Page 15 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Lola

D id that really just happen?

I’m not even talking about the fact that I let Reid— Reid!— finger me against the office wall. Or that I was two seconds away from letting him fuck me right there.

No. What really messes me up is the part where he just walked out.

One second he’s about to be buried inside me, and the next he’s gone. Poof. He dropped me like a hot potato and left me standing here with my pants down. Literally .

I haven’t moved. I’m still trying to piece together what the hell just happened. My back is against the same wall he had me pressed to two minutes ago.

Is this what happens when you let stress run your life? When you’re so wrung out and touch-starved and tired that you let the most emotionally unavailable man in your life get to you and wreck your last shred of self-control?

My body’s buzzing like I touched an exposed wire. My thighs are sticky. And for what? So Reid could feed his ego and then peace out the second someone else walked in?

Not just anyone, though. Gigi.

And now I’m standing here like an idiot listening to the sound of his voice mixing with hers through the wall.

He says something I can’t quite make out, and it makes her laugh.

It’s that high-pitched giggle she does when she’s locked on a new target.

She thinks it works some kind of spell. I think she sounds like a fucking moron.

I want to scream. I want to punch a wall or maybe slam something heavy onto the floor just to hear it splinter to pieces. Fuck…what the hell am I doing?

I yank my leggings back up. When I hear another moronic giggle from the front, I bite down on the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.

My face burns as I grab my water bottle off the desk. I feel stupid. So fucking stupid.

I lean forward and press my palms to the desk, needing to feel something solid. My fingers leave smudges on the wood.

The second I let someone in, or I start to believe maybe I’m not completely alone in all of this…

This is exactly why I can’t do this.

I don’t need this. I definitely don’t have time for it. And if I were going to open that door, it sure as hell wouldn’t be for Reid Morgan. It would be for Jude.

Jude is sweet. He makes everything feel better. It’s easier when he’s around, even when everything else is falling apart. More importantly, I feel safe with him.

But there’s Miles too. He’s always been careful with me, even when I didn’t deserve it. He sees me in ways no one else does. And the truth is, I’ve wanted him for longer than I’m willing to admit.

Things are already complicated. The last thing I need is Reid crashing through it all. He treats everything like a game that he needs to dominate. The only reason he even wants me is because Jude had me.

No, I don’t need someone who flirts with my roommate five seconds after making me come on his fingers.

I don’t need him. I really fucking don’t.

By the time I pull into Wes’s driveway, I am physically and emotionally drained. But when am I not these days? This is my new normal.

I almost didn’t come tonight. But it’s been a couple weeks since I’ve seen Wes, which is longer than usual for us. And honestly, I need someone who feels familiar and doesn’t ask too much of me.

It’s quiet here. And I really need quiet right now.

The walk up the path feels harder than it should. Still, I put on the everything-is-fine smile I’ve been practicing for years and knock on the door.

Wes answers with a grin that quickly falls away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, why would you ask that?”

“That’s your ‘pretend chill’ face.”

“My what?” I laugh.

“Your “pretend chill” face,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “The one where your mouth’s smiling but your eyes are doing that thing they do when you’re very much not fine.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I know you, Lola.”

“Oh, my god, Wes. I’ve just had a long day, that’s all.”

He watches me for a minute, then nods and gestures toward the kitchen. “Your timing is perfect. The food is almost ready.”

“You’re cooking? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I will have you know, I’m a fantastic cook. I’ve been working on it.”

“Fantastic feels like a bit of stretch. I’d go with something more realistic, like ‘at least it’s edible’.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m honest.” I flash him a smile even though he already knows I’m kidding.

I take a seat at the island as he moves toward the stove.

“How was the studio today?” He stirs something in a pot, then sets a timer. “Busy? Must’ve been if you’re so tired you’re wearing your ‘pretend chill’ smile.”

“Yeah, that’s not a thing. And it was fine,” I lie.

He gives me a look that says he’s not buying it, but I’m not about to spill my guts. So, I lie some more.

“All my clients were relaxed and centered. Very namaste.”

“Even I know that’s yoga, Lola.”

I sigh and lean my elbows on the counter. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“I could,” he says, tossing a spoon into the sink, “but then you’d think that fake smile of yours was working. You just look stressed, Lola.”

“I will have you know that I am the picture of mental health.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m Gordon Ramsay.”

“You’re burning something, Gordon.”

He turns back to the pot with a muttered curse.

He finally plates up some food that looks only slightly edible, and he sets the plates on the island.

We talk about nothing for a while. He does his parent-y big brother thing and makes sure I’m eating and sleeping.

I’m not, but I tell him I am. He doesn’t bring up the fact that I now live next door to his best friends, so neither do I.

I’m guessing they haven’t told him and I’m not about to be the one who spills the beans.

I’m too tired to play ten thousand questions with him.

He doesn’t bring up the studio again, which I’m grateful for. I don’t want to have to conveniently leave out the fact that my instructors are gone, my rent is going up, and I’m worried I’m going to have to fold the business.

And he avoids asking anything about my dating life. We have a mostly don’t-ask-don’t-tell philosophy on that. And thank god. Because there is no way in hell I’m telling him that I slept with Jude—who he may or may not know—and almost slept with his best friend. In my studio. Just hours ago.

I feel a little better when I leave, but it doesn’t last long. Because back home, things are worse.

Gigi is in full performance mode. She’s talking fast and loud to Blaire. I round the corner just in time to catch her dramatic retelling of whatever Reid said to her while they were in the studio.

“He told me I had ‘dangerous energy,’” she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Like, what does that even mean? I don’t know, but I’m obsessed with it. He’s so intense. I love that.”

She’s nestled into the couch, wearing one of those lounge sets she saves for “casual domestic elegance” (whatever the hell that means) and holding a half-empty glass of white wine.

They don’t greet me and I don’t acknowledge them.

I head straight to the kitchen and open the fridge.

There’s nothing edible that won’t take at least twenty minutes to make.

There’s wine, but I feel like that might not be the best idea right now.

I barely ate at Miles’s house since the food tasted worse than it looked.

And wine on an empty stomach is historically a bad choice for me.

I head back to the living room with a huff and catch the tail-end of whatever nonsense Gigi’s spewing now. “I swear, he looked like he was about to pin me to the counter.”

Blaire’s perched nearby, scrolling absently on her phone, only half listening to Gigi.

“God, you have to make this happen, Lola,” Gigi adds. “You’re, like, the key to all of it. I mean, obviously he’s into me, but you’re the sister of the guy they’re all besties with or whatever. Reid would totally be mine if you just gave him the green light.”

My fingers tighten into fists.

“Lo-laaa,” she says, drawing out my name, “come on. Don’t be weird about this. It’s not like you’re into him. You’re not, right? You better fucking not be, because he’s mine. He's Reid fucking Morgan. I deserve him, and you…”

Before I can figure out how to answer without lighting the whole house on fire, Blaire cuts in from the armchair.

“She’s into someone . I mean, she spends enough time talking to the hotties next door. One of them is definitely on her radar.”

My stomach flips.

Gigi snorts. “That’s just because of Wes. Duh.”

“Sure,” Blaire says, still scrolling. “Although, I did see you and Jude whispering at the BBQ, Lola. Didn’t he follow you upstairs? And what was Reid doing at your studio anyway?”

My throat goes dry.

Blaire lifts her gaze, lips tugged into that soft, syrupy smile she saves for when she’s about to say something shitty but play it off like she doesn’t know better. “Must be nice having so many strong male figures around, especially when things are…slipping.”

She glances back down at her phone, thumb moving in slow, casual strokes.

“By the way,” she adds, “did you see Sierra James’s new promo launch? It’s gorgeous. She rolled out this full campaign with a celebrity client and everything. I think one of her new instructors used to teach for you, right? What was her name again?”

I don’t answer her and they just continue to talk like they didn’t really expect me to. I don’t care. I head back to the kitchen.

The fridge hums when I open it again. This time, I don’t bother searching—I go straight for the wine. I grab a glass from the cabinet because it makes me feel a little better than drinking straight from the bottle.

I chug half the glass in one gulp before I lean against the counter and sip slower. My eyes stay locked on the tile backsplash as my mind spins in too many directions to track. I think about the studio. I think about Sierra’s new campaign. I think about Blaire’s face when she said “slipping”.

Whoops, my glass is empty. I pour more.