Page 20 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Lola

You’d think that I’d take the time to clear everything out. But you would be very, very wrong.

I answer the ones that scream at me—client emails, ones with subject lines like “URGENT” or “Invoice Past Due”, or anything from my landlord. The rest? They just…sit there. Multiplying. Gathering like dust under the couch.

If only that were the only problem I’m facing.

My reformer has a new squeak I don’t know how to fix, the air conditioner won’t stop dripping from one of the vents, and one of my clients passive-aggressively asked if I was “short-staffed or just scaling back.” I smiled and told her we were “in a transitional period.” Which I guess is technically true.

If “transitional” means hanging by a thread, chugging coffee, and energy drinks between emotional breakdowns.

I am so completely over it.

So, when Harper texts: You owe me tequila and a full download. I don’t even hesitate. I send back one word— yes .

I don’t even bother changing out of my workout clothes. I shut down the front lights, lock the door behind me, and leave my car parked out front. No way am I risking a parking ticket that I don’t have the funds to pay for. Uber it is.

The driver doesn’t even look up when I slide into the backseat, just mumbles something and taps through the app. I don’t need small talk anyway. The silence gives me time to make myself look somewhat presentable. I pull out my compact to see what I’m working with. Not much, apparently.

I swipe on a coat of lipstick, then take down my ponytail, finger-fluffing the creases out while spritzing dry shampoo into the roots. I’ll take the smell of fake florals over the scent of stale sweat that’s been clinging to me all day. I give myself another look in the mirror. Good enough.

Not like I’m trying to catch me a man. I’ve already got…three of those. Sort of.

Harper’s already there when I arrive, waving from the back corner where she snagged us a booth. She’s got two margaritas waiting and a look that says spill it or I will extract it by force . Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her.

I don’t even say hello as I slide into the booth. The drink is at my lips before my ass has even hit the vinyl. I take a long sip before speaking and I almost groan. I didn’t realize how badly I needed this—her, the tequila, the break from pretending I’m fine.

“Okay.” I exhale a long breath. “Where do I even start?”

Harper leans in. “From the top. Full download. Don’t skip the hot parts.”

I don’t. I start with the studio—how the rent has gone up again and my savings are circling the drain. I tell her about Jude showing up with smoothies. Then Reid showing up with drama. I tell her how Miles saved my ass with a simple tech fix without making me feel like an idiot.

By the time the second round hits the table, I’m tipsy. Which is maybe why I tell her that despite everything, I still want all three of them desperately.

Harper’s her usual supportive self—swearing vengeance on Reid and offering to slash Sierra James’s tires for good measure.

By the time the third margarita arrives, I’m starting to slur my words a bit.

Harper’s already several pages deep into a dramatic retelling of how she once hooked up with a guy who tried to “reiki” her during foreplay when I interrupt her with a loud groan and drop my head into my palms.

“I’m going to lose my damn mind,” I mutter into the table.

She snorts into her drink. “Too late, my love. You probably lost that around the time you let Reid Morgan anywhere near your vagina.”

I glare up at her. “Okay, not fair. I didn’t let him. He barged in.”

Harper lifts one perfectly groomed brow. “Into your studio or your pants?”

I wince. “Both.”

“So what’s your excuse for the brunch incident? You know, the one where you let him diddle you under the table— in front of your brother —mere moments after you let Jude fuck you stupid.”

I pick up my glass and drain what’s left. “I obviously have brain damage. Jude’s dick broke something in my head.”

Her laugh is sharp enough to draw attention from the next table, not that she cares. She never does. “God, you’re a disaster,” she says fondly. “I love it so much.”

“You don’t understand,” I say definitively. “It’s not just the sex. It’s him. Reid is infuriating. He’s smug and impossible and I hate him. But his hands—Jesus, Harper—his hands are insanely good.”

She grins. “Go on.”

“He’s so hot it makes me angry,” I say, gesturing wildly with my half-empty glass. “It’s actually offensive. That jawline? That smug ass fucking smile? Rude.”

Harper raises both brows, clearly delighted. I keep going.

“And don’t get me started on the tattoos. Or the fucking voice. All low and gravelly and ugh . He could narrate sex dreams the way Morgan Freeman narrates…everything else. I can’t think straight when he talks. It short-circuits my brain.”

She starts to say something and I talk over her.

“And the worst part? He knows . He knows exactly what he’s doing. He walks into a room and it’s game over. He’s cocky and smug and so fucking hot. It’s—” I stop.

I’m seeing things. I must be. That is the only explanation for the hallucination I am currently having. Because there is no way that Reid Morgan is standing at the far end of the bar right now.

Did I summon him with my thoughts? Or maybe I cursed myself by saying his name too many times. It must be the second one because he’s not alone.

He has a drink in one hand, the other rests casually on the bartop.

His fingers are close enough to graze the polished nails of the woman beside him.

She’s beautiful and everything I’m not: tall, tanned, wearing a barely-there dress and heels that make her legs look even longer than they already are. Who is this bitch?

Meanwhile, I’m over here looking like I just rolled out of the laundry bin.

She tosses her head back when she laughs, reaching out to brush his forearm. He doesn’t stop her. If anything, he leans into the touch.

This isn’t some casual conversation with a fan. They’re flirting .

I shouldn’t be surprised. Reid’s a playboy through and through.

He flirts the way other people breathe. It’s not like there’s an agreement between us.

We didn’t label anything. And I’m not exactly an innocent bystander.

I’ve been sleeping with his roommate. There’s no version of this where I get to be mad.

But I am.

Harper catches the change in my expression and follows my gaze without missing a beat. Her head whips around so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t break her neck. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope.”

Harper’s eyes narrow as she takes in the scene. “Who’s the Barbie?”

My throat is too tight to answer.

Just at that moment, he scans the room and sees me.

The smile he was flashing at the Amazonian he’s flirting with fades the second he locks eyes with me.

Whatever joke he just made, it’s gone. His expression flattens and I know instantly that this wasn’t some ploy to make me jealous or try to get my attention.

He clearly wasn’t expecting to see me here.

I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.

I suck in a shallow breath and start to get up from the table.

Harper grabs my wrist. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

I twist my arm free. “I just need some air.”

She’s already reaching for me again. “Lola?—”

I slip out of the booth and head straight for the door. I don’t bother to check to see if Reid watches me go. I already know he does.

The second I step outside, the cool air hits me hard. I take a deep breath but that does nothing to help. My stomach is so knotted I’m surprised I’m managing to keep my liquid dinner down.

He didn’t do anything wrong. I know that. And I have no right to be upset.

This wasn’t supposed to be anything. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not even a friend. And it’s not like I haven’t been making my own mess. I’m the one who crossed every line. But standing there watching him smile at someone else…it cracked something inside me.

I feel stupid.

A car passes, headlights sweeping across the sidewalk, and I blink fast to clear the tears that are threatening to fall.

God, I need to go home.

I pull out my phone and order an Uber. My finger fumbles against the screen, tapping too hard.

Five minutes. I can wait five minutes for Liam in a black Camry.

I don’t go back inside, or text Harper. She’d come running out and drag me right back in, which is very much not what I need right now. Instead I breathe through the tightness in my throat and try not to unravel any further.

By the time the car pulls up, I’m even more buzzed than I realized. Everything feels floaty and out of sync. I mumble a greeting to the driver and then stare out the window as the city passes in a blur of lights.

I manage to get a text off to Harper so she doesn’t think I was kidnapped or something. I couldn’t tell you what it actually says. I’m hoping it’s not complete drunken gibberish.

My keys are somewhere in the bottomless pit of my purse. Where? I haven’t the foggiest.

I’m halfway up the steps, still fishing through my bag with rising panic, when I hear my name.

“Lola?”

I turn too fast and nearly lose my footing. Miles is standing just past the walkway, barefoot. “You okay?”

I open my mouth to say yes, but the world tilts before the word makes it out. So I shake my head instead.

He moves closer without hesitation. “Come here.”

I don’t argue. He reaches for my elbow, and helps me the rest of the way up the steps. I try the door, jiggling the handle, hoping that it’s unlocked. No such luck.

“No key?” he asks.

I shake my head. “It’s in here somewhere.” I dig through my bag again, more frantically this time, pulling out receipts and a melted lip balm and a granola bar.

“You want me to knock?”

The words make my stomach drop.

“No,” I say too quickly. “Please don’t. I can’t deal with them right now.”

Miles studies me for a beat. “Okay. Let’s go to my house.”

He steers me toward his house with gentle pressure on my back. I’m moving at a snail’s pace, but he just slows his pace to match mine. When we finally make it to his porch, I stumble up his steps. His arm wraps around my waist before I can fall.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I look—” I wave vaguely at myself. “I’m a mess.”

He doesn’t argue. He just nudges the door open and keeps his arm around me as he steers me inside.

The stairs are a whole different battle. I try to take them myself, but my balance is shot. I’m gripping the railing hard, basically dragging myself up the stairs.

Halfway up, I begin to sway.

“Okay. Nope. Hang on.” Miles slides an arm under my knees. I squeak as he lifts me. Did I…did I swallow a chew toy? That seems plausible in my current state of mind.

“Wait—oh my god, I can walk?—”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. My fingers dig into the fabric at his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“Lola.” His voice is firmer this time. “Stop apologizing.”

I press my face into his neck and stop talking. When we reach his room, he lowers me onto the edge of the bed.

“You’re alright,” he says. “Stay here. I’ll get you some water.”

I nod. “Okay.”

He brushes my arm before stepping back. The door clicks shut behind him.

And the second it does, I fall apart.