Page 22 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Lola

I wake up overheated. My bare legs are twisted in soft sheets that are most definitely not mine. There’s an arm slung across my waist and someone’s face buried in my shoulder. I can feel a breath against the back of my neck.

It takes me a minute to remember where I am and why.

Miles.

Last night.

The hoodie I’m still wearing. The kiss.Oh my god, that kiss…

My heart does this slow, sinking lurch and then kicks into panic speed. I don’t move right away—partly because I’m still processing, partly because I’m scared if I move even an inch, I’ll wake him up.

I close my eyes for a second.

Everything about the moment says stay. But I can’t. I just…can’t.

I ease one leg out from under the bed clothes, then the other. His grip loosens without fully letting go. I manage to move just enough to slide free.

I grab my things in silence and head for the hallway as quietly as I can. The house is quiet when I crack the door. I take that as a good sign and slip out of his room.

I make it past the hall bathroom. Then past the room I know belongs to Jude. The stairs almost give me away with the creaking noises they make. I’m halfway to the front door when I hear the sound of someone in the kitchen.

Shit .

I freeze. I can see just enough of the kitchen through the open archway to confirm there is definitely someone there.

It's Jude.

No. No, wait—Reid. He’s turned just enough now that I can see his profile.

I am now in full panic mode. I flatten myself against the wall like a criminal. There is no way that I don’t look completely ridiculous. Very little seems to be going my way these days, but I am sending out prayers to every god willing to listen: let me get out of this house without being seen.

He turns slightly, and I duck into the hallway bathroom so fast I slam my hip against the sink.

After I let loose a silent scream of pain, I hold my breath and listen. He’s still in the kitchen.

I wait thirty full seconds before I peek again. The hallway’s clear and Reid’s facing the window now, looking out at something in the yard.

Go.

I slip past the kitchen like my life depends on it, clutching the hoodie at the hem, praying no one sees me on my mad dash for the door. Only when I’m across the yard and on my own porch do I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding.

I slip my leggings on under the hoodie and head into the house, hoping my roommates are still sleeping. No such luck.

Blaire is at the kitchen table in a towel, flipping through a magazine. I didn’t realize she read anything that wasn’t on her phone. She shoots me a look that is dripping with judgment, but makes no comment.

Gigi’s on the couch in her matching lounge set and full lashes, already sipping from her favorite coffee mug. She looks up as I walk in and raises one perfectly plucked brow.

“You’re up early,” she snarks.

I keep my head down and move toward the stairs. “Early client,” I mutter.

Blaire doesn’t even look up. “Is that one of their hoodies?”

I don’t answer. There’s no right answer. If I say yes, I’ll never hear the end of it. If I say no, they’ll know I’m lying, and I’ll still never hear the end of it. If they find out that it belongs to Miles…yeah that can’t happen.

“I mean, not judging,” she adds, which is exactly what someone says when they’re about to judge you. “Which one of the guys does it belong to?”

I don’t answer that either. I just keep walking. One step at a time. I make it to the top of the stairs and into my room.

Once the door’s shut, I press my fingers to my temples and close my eyes.

What am I actually doing? And how much longer can I live in this house? The answer is “not long.”

I grab whatever I can find in my drawers and get dressed quickly. My sports bra is inside out, and my leggings have what looks like toothpaste on the waistband. I can’t bring myself to care.

I’m about to grab my bag and head out when I feel my phone buzz.

I freeze.

Please be Harper.

It’s not Harper.

Reid: You good?

No, sir, I am not. My thumb hovers over the screen.

I can still see him at the bar with the woman who looked like she came straight from a Maxim casting call. He had his full Reid Morgan charm turned up to eleven. And yeah, maybe it wasn’t anything. But it definitely looked real.

I don’t know what he wants me to say.

I don’t know what I even could say. I have no room to be upset. I’m sleeping with Jude. And I slept in the same bed with Miles last night…even if all we did was sleep. And kiss. For hours.

I toss my phone in my bag and grab my water bottle from the floor. I shove the rest of my things into my bag haphazardly.

Time for another glorious day at the studio.

By mid-morning, I’ve already taught two classes and broken one of my nails trying to unjam the back storage cabinet. There’s a weird pain in my left shoulder that probably means I slept funny, and I’m ninety percent sure I forgot to put deodorant on this morning.

I’m reloading the cleaning wipes when the front door swings open. I look up just in time to see Jude entering.

He’s wearing joggers and a black t-shirt that clings in all the right places. His hair’s pulled back in that low ponytail, a few loose strands curling around his jaw. My golden god never fails to impress. It should be illegal to look this good.

My body reacts before my brain can stop it. There’s a spike of warmth low in my stomach, a sudden hitch in my breath, and I pray that my face doesn’t give me away.

He crosses the studio in a few slow steps and sets something on the desk.

It’s a protein bar. My favorite protein bar. The one that’s always sold out.

“Thought you might need this.” He gives me a lopsided smile that makes my heart stutter.

That little flutter is not the beginning of butterflies, though.

Nope. It’s panic. It hits me hard and fast, a full-body wave I barely manage to swallow.

He’s so kind. And beautiful. And here. And I kissed Miles last night.

And let Reid finger me under the table after I had literally just had sex with Jude.

If he knew all that he wouldn’t be so kind.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter. None of this is defined. Jude and I aren’t anything, technically. There are no promises or rules. Still, I know what that look in his eyes means.

And I don’t deserve it.

I reach for the bar, careful not to let my fingers brush his. I smile but it feels off.

“Thanks,” I manage. “I forgot to eat this morning.”

He studies me for a second. Then he nods.

“If you need anything,” he says, “text me.”

Then he just turns and walks out. I don’t know what to do with that, or him. Or any of this. I snatch the protein bar off the desk and swallow it in three bites.

I ignore the fact that I’m shaking. Acknowledging it means acknowledging the reason behind it. I don’t know if it’s adrenaline or guilt or just exhaustion.

I spend the rest of the morning pretending everything’s fine. And it is. Mostly.

My energy’s off and I know it. I forget the cool-down in the second class and have to tack it on awkwardly after I already told everyone the class was over. Two clients linger after, asking if I’m okay, and I wave them off with a too-big smile that hurts my face.

I just keep on trucking through the day. I run my classes and repeatedly fix the reformer by the wall that keeps squeaking no matter how many times I fix it. Later in the early afternoon, my phone buzzes.

It’s a message from one of my longtime clients. She used to book me out two months in advance, but lately her attendance has been spotty.

Jessica: Hey! So sorry to cancel again. Things are just crazy right now. I’ll reach out next week to reschedule.

I stare at the message for a full ten seconds before setting my phone facedown next to the studio iPad. It’s not even five minutes later when another cancellation rolls in. This one doesn’t come with a message, just a system alert saying the spot’s open.

Then another comes through. And another.

Desperate for a distraction, I snatch my phone back up and open Instagram. And then immediately regret it.

The first thing on my feed is Sierra fucking James.

She’s in a designer crop top, standing under some branded neon sign, holding what looks like a plaque for “Most Annoyingly Perfect Human of the Year.” Except it’s not some fake nonsense, it’s a real award. Women in Wellness Innovator.

I click through to her profile because clearly I’m some kind of masochist. It only gets worse from there. A promo video autoplays with slow-motion shots of her studio. I wrinkle my nose at the flawless lighting, perfectly synced group classes, instructors smiling— my instructors.

There’s a testimonial from a B-list actress. A partnership tag with some celebrity fitness clothing line. And on and on.

In the comments, half the wellness world is applauding her. The other half is tagging friends. I recognize several usernames. They used to train here before they jumped ship. And I can’t even blame them, can I? Sierra’s studio is perfection and she runs promos that no one could say no to.

There’s a new post when I exit back to her profile. The caption is smug, aspirational, and ridiculously generous all at the same time.

When you build something real, people feel it. Come move with us. First ten new clients get their first month free.

I know what I’ve built is good. It just doesn’t feel like enough. Especially not today.

She’s out there winning awards and giving away whole months of classes, and I can’t even pay my rent this month. There’s no way I’ll be able to make that payment after all the cancellations today.

Then I close the app, shove my phone into the drawer, and close it a little too hard.

It’s fine.

It’s not fine.

By the time I close the studio, I’m so drained I almost forget to lock the door.

Every muscle in my body aches. All I want is to collapse on the couch. Maybe cry. Mostly I just want to disappear under a blanket and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.

When I walk into the house, I know immediately that I’m not getting any of that.

I hear Gigi in the kitchen before I see her—this high, delighted laugh that scrapes my nerves. It’s performed joy, which means only one thing: she has company.

I slow down and consider just going directly upstairs to my room.

I don’t need to eat a real dinner, right? I can just slip away to my room and eat one of those nut bars I have in my nightstand. That’s totally enough to sustain me until morning. It’ll be fine.

I’m about to turn toward the stairs when I hear him. I can’t make out what he says, but I know that voice. Gigi laughs again, even louder this time.

My chest tightens before I even turn the corner.

And there they are.

She’s telling a story, all wide eyes and animated, and Reid’s watching her with this soft smile that doesn’t match the version of him I usually get. He looks…relaxed. Open.

It throws me off.

And then I see what she’s wearing.

A jersey. Reid’s jersey. It’s big and clearly been worn many times by Reid. The neckline’s tugged wide, slipping off one shoulder just enough to look accidental. It’s not. Nothing Gigi does is accidental.

I take a step back into the shadow of the hallway.

My heart feels like it’s in my stomach. I should go upstairs and just pretend I never saw this. But I can’t move.

Because I’m tired. And angry. And I don’t even know at what. Him, definitely. Her. Myself. The whole damn situation.

Reid says something that makes her laugh again. She reaches out to touch his shoulder, slowly trailing her fingers down his arm.

What Reid and I have was supposed to be nothing. It’s not supposed to feel like this.