Page 4 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Lola

W armth is radiating from the bare skin pressed against my back. A perfectly muscled arm is slung heavy across my waist.

It’s morning and this is not my bed. My brain buffers for a moment before memories from last night snap into focus, vivid and uncomfortably clear.

My heart jolts.

Shit.

I don’t move yet. I need a plan first. So, I just lie there on unfamiliar sheets that feel like they were laundered by angels and maybe spun out of ethically-sourced cloud fluff.

He’s a massage therapist, so these can’t be as expensive as they feel but, damn, they feel good.

I’ve got to get a set of these. They’re heaven.

Or maybe that’s the man behind me. Or the mind-blowing sex I had last night.

For a moment, I let myself feel the delicious ache between my thighs and the sated hum of my body.

Then Jude shifts behind me.

His exhale caresses the back of my neck as he presses himself in closer. And I almost stay. The temptation to lean back into him and let the moment stretch out longer—maybe even get in another round this morning—is there.

But I can’t.

God, I really can’t.

The panic starts quietly. A little voice whispering you do not have time for this, and then louder—this is how people ruin their lives, Lo, with soft skin and good dick and a total lack of motivation to move.

I slide out from under his arm as carefully as I can, so that I don’t wake him and make this even more awkward. My jeans are crumpled on the floor beside the bed, tangled with a pair of his boxers.

I grab my clothes one piece at a time, moving like a cat burglar in a heist movie. Every creak of the floor sounds infinitely louder in the quiet of the room. Every rustle of fabric feels like a scream. But he doesn’t wake up. Not even when I snag my panties from the lamp where he tossed them.

Once I’m dressed, I do a final sweep. Phone? Check. Purse? Double check. Shoes? Yep. I leave them off for now. I pad barefoot across the hardwood floor, every step as light as I can possibly make it.

At the door, I pause.

Part of me feels like I should leave a note. But, if I stay here any longer, there’s a very good chance I’ll crawl back into that bed and beg him to have his way with me again. The sex was…the best I’ve ever had.

But the last thing I need right now is another complication. My business is hanging on by a thread, and letting myself get distracted by my massage therapist?

Not an option.

I don’t have time for the warm fuzzies or the half-empty promises or the kind of slippery slope that ends with me folding his laundry and telling him about my stress dreams. I have a studio with not enough instructors, rent due that I can’t pay, and two roommates who think “communal groceries” means “Lola buys the snacks, we eat them.”

So I do what I always do when things get too overwhelming.

I run.

I run with the kind of practiced avoidance that would make my therapist side-eye me if I ever had time or money to actually book another session.

I open the door slowly, praying it doesn’t creak. Then I send up a silent thank you to the universe when it doesn’t. I step into the early morning hush, and finally exhale.

Outside, the sky is still a little pink at the edges. San Diego hasn’t fully woken up yet—just early morning joggers and dog walkers and one walk-of-shame Pilates instructor trying to make her escape.

I wrap my arms around myself as I make my way to my car.

I should feel powerful. Or at least smug.

But instead, I just feel...exposed.

Because the truth is, it wasn’t just sex. It felt like something more. And I hate how much I liked it. How much I like him. I hate that I didn’t want to leave. I don’t have time for these feelings right now.

I slide into my car, lean my head against the steering wheel, and close my eyes for a second. I need a moment to shove the night back into the box I’m determined to keep it in.

It didn’t mean anything.

It can’t mean anything.

And when I see Jude again—which I won’t, because I’m never going back to that spa—I’ll pretend it never happened.

Just like I always do.

It takes exactly thirty-seven seconds before I pull out my phone and call Harper.

“I did it,” I say, when she answers.

She was obviously still asleep when I called because she says, “Did what?”

“I slept with the massage therapist.”

Silence. Then: “I’m sorry—come again?”

“I already did. Multiple times. Very enthusiastically. With the golden god who made me orgasm without even touching my no-no zone , remember?”

There’s a crash on the other end, like she just dropped her phone. “I know you left with him, but I wasn't sure you'd actually go through with it. You—Lola Monroe Hayes—you are a legend . Wait. Was it good?”

I don’t answer right away.

“Oh my god. It was that good?!”

“It was…” I exhale, a quiet sound full of disbelief and lingering want. “It was better than good. It was stupid good. Like, I think he broke my brain. I think I saw my soul leave my body.”

Harper cackles. “I am so proud of you.”

“No, don’t be. This is bad. This is so bad. My business is barely holding on, and now I’m catching feelings for someone who makes his living rubbing down stressed out women. I slept with my massage therapist, Harper!”

“Okay, one—don’t slut-shame yourself. Or him. Two—there’s no shame in being a massage therapist. And three—you said it yourself, Lo. You needed it. Desperately.”

I don’t say anything. Mostly because I’m not sure how to explain the ache in my chest that’s rising up now that the high is starting to fade.

“I just…” I swallow. “I can’t afford to want things that make me feel good right now. There’s too much I’m already barely holding onto.”

Harper’s voice softens. “You’re allowed to feel good though, girl. You’re allowed to have something that’s just for you.”

“Not if it costs me everything else.”

I turn into the lot in front of my studio, and I sit up straighter. My mind is already shifting gears—client emails, class schedules, a growing pile of bills. I say goodbye to Harper with a promise to call her later, then slide out of the car with my shoes still dangling from one hand.

The second I step inside the studio, my high from last night is completely gone. I take a look at my phone. Twenty-seven unread messages. And one in bold font from Marissa—my lead instructor.

Subject: Resignation Notice.

My stomach plummets. I click it open and scan the words.

Effective immediately…grateful for the opportunity…exciting offer from Sierra James Studios.

My lungs forget how to work.

I plant my ass on the reception bench, the email still open in my lap. My vision starts to blur at the edges. Sierra James strikes again—offering pay I can’t match, benefits I don’t have, and a celebrity brand name that makes clients line up around the block.

This can’t keep happening. I can’t keep losing clients and instructors.

I built this place with nothing but sheer force of will. And now I’m bleeding staff faster than I can replace them. I can’t keep up.

I thought last night would help. As if a fucking massage would stop my business hemorrhaging clients and employees.

But all it did was remind me how close everything is to falling apart.

I close the email. Stand up. Breathe.

Okay. You’ve survived worse. You can fix this. Start with the schedule. Then the payroll. Then maybe cry a little. But later. Not now.

Now, I have work to do.

The problem with barely holding it together is that, eventually, your grip gives out.

After Marissa gave notice, I lost another instructor a week later. The studio isn't running as smoothly but I've managed to keep it open another couple of weeks.

Sure, I'm short-staffed—I only have one other instructor left and no support staff. And I continue to lose clients to Sierra James who just started running weekly promos. But I'm still open. That counts for something, right?

I don’t remember the last time I got eight hours of sleep. Or six. Or, honestly, more than four in a row without waking up mid-dream because I forgot to schedule a class sub or reply to a billing issue or call someone to repair the busted reformer.

My brain doesn’t shut off anymore. It just loops—client emails, money panic, playlist updates, and the echo of that Yelp review that called my voice “distractingly chipper.”

I’m teaching way too many classes, fielding DMs from people asking for free sessions in exchange for “exposure,” and trying to manage three different calendars—none of which sync correctly.

Every time I post to social media, it feels like shouting into the void.

I know I should plan content in advance, but I can barely plan dinner.

Scratch that—I haven’t had dinner in four days unless popcorn counts.

The worst part is the duct tape. Not metaphorical. Actual duct tape. One of the reformers keeps losing its grip, and until I can afford a new footbar, I’m literally taping the damn thing in place before every class. It’s fine. Totally fine.

At home, it’s not much better. The vibe in the house has changed. Blaire leaves passive-aggressive sticky notes on the fridge now. “Don’t forget to replace the almond milk if you finish it!” Except I haven’t touched the almond milk. I can’t afford almond milk.

Gigi has started using the word “aesthetic” way too often. “I just think the kitchen would look more on-brand if we stuck to neutrals.” I’m not sure if she’s talking about dishes or dish towels, but either way, I no longer feel safe leaving my rainbow Tupperware on the drying rack.

And the worst part? They’re both pretending like nothing’s wrong. All while slowly turning the volume up on some psychological torture loop that ends with me second-guessing everything I do or say.