Page 10 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Lola

A re emotional hangovers a thing? Because I think I have one.

Physically, I’m fine. My body feels rested enough for the first time in a while, but my brain is bruised in too many places to count. There’s no alcohol to blame it on either—just a healthy dose of humiliation, resentment, and the echo of Reid’s voice playing on repeat in my head.

You’re always a mess, aren’t you?

The words slam into me all over again. It doesn’t matter how many times I remind myself that he doesn’t mean half of what he says. It’s just Reid being Reid. He picks at people because that’s easier than being honest with himself.

But that one stuck.

I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, groaning into it. I half hope my bed will just swallow me whole and then I’ll never have to get up and face the next set of obstacles.

When that doesn’t happen, I reach for my phone and start scrolling.

Harper’s already texted.

What happened? Spill…

I’ll have to call her later. This requires more than just a text.

I open my studio messages next—two inquiries from new clients, a cancellation for tomorrow morning, and a request to reschedule a private session.

Then there’s the rent reminder from my landlord. Fuck…

I can hear Harper’s anti-meltdown mantra repeating in my head. You’re doing enough. Don’t stress.

I am stressed though. I’m pretty sure I’m entirely made up of stress at this point. I read something about these watches that turn stress into electricity. I bet I could power a small city at this point.

I toss the phone on the bed and sit up too fast, triggering a dull throb behind my eyes. My stomach flips at the same time. I can feel the dread rising quickly.

Why would I dread starting my day? I have so much to look forward to! Not…

To start, there’s my delightful new neighbors, who I have completely uncomplicated relationships with. And then my maybe-failing business that eats every waking hour of my life. And let’s not forget my slowly souring relationship with the two women I share a house with.

Everything is going great.

Truly. Ten out of ten. Would recommend.

I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. But, the fight with Reid follows me every step of the way. We’ve been fighting since the day we met. But last night felt different.

It wasn’t banter. It was brutal.

And then there’s Jude. His voice was soft, but it hit harder than anything else.

You left before I got up that morning.

He wasn’t trying to shame me. It wasn’t even accusatory. But it hit deep and I couldn’t meet his eyes.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks better than I expected. I still look like shit, but at least I look more alive than yesterday. I splash cold water on my face and pretend it’s refreshing instead of punishing.

Then I dry my face, pull my hair into a bun, and brace for a day I already know is going to suck.

Suck is an understatement.

By the time I make it to the studio, I’m already fifteen minutes later than I wanted to be because traffic was horrendous.

I open the door, flip the lights on and drop my bag behind the desk, only to find my technology has decided to throw a tantrum.

The music app won’t load, the speaker won’t connect, and I have exactly four minutes before a class full of overworked women expect me to be cheerful and motivating.

I am neither.

I am made of caffeine and frustration right now.

I finally get the app to work, but it cuts out twice during the warm-up song, and the volume keeps resetting to maximum. No one needs to hear bass that loud at six in the morning. I finally get it to behave but I’m expecting it to go rogue the rest of class.

Then, during my nine o’clock session, my reformer starts squeaking. And not just a little. It’s loud enough that I’m certain everyone can hear it every time I change positions. I make a mental note to check the bolts and oil it later, but I can’t do a damn thing about it while I’m trying to teach.

When one of my regulars strolls in ten minutes late with an iced coffee and no apology, I almost lose it. Her arrival throws off the entire flow of the group.

I smile through the cues. I offer adjustments. I correct form with a steady voice. No one seems to notice that my insides are scrambled and glitching.

But I feel it. I feel it every time I glance at the clock and realize there’s still too much class left and not enough of me to give.

When it’s finally over, I offer a few encouraging words, and wave everyone out. My smile is bolted on so tightly I feel like my face might crack.

No one lingers, thank fuck. They all file out with their designer gear and ridiculously large water bottles, chatting about weekend plans.

I wait until the last one is gone before collapsing onto the floor behind the desk.

I might have woken up with a simple emotional hangover, but I’ve officially upgraded to full-blown burnout. All systems failing. Please try again later.

This studio used to be the one part of my life where I felt completely focused. I was building my dream, and nothing was going to get in my way. But lately, that’s definitely not the case. Everything around me is cracking and crumbling off in pieces, and I don’t know what to glue back first.

I drop my head back and close my eyes.

It’s barely ten in the morning. And I already feel like I’ve run out of fuel.

The door chimes.

I don’t move. Maybe if they don’t know I’m here they’ll just go away.

“Lola?”

Fuck. They’re not leaving.

I groan and lift a hand into the air. “Down here.”

There’s a pause, then a head appears over the edge of the desk. He smiles curiously down at me and my heart jumps.

Miles.

His eyes scan my face, and then the floor. “Rough morning?”

“You could say that.”

He disappears for a second, and I hear the rustle of a paper bag. Then he rounds the desk and crouches beside me, offering me a coffee from my favorite coffee shop down the street.

“I thought you might need this.”

I blink at him. “You brought coffee.”

“And a sweet treat if you’re interested. The bakery a few blocks over had maple bacon donuts. I have a very specific memory of you going on an extremely detailed rant about how they’re the peak of human innovation.”

I blink again, slower this time. “That was forever ago. But I stand by it.”

He sets the bag beside me. “I bought you two, just in case one wasn’t enough.”

I want to devour the donut like the feral raccoon I am, but I sit up slowly and take a cautious sip of the coffee first. Oat milk, cinnamon, a hint of vanilla. It’s my order. My eyebrows lift. I take another sip to be sure. Yep.

“How did you know that this is how I like my coffee?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

“I pay attention.”

He pulls us each a donut out of the bag. I do my best not to snatch it and shove the whole thing into my mouth. Dainty, ladylike bites only.

“Thank you. How did you know I needed this today?”

“Just a sinking suspicion.”

He settles beside me but doesn’t say anything right away. I expect small talk or some sort of awkward lead-in. But instead, he just sits there in silence until I glance over.

“Reid shouldn’t have said what he did last night.”

My jaw tightens. “You don’t need to cover for him.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying he crossed a line.”

I take a sip of coffee to avoid saying something I’ll regret.

“He always crosses lines,” I mutter. “That’s his thing. He hides behind sarcasm and ego and acts like it’s everyone else’s fault when they get upset.”

Miles doesn’t argue.

I shake my head and look down for a moment. “I shouldn’t have said what I said either. But, he’s an asshole, Miles. He’s an asshole and he owns it. He’s almost thirty. At this point, he’s never going to change.”

He studies me for a beat. Then he nods. “You may be right about that. But there was no excuse for how he treated you.”

I push up from the floor, my knees popping in protest. “I swear I’m not eighty,” I say, brushing off the back of my leggings. “That was just the sound of defeat leaving my joints.”

Miles doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifts. I drop into the chair with a sigh and open the laptop. “Alright, time to pretend I’m a functioning adult who has my life together.”

“You fake it well,” he says, getting up and standing next to me.

“I’ve had years of practice.”

The computer screen loads slower than usual, which feels on brand for this day. I log into the studio admin system, pull up my client notes, and try to update a file. The wheel spins.

And spins.

And spins.

I let out a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a snarl, then shove the laptop back. “Why does this machine hate me today?”

Miles steps forward and rests his coffee on the desk. “Want me to take a look?”

“Be my guest,” I say, gesturing at the stupid machine. “But she’s temperamental. So don’t take it personally if she bursts into flames.”

He crouches beside the desk, fingers already moving across the keyboard.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye, pretending not to, but failing pretty miserably.

The fabric of his plain black tee stretches across his broad chest. There’s a cute little furrow between his brows as he pulls them together in concentration.

He chews on the inside of his mouth making his lips a little pouty.

It’s unfair how good he looks solving my problems.

He’s tall and built and his facial bone structure is crazy good. Those thick-rimmed glasses he wears totally work for him. I don’t think I ever noticed how long his lashes were before. It feels a little bit unfair that they’re wasted on someone who doesn’t even own mascara.

His arms flex a little as he types, and his forearms are tan like he’s spent exactly the right amount of time in the sun. This is hilarious, because I think he rarely sits in the sun with the intention of getting tan. That’s just not his vibe.

He hasn’t looked at me once, but I swear he knows I’m staring. I force my gaze to the coffee in my hand.

I’ve always had a thing for Miles. He’s smart, kind, and ridiculously attractive—without the smugness that usually comes along with it. But he's never given me so much as a hint that he saw me as anything more than his best friend’s little sister.

So, why is he here?