Page 21 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Miles

L ola Hayes is curled up in the middle of my bed in my hoodie. Her knees are tucked to her chest, forcing the hem up until it sits on her upper thigh.

I resist the urge to pinch my arm just to make sure it’s real. It is. I can still smell the tequila on her breath and coconut balm on her lips.

The sight of her in my bed is doing something to me. Something I am fighting hard not to acknowledge. Because this isn’t flirty, confident Lola. This isn’t the version of her that throws out fast comebacks. No, this version of Lola is vulnerable.

The crying stopped a while ago. She’d tried to hide it when I came back with water and two ibuprofen but it was hard to ignore the tears trailing down her cheeks.

Once she took the pills, she curled up into a ball, shivering even though the room was warm.

That’s when I got her the hoodie out of my closet.

It’s been about an hour since I brought her up here. Her cheeks are still flushed, but the glassy look in her eyes has faded. The alcohol is slowly fading from her system.

She studies me for a second, then asks, “Why haven’t I ever seen you with a girlfriend?”

The question comes out of nowhere. It catches me completely off guard. “I—what?”

She tilts her head, resting her cheek against her knees. “You’ve never brought anyone around. I mean I know you’ve been photographed with women. I’ve just never actually seen you with one.”

My first instinct is to deflect. But she’s still watching me with this open curiosity, and for some reason that squashes the instinct to lie.

“I’m not great at…people,” I say finally.

She snorts quietly. “Okay. Try again.”

I lift a shoulder. “It’s true.”

“You’re smart. You’re sweet. You’re loyal as hell. How can you say you’re not great with people?”

“Doesn’t really matter,” I say, more to the floor than to her. “If no one’s interested.”

There’s a pause. Then she tilts her head again and frowns. You’d think I just said something entirely backward.

“I was.”

I look up quickly.“You…what?”

She shrugs her shoulders, eyes still on mine. “I always had a thing for you.”

My brain short-circuits. It starts throwing up errors as it attempts to reboot.

The words hit, loop, and then hit again.

I stare at her, trying to match this version of reality with the one I’ve been living in for years—the one where I was background noise.

I spent years assuming I was invisible to her. Especially when Reid was in the room.

She had a thing for me? What?

I don’t know how to respond. My mouth opens, then closes. I run a hand through my hair because doing something is better than just sitting here like an idiot.

“I always thought it was Reid,” I finally manage to force out.

Lola scoffs and drops her gaze. “Please.”

“And Jude?”

That gets her. Something flickers across her face—guilt or hesitation, I can’t tell. The silence is answer enough.

I nod. “Right.” I push back against my desk and cross my arms.

She looks up at me, and there’s something softer in her eyes. “You really didn’t know? That I liked you?”

I have spent years paying close attention to this woman’s every reaction. How could I possibly have missed that she had feelings for me?

“Not even a little.”

“God, I thought I was so obvious.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You weren’t.”

And the thing is—I know so much about her.

I know she can’t stand silence but hates when people talk just to fill it.

I know she always chews on her bottom lip when she's focusing on something difficult, and that she has a habit of tucking her hair behind her left ear when she's nervous, but never the right.

I've watched her do it a thousand times.

I know that she pretends to hate reality TV but secretly binges cooking competitions. I caught her once, three seasons deep into Top Chef at 2 a.m., pretending she wasn't crying over a contestant's elimination.

And I know that despite her confident exterior, she has this tell when she feels out of place—she taps her index finger against her thumb in a specific rhythm, like she's keeping time to a song only she can hear.

There was this one time she fell asleep on the couch while the rest of us were mid-movie marathon. Her head dropped onto my shoulder somewhere between the opening credits and the first explosion. I didn’t move for the next hour. My arm went numb fifteen minutes in. I didn’t care.

That was the closest I ever let myself get.

I convinced myself none of it meant anything. Because I always thought she wanted someone else.

"What?" she asks, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I say, shaking my head. "I just...I don't understand how I could have missed it. I notice everything about you."

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "Everything?"

Heat creeps up my neck. I've said too much.

"I mean, not in a weird way," I backtrack, but the damage is done.

Lola sits up straighter, the hoodie sliding further up her thighs. "What kind of things do you notice?”

Okay, what do I admit to without seeming too creepy?

“I notice how you always made enough food to feed an army for group dinners. Or how you'd stay late to clean up after parties, even the ones you swore you didn’t want to be at. I notice how you tap your index finger against your thumb when you’re nervous. Just little things like that.”

I pray that she doesn’t ask me to continue.

My throat tightens.

“I didn’t think you saw me,” I say. “But I saw you.”

Her fingers are still curled around the edge of the hoodie sleeves. I’m too scared to meet her eyes after everything I just said. I’m about to take it all back when she moves.

She slides to the edge of the bed. I watch as her legs unfold and her toes reach the floor. The sleeves slip down past her wrists as she pushes up to stand, and for a second she doesn’t move.

Then she steps forward.

One step. Then another. Until she’s standing between my knees, close enough that I can see the smudge of mascara under her eyes.

I don’t move a muscle. When she looks down at me, there’s something raw in her expression.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispers.

Neither do I.

I know what I should say—something logical and responsible. I should acknowledge Wes and Reid and Jude and every other reason this shouldn’t be happening. Nothing comes out of my mouth though.

I reach up, fingers brushing her waist, then sliding higher. I thread one hand into her hair and feel her take a sharp breath as I pull her closer.

And then I kiss her.

She stiffens in my arms for just a moment before she melts into me. The sound she makes vibrates against my lips. It’s a low hum that starts at the base of her throat and coils through both of us. Her lips taste like salt and citrus.

I want more. I need it.

My fingers move through her hair and I gently tug it. I kiss her harder. She answers with a soft gasp and moves forward, her weight folding into mine until she’s sinking against me.

Heat surges through me. Every place she touches blazes. My pulse hammers in my ears, but the world narrows to the feel of her mouth and the quiet, breathless sounds she makes when I deepen the kiss.

I pull back just enough to look at her. I need to know if this is real. It doesn’t feel real. I’ve spent years imagining what this exact moment would feel like. The reality of it is even better than I could ever have imagined.

I search her face for the truth. There’s no fear in her eyes, no hesitation at all.

I kiss her again before I can stop myself. It’s slower this time, deeper. I want to savor it. This may be the only opportunity I have.

The hand in her hair slides to her jaw, my thumb brushing the side of her neck. She shivers and presses in tighter, her body molding to mine.

I’ve kissed women before. Some meant something. Most didn’t.

None of them ever felt like this.

None of them ever felt like home.