Page 6 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Jude

T he new place is chaotic—but in the best possible way.

Miles, being the odd little dude he is, refused to hire movers despite having money coming out of his ass.

So now there are boxes everywhere, stacked in uneven piles like a cardboard maze.

Half a couch is stuck in the entryway because none of us can figure out how to angle the other half through the door without breaking something.

The kitchen counter is covered in takeout containers from our lunch, stacked in a leaning tower of “we’ll clean it later.”

Even with all the mess, this place already feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived in years.

I drop a box on the kitchen island, stretch my arms over my head, and try to unkink my back.

Miles is in the corner, doing something with the router and about six feet of cable. He hasn’t said much today, which usually means his mind is firing at full speed. Either he’s debugging something in his head or conceptualizing a new app feature he hasn’t told us about yet. Hard to say which.

Reid’s in the garage, probably reorganizing his gym equipment for the third time. He’s such a fucking muscle head.

I’m looking forward to settling in here. The past year has been a blur of couch surfing and short-term leases and one too many mornings waking up in the morning and not knowing where I am.

Technically, the house belongs to Miles. He took a tour online and bought it the next day without ever stepping foot in it. Then he handed out keys like they were party favors. He offered me a room before I even asked.

Reid didn’t hesitate to join us. His last place was next to some woman who threatened to key his car if he played music past eight p.m. He needed to move or he was going to kill her.

Now we’re all here. Just an accidental tech billionaire, a retired athlete turned gym equipment hoarder, and me, a trust fund baby with no idea what I want to do when I grow up. (I’m pretty sure you’re not officially grown up until forty, minimum. Maybe fifty if you moisturize properly.)

Miles’s company just wrapped their last project—some massive infrastructure backend for one of those health-tech giants.

It dragged on longer than it should've and while it ended with champagne, it also came with a side of major burnout. He called this a break year. But I know him well enough to know that means pivot, not pause. We’ve already started batting around ideas for a wellness app he’s been noodling on for months.

He said it made sense for us all to live together while he works on the app—you know, since he wants us all to work on it together.

I grab my water bottle and open the sliding glass door that leads to the back patio.

The sun is starting to dip, washing everything in that warm gold light.

The yard is a mess—overgrown grass, patchy landscaping, an old ceramic planter tipped on its side—but I already know I’ll be out here every morning. Probably every night too.

I inhale slowly. Someone nearby must have sage in their garden because I swear I catch a hint of it on the breeze. Maybe I’ll start a garden out here. That could be a fun project. There’s also enough room for a small greenhouse.

I’m already halfway through planning the layout when the door behind me slides open again, and Reid steps out. Shirtless, of course, with a towel slung around his neck.

He watches me as he takes a sip from a large shaker bottle that smells vaguely like vanilla death.

I wrinkle my nose. “You know you could just eat real food, right? Quinoa. Lentils. Sunflower butter. There are so many high-protein, non-toxic options.”

He shrugs. “I’d rather chug chemicals.”

“Yeah, and I’d rather not pickle my organs with mystery powder,” I say, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long sip. “But you do you.”

“You sort through the kitchen boxes yet?” he asks.

“Nope. Still holding out hope they’ll unpack themselves.”

He snorts. “Sounds about right. I swear you’d live out of a laundry basket if you could.”

“And what the hell’s wrong with that?” I ask, grinning.

He rolls his eyes and drops into one of the patio chairs. “Nice place though, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “It’ll definitely do.”

Miles appears a minute later, barefoot and sipping some weird herbal tea. It smells like warm grass, citrus peel, and possibly fish oil. It’s completely foul and that’s coming from the guy who drinks spirulina smoothies on the regular.

“I ran some diagnostics on the local bandwidth,” he says. “We should be able to route simultaneous video sessions without throttling, but I want to test it with a dual upload stream later.”

I blink at him. “Cool. Also, I think there’s a bird’s nest in the garage light fixture.”

He looks up at me, then back at the tablet. “Unrelated, but duly noted.”

Reid grins. “Ahh, domestic bliss.”

“It’s not domestic,” Miles says flatly, then adds, “It’s functional.”

“Right,” Reid mutters, grabbing one of the beers from the cooler by the door. “I forgot. Emotionally constipated billionaires only conveniently cohabitate with their friends if it makes sense for their business.”

“It does make sense.”

“Of course it does.” I laugh. “But it still feels like home, even if you want to pretend it doesn’t.”

We hang out on the patio for a while, talking about nothing in particular—whether we can plant a lemon tree and actually keep it alive, whether the neighbor’s dog is part coyote, whether kombucha counts as a probiotic or just a sugar delivery system.

Eventually, I push off the railing and head back inside. There’s still stuff to unload from my car, and I told myself I’d finish today, even if it takes all night. I move through the house barefoot, sidestepping a bag of resistance bands and a half-assembled side table.

I grab the last few boxes from the trunk. I’m halfway to the front door when I hear a woman’s voice.

“You boys are moving in, huh?”

I turn. There’s a woman standing at the end of our walkway. She’s…exactly what I would expect from this swanky neighborhood. She has a drink in one hand, with her weight shifted to one hip. Her dress is some sort of frilly lace number.

“Looks that way,” I say, adjusting my grip on the boxes. “Still trying to get everything into the house.”

She smiles at me as her gaze blatantly sweeps up and down my body. There’s nothing subtle about it.

“You’re cute.”

I blink. “Thanks.” I’m really not interested in engaging.

“I’m Gigi,” she says, stepping closer. “I live next door. Just wanted to come say hi to the new neighbors.”

“Nice to meet you, Gigi.” I shift the box in my arms. “I’m Jude.”

“Well, hi, Jude.” She drags her gaze over my chest. “You need help with those?”

“I’m good,” I say, still holding the box steady. “Just a few more things to go.”

She steps close enough that I can smell her perfume. It’s overwhelming, and it’s making me feel like I have to sneeze. Her fingertips graze my arm. “You sure? I’m stronger than I look.”

Before I answer, the front door swings open behind me.

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Reid calls out, “or did the goddess of the Pacific herself wander down our driveway?”

Gigi turns, delighted by the attention. “Well, someone knows how to make a girl feel welcome.”

Reid grins and leans in, offering his hand. “Reid. Also a neighbor. And available Thursday through Sunday.”

She giggles and gives his hand a slow shake. “Is that so?”

“Only if you promise to use your powers for good and not evil.”

Everything about this woman is curated—her laugh, her outfit, her makeup. Even her freckles look airbrushed. There’s nothing wrong with it if that’s what you’re into. But it all feels exhausting.

“Anyway,” she says. “My roommates and I are throwing something super casual tonight. A little welcome thing. Burgers, drinks, you know. We’d love for you to join us.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Reid says. “What time?”

“Seven,” she says. “Just bring your handsome selves. We’ve got everything else covered.”

I’m certain she does.

Reid winks at her. “We’ll be there with bells on.”

She turns to me one last time, smile stretched wide. “Hope to see you too. Jude .” She pokes my bicep with her perfectly manicured finger.

I nod. “Thanks for the invite.”

She disappears down the driveway, hips swaying so far with each step that I’m surprised she’s not throwing her spine out of alignment.

Reid whistles low under his breath. “She’s trouble.”

“She’s exhausting,” I mutter, setting the box down just inside the door.

“Yeah, but she’s hot.”

“And that’s all that really matters, right?” I say snidely.

Reid laughs. “You’re impossible.”

I shrug. “I just don’t trust people who wear perfume that’s stronger than their personality.”

“She was friendly.”

“She was performing.”

He snorts. “And yet, I didn’t see you running for the hills.”

“I was carrying boxes. Where was I supposed to go?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

I shake my head and start unboxing some dishes and kitchen towels.

“She’s not my type,” I say, folding one slowly.

“What is your type?” he asks, grabbing a bottle of kombucha from the fridge and cracking the seal. “Wait, don’t tell me. Natural deodorant. Big opinions. Probably owns at least one neti pot.”

I pause. “That’s a weirdly specific list.”

“It is, but I’m right, aren’t I?”

He is. But I’m not confirming anything.

Reid takes a long drink of his disgusting vanilla protein concoction. “I’m just saying, you’ve been a little…closed off lately. And it wouldn’t kill you to let someone in. Even just to have some fun.”

I don’t answer. I stay busy, smoothing the towel edges, while my mind conjures images of a face I haven’t seen in weeks.

Lola.

That girl has been on my mind and I haven’t touched anyone since her—except for massage clients, of course. Every time I’ve tried to start a conversation with someone new I just don’t have the desire to follow through.

The night we shared was mind-blowing. No question, it was the best sex I’ve ever had…and I’ve had plenty. This is the longest dry spell I’ve had since high school and, honestly, I don’t want to break it unless it’s with her.

But she left. One moment she was asleep beside me. The next, she was gone. All that was left was the faint smell of her shampoo on my pillow.

I tell myself it’s fine. It was one night. We didn’t exchange numbers. There were no expectations.

But I think about her when I’m not busy. I think about the sounds she made when she came and the way her fingers gripped my wrist. I still have marks from her nails on my shoulder. Faint. Faded. But they’re still there.

I may or may not have contemplated accessing the spa's booking system to search for her contact information. But that's…creepy. Not to mention illegal.

I realize Reid’s still watching me, waiting for me to say something about being closed off. Not going to happen—Reid and I think very differently about this subject and there’s no point in getting into it.

“You coming to this BBQ thing?” he asks.

I nod. “Might as well.”

He grins. “Maybe Gigi’s roommates are into crystals and tai chi.”

“I’m not looking.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should be.”

“Not tonight.”

Reid doesn’t push any more than he already has. He just finishes his drink and throws the bottle in the sink. “I’m sure Miles will want to bring some kind of organic, probiotic-rich, gluten-free something.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Sounds like I should’ve grabbed tacos on the way home.”

I laugh, a short exhale through my nose, and grab another box from the stack.

“She said they’re doing burgers.”

Reid gives me a look. “I don’t trust that girl to operate a grill though. Or a stove. Or a toaster, for that matter.”

“Fair.”

He walks past me and flicks the box I’m holding with two fingers. “I’ll let Miles know what the plan is.”