Page 33 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)
Lola
I ndependence is overrated.
No one tells you that when you're young. They just clap when you tie your shoes by yourself and make a big deal when you start pouring your own cereal or doing your own laundry. Then one day you're an adult who thinks asking for help is failure and accepting comfort makes you weak.
I used to believe that if I didn't do everything on my own, it didn't count. I let Wes help with school because fighting him would've been pointless—he probably had the tuition check ready to go before I even filled out the application. Everything after that? I’ve clawed for it.
I mean, I got the startup money for the studio from Wes, but that was a loan. I made sure there was a written contract so he knew it wasn’t charity.
I’ve built my whole identity on doing things on my own. Alone.
And I regret it.
It’s not like there’s anything wrong with being a strong, independent woman. There’s just something to be said about letting your man take care of you—at least a little bit.
I’m perched on a stool at the kitchen counter at the guys’ house, wearing Reid’s jersey. Not the one Gigi tried to claim—an older one, soft from a million washes and given to me rather than stolen.
The eggs are cooked just right, the toast is perfectly golden, and I didn’t have to make either one.
Jude just set the plate in front of me without saying a word, and now I’m pretending this is my new normal.
It could be. Mornings like this could happen all the time.
I could wake up in a cozy bed, pad into a kitchen where the coffee’s already brewing, and find three stupidly attractive men within arm’s reach every day.
Reid’s at the sink, pouring coffee into a mug. He’s not wearing a shirt, just gray joggers slung low on his hips. I can’t help but stare.
Miles is planted next to me on the island. His fingers are moving across his keyboard in quick, precise strokes. He hasn’t said much since I sat down. But his foot is nudging mine under the stool.
I can hear Jude singing off-key in the laundry room. I’m pretty sure it’s a Prince song but he’s butchering it so badly it’s hard to tell. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
I take a bite of toast and enjoy the peace.
God, I needed this.
Not just the food or the comfort of caffeine, but the stillness. The unspoken understanding that I can just...be here.
Reid glances over at me. His eyes flick down to my legs where the hem of his jersey is brushing the tops of my thighs. His gaze lingers before he turns away and mutters, “Is that what passes for an outfit these days?”
I shrug. “I’m comfy.”
He snorts. “Just saying—you own your own clothes.”
I take a bite of toast and chew slowly before I finally swallow. “And yet, here I am. In yours.”
Miles doesn’t look up, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch. That counts as a laugh.
Jude reappears with a flourish and takes a bowl of sliced mango out of the fridge. “Your vitamin C situation needs some help,” he says, kissing the top of my head while he places the bowl in front of me. I lean into his kiss and then dig into the perfectly ripe mango.
I could definitely get used to this.
And that’s the terrifying part. Because the second I let myself breathe, the second I believe I’m allowed to have this—I’m afraid it will all disappear.
My phone buzzes with a text.
I glance down. It’s from Wes.
Wes: Call me when you can. Been hearing some shit I don’t like.
Shit.
“You okay?” Miles asks.
I take a sip of my coffee so I don’t have to answer.
“I should head back to my place,” I say.
“You good?” Jude asks, brow lifting.
“Yep.” I slide off the stool. “Super good. Just have to get going.”
I rush off toward the front door before any of them can ask anything else. I’m sure they’re wondering what the hell is going on but I need to talk to Wes on my own first before bringing the guys into the conversation.
I don’t need to deal with Wes flipping out over me sleeping with his two best friends and how I’ve very conveniently not mentioned to him that my studio is floundering.
The hem of Reid’s jersey flutters against the backs of my thighs as I step off the porch and into the damp grass. It’s only then I realize I’m not wearing shoes—or pants. Welp, too late to turn back now. I’m halfway to my own house when a car pulls up in the driveway.
Shit. Shit shit shitty shit.
Wes’s Tesla rolls to a silent stop and I stand frozen like a deer in headlights. He gets out before I can move. His eyes lock on mine—and then drop to my choice of clothing. I watch a series of emotions roll across his face. His eyes flick to the house next door and then back to me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
There are about a million ways I can play this. I pick a lane and decide to play dumb.
“Hi. Nice to see you too.”
“We need to talk.”
I shrug and unlock the front door. He follows me inside.
“Are you kidding me with this shit, Lola? I came over to talk about your studio, and instead I get a front-row seat to whatever the hell is going on over here.”
“Nobody asked you to show up here at the ass crack of dawn, Wesley.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“So you’re barging in here to scold me about who I spend time with?”
“So, you’re admitting it then? You’re sleeping with him?”
“I didn’t say shit,” I shoot back. “Let me get this right. You saw me walking back from next door in Reid’s jersey and decided I must be sleeping with him?”
His silence says yes.
I cross my arms. “Well, thank god we’re jumping to conclusions.”
“You’re not wearing pants, Lola.”
I laugh. I have no idea what I’m doing. All I can think is deflect, deflect, deflect. “I wasn’t aware pants were required to eat breakfast at someone’s house.”
I know I'm making no sense, but this is all I’ve got right now.
“You really don’t see how this looks?”
“To who? You?” I shake my head. “You’re acting like I strolled home naked with a scarlet letter on my chest. It’s a jersey.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, I’m ignoring the point. Big difference.” I walk to the counter, snatch my bag off the stool, and sling it over my shoulder even though I’m not leaving yet. “I don’t need your approval, Wes. I’m not fifteen and you’re not my father.”
“He’s my best friend, Lola! And he’s not exactly known for being a one-woman kind of guy. Jesus fucking christ.”
“I spilled something on my clothes, asshole! Let it fucking go. You came here to talk about the studio. You want to talk about the studio? Fine. Let’s talk. But I’m not discussing my wardrobe choices or who I may or may not be sleeping with.”
His expression tells me he’s definitely not finished with this conversation. But, he can tell by the tone of my voice, that I absolutely am.
“I’ve been hearing things,” he sighs. “About the studio. About you needing help. And instead of calling me, you’re what? Just handling it?”
“I’m taking care of it.”
His jaw clenches. “No, you’re not. You’re hemorrhaging staff. Clients are jumping ship. There’s a rumor going around that you’re about to sell.”
“It’s not true,” I snap. “It’s just uninformed people saying stupid things.”
His expression softens slightly, but that doesn’t make me feel better.
“You should’ve told me,” he says. “I would’ve helped you. I still want to. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I can handle it,” I insist.
I check the time on the oven clock and swear under my breath. “I have to go. I have a class to teach and I’m going to be late.”
“This conversation isn’t over, Lo.”
“Fine, then let’s press pause and we’ll pick it up later.”
I take the steps two at a time and throw my hair into a bun while I’m walking down the hall. I pull on a pair of leggings, grab my sports bra, and shove my feet into the first pair of sneakers I find.
Wes is still in the kitchen when I come back down. And now Blaire has joined him.
I freeze and my stomach flips. Every alarm in my body starts going off. Blaire is smiling that fake, polite smile she pulls out when she smells blood in the water.They’re talking about something but I can’t hear what they’re saying.
Wes’s jaw ticks before glancing at me briefly and then looking back at Blaire.
Shit. Shit. Shit.