Page 13 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Reid

L ola Hayes is driving me insane.

That’s nothing new though. She’s been driving me insane for years now.

She makes every single interaction feel like a test I forgot to study for. She’s stubborn to the point of self-destruction, impossible to impress, and allergic to compliments unless they’re buried under sarcasm.

And still—I can’t stop thinking about her.

It used to be easier. She was just Wes’s younger sister. She may have been exquisitely beautiful, but she also had a sharp tongue she wielded like a weapon. Everything with her was always a competition.

I hated her.

Except I didn’t.

I wanted to kill her. Then I wanted to kiss her. Then I wanted to do them both at once, and that’s about when things got complicated.

I’ve had far too many thoughts about Lola over the years. They like to show up at night when the house is quiet and my body is too wired to sleep. Then somehow I end up with my hand in my pants and the image of her stuck in my mind.

She doesn’t know that, though.

And she never will.

Because that would give her more power, and she already has too much when it comes to me.

The day I walked onto the field for the San Diego Storm, I told myself I’d made it.

Everything I’d worked for was right there—jersey with my name on it, cameras in my face, fans screaming my name.

I was twenty-one, arrogant as hell, and convinced the world would fall at my feet. And for a while, it did.

Miles followed a year later to San Diego.

He’d been scouting spaces for a West Coast HQ for his startup and decided this was the spot.

Two years after that, the guy had a full-blown empire.

Now he can’t go anywhere without someone asking for a podcast interview or begging him to fund their next app.

Wes came next. He just packed up his truck and moved across the country like it was the next logical step.

Even after my career went belly up, I stayed. It’s not like I had anywhere else to go. Wes and Miles are my family, and they were well established here by that point. Miles was gracious enough to pull me into his company, give me a reason to get up in the morning.

Lola went to college somewhere nearby, and with Wes already here, it made sense for her to stay, I guess.

I’ve spent years actively ignoring the fact that she lives so close.

Even when I was forced to be in her presence, I’d avoid her as best I could.

She seemed fine with that arrangement. We’d nod, exchange one obligatory insult, then retreat back to our corners.

Until the damn BBQ, I hadn’t seen Lola in months. I figured she’d make a snide comment about asshole jocks, I’d fire something back about her compulsive need to follow my every move in life, and then we’d be done. Then I found out she slept with Jude.

That fucking sent me sideways. So I poked.

And she snapped.

And I poked again, too far this time.

Because that’s what I do. That’s what we do. We go too far, and then pretend we didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I just wanted a reaction. I needed proof that I could still get under her skin.

It didn’t exactly go to plan. I acted like a butt hurt little bitch when I saw Jude go over to talk to her and I ended up hurting her. Lola is a mess, no doubt about it. But she’s a beautiful mess.

I’m not supposed to touch her. I know that; every part of me knows that. She’s Wes’s little sister, for fuck’s sake.

But every time we’re in the same room, shit goes down. She gets under my skin. I get under hers. And suddenly, I’m standing too close, and saying things I shouldn’t.

But when she didn’t back down yesterday at the studio, every rational thought in my mind turned off. All I could think was, do it . Just one taste. I need to fucking know.

And I almost did. I would’ve.

If her damn phone hadn’t rung, I would’ve closed the space, pulled her into me, and finally tasted her lips.

I haven’t stopped thinking about the almost-kiss since it happened. Which is exactly why I show up at her studio again.

I may or may not have physically wrestled Frankie for the package for Lola. Frankie is Miles’s assistant. She was halfway through organizing Miles’s calendar while sipping some matcha-green-colored liquid. Honestly, it looked like radioactive goop. It’s worse than the shit Jude drinks.

The box was on her desk. It had Lola’s name on it. When Frankie reached for it, I did too.

She didn’t let go. If anything, she held on tighter. I pulled once. She pulled back.

“I am fully prepared to fight you for this.”

That Cheshire-cat smile slowly spread across her face, and she released without any argument.

That look should’ve worried me.

Frankie is a chaos gremlin with unlimited access to everyone's calendar, inbox, and psychological weak points. She probably timestamped the exact moment I grabbed the package, and logged it in that internal database I know she keeps. Frankie misses nothing.

But I can deal with Frankie later.

Right now, all I’m thinking about is Lola—and how she’s going to take me showing up again.

It’s early as fuck, but her first class starts at six a.m.—I checked online—and I know she’ll be alone until clients start showing up.

“Seriously?” she says when she sees me.

“Relax. I’m not here to harass you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then what? You forget something yesterday? Like boundaries?”

Damn, she’s good at this. Push-pull banter that makes me want to kiss her just to shut her up.

“I’m here to help.”

That gets a snort-laugh. “Help? You?”

I take a slow step closer. “Yeah. Shocking, right? I do actually know how to do things besides piss you off.”

She blinks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You showed up before six in the morning. Without warning. And you expect me to believe this is some selfless act of goodwill?”

I shrug. “Maybe give me the benefit of the doubt for once.”

She stares at me like she’s waiting for the punchline. But there isn’t one. I really am here to help.

Miles let it slip that Lola’s not doing as well as she pretends. He was in here last week and I know she let him help her with her computer system. And Miles being Miles, he snooped at her books.

She’s floundering.

There’s some big celebrity Pilates studio a few streets over that’s poaching her instructors, her clients, and her sanity. Not that she’d ever admit it.

She’s pretending she’s fine, of course. Classic Lola. My sharp-tongued little mess is too proud for her own good. The girl is allergic to letting anyone help her.

It drives me fucking insane.

She always has something to prove. She seems to believe that if she slows down for even a second, someone’s going to decide she doesn’t deserve any of it. It’s bullshit, but she believes it. So she works herself into the ground trying to outrun it all.

But she shouldn’t have to.

And I can help.

And I don’t mean just moral support and using my leftover celebrity status—though I’m sure that part could be helpful for her too. I mean actual, physical help.

She’s short-staffed? Fine. I know enough Pilates to hold my own in a beginner class. I don’t have the certifications or anything, but I took enough classes while I was still a professional football player to teach a class.

I hated Pilates at first. My coach forced me to take it while I was recovering from my second shoulder tear. I thought it was slow and easy and pointless—until I could barely move the day after my first class.

So I paid attention. I learned the exercise names, the transitions, and the breathing. And yeah, I cracked jokes the whole time, but I actually took it seriously. And it’s a whole lot harder than it looks.

Plus, I’m a people person. I may be tooting my own horn, but the ladies do love me. The celebrity doesn’t hurt either. They’ll sign up again just to stare. And if that boosts Lola’s retention rate, then I’ll smile through the entire class.

The backend stuff? The marketing? I already do half that shit for Miles. Copywriting, tone alignment, targeting—boring but useful. Her site’s a mess and her brand voice is inconsistent. I can clean it up so it actually sounds like her and resonates with her target audience.

She’s going to fight me on this, but I’m not backing down. It’s not charity. I want to be here. I want her to stop drowning.

And yeah, maybe I want to be the one who saves her.

Mostly I just want to be near her.

Lola does not seem to feel the same way though. She rolls her eyes and walks away from me.

“That’s it?” I ask.

She spins back around. “What do you want, Reid? A pat on the head? A slow clap?”

“No,” I say, stepping into her personal space again. “I want you to accept the help.”

She snorts. “Right. Because you woke up at dawn with a sudden urge to be useful?”

“Look, I know the situation sucks. Sierra’s studio is a vampire. It’s bleeding you dry and you’re trying to pretend it’s just a paper cut. But it’s not. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Her jaw ticks. She’s not okay. Not even close. But she’s stubborn and she’s not going to let me do this for her.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do, though.”

She scoffs and heads into the small office behind the front desk. I follow behind her.

“I can help with beginner-level classes. Brand strategy. Hell, even front desk shit if you really need the help. I’ll even fold your towels. It’s not beneath me. And let’s be real—half your clients would sign up just to watch me stretch.”

Her eyes flash. “Jesus, Reid. I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re barely treading water.”

She folds her arms. “And you think playing receptionist-slash-buff instructor is going to fix that?”

“If you let me,” I say, holding her stare, “I can take some of the weight off.”

She scoffs. “This isn’t about helping. You’re just bored. But I’m not here to be your entertainment.”

My shoulders stiffen. “That’s rich, coming from someone addicted to martyrdom.”

She bristles. “Excuse me?”