm already out of breath, practically heaving by the time I try to get my brother to his feet.

Careful not to inflict any more injury on him—which was hard not to do—I get him to hold onto me with his good arm, and we make it to the elevator, out of the building, and into my car, thankfully parked right in the front.

"Wait, where are you taking me?" Dean asks, ready to bolt from the car, which makes getting his seat belt on even harder.

"We're going to the ER. You hurt your head."

"I'm fine," Dean insists, as his head lolls back. "Why is the car upside down?" He jolts upright, his dazed look now terrified. Oh my god, he has a concussion.

"No, you're not. Stay awake, Dean," I shout and blast the music in my car. There.

I manage to keep him awake until we reach the ER, although I have no clue what he's saying—something about airplanes having breather holes before he freaked that he may have auto-brewery syndrome because why does he feel drunk?

I broke my sweet brother.

A nurse gets us checked in, and eventually we're seen by a doctor who examines his head, shines a light into his eyes, and asks him a series of easy questions, all of which my brother got wrong, and diagnoses him with a mild concussion. He'll need a couple of stitches. His wrist is thankfully just mildly dislocated as well, albeit very swollen, but overall he's going to be perfectly fine.

Whew.

"How did this happen?"

"Well..." I begin, looking at the doctor. "I hugged him."

The doctor looks at me in utter disbelief, but thankfully I'm saved by my brother, who comes to at this point.

"I have to get to work. It's my first day," he says, ready to bounce off the exam table.

"What work does he do?" the doctor asks me.

"He's a... a chauffeur," I say.

"No driving for you, sir, not for at least three weeks or so."

"It's okay," I rush to tell him. "I'm going to cover for you. Don't worry about it. I got this. You will not lose your job if it's the last thing I do," I promise.

And then my baby brother looks at me like he did when we were younger, putting all his trust in his sister, knowing she's the klutziest klutz there is, and nods.

After making the doctor assure me he was going to be okay, I lightly kiss my brother on his forehead and then speed-walk my way out of the hospital.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. What am I doing? Poor Dean. I nearly murdered him. But this is nothing compared to what will happen to him if I don't do as I'm told.

I start to whimper before I get into my car—remembering that I forgot to put the padding suit into the trunk of my car before—and I don't stop until I'm back in my apartment. I call the hospital twice to make sure Dean is okay in the meantime as well. He's fine, thank goodness.

I grab the padding suit, and then I'm on my way to Dean's apartment. But now I don't have much time. I'm already stripping off my clothes before I reach his bedroom, fighting with my bra that refuses to unsnap and finally does just before I'm about to take a pair of scissors to it.

I step into the padding suit, then into the black suit and tie Dean had neatly laid out on a chair. I add some makeup, which I stashed in my handbag, to give my face some kind of stubble situation.

I roll my very long hair into a bun and slip the hat onto my head. The thick-soled shoes I'm wearing make me taller, and the padding makes me look bigger. As long as I don't say much—rather, anything at all, if I can help it—I'll be fine.