Page 7 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Reid

I crack open the fridge, grab a bottle of sparkling water Jude won’t shut up about, and take a long drink. It’s bubbly with a hint of cucumber. Definitely not my thing but at least it’s cold. And better than that nasty ginger beer he convinced me to drink last week.

I need to hit the store first thing tomorrow. There’s nothing good to eat or drink in this house except a six-pack of beer that I’m saving to bring next door for the BBQ. I have zero interest in Miles's nasty tea. And I'm not really into all Jude’s hippie shit either.

I am, however, into Gigi.

That girl’s been on my mind since she wandered up our driveway earlier.

I know what Jude said about her, and he wasn't exactly wrong. She was all sugar on the surface but that’s exactly what it was: surface level.

Unlike Jude, I don’t really care what she’s like on the inside.

Girl is hot as hell and she flirts like it’s a competitive sport. I can totally respect that.

It’s been a long-ass year, and I need to have some fun. I’ve come a long way from rock bottom, but I still wouldn’t put this year in the win category.

My therapist likes to say “some years test you.” This one certainly felt like a test. It didn’t completely break me, but it left me with a hollowed out feeling.

So, if my new (very hot) neighbor wants to host a backyard mixer featuring pretty women and grilled meat, I’m absolutely not saying no.

At seven, I toss a hoodie over my shoulder, grab the six-pack from the fridge, and call toward the living room. “Heading over. You guys coming?”

No answer.

Jude’s probably meditating and Miles is most likely finishing up with work for the day. The dude is a fucking machine when it comes to work.

Fine by me. They’ll either come or they won’t. Either way I’m hopeful I’ll be coming by the end of the night.

“If you don’t hear from me in two hours, assume I’ve died happy,” I call out.

I step out the back door into the late day sun and walk the few feet next door. Their backyard is strung up with lights and I can see a fancy-ass pergola from here.

I catch a glimpse of something pink through the window—Gigi. She has her head tossed back and she’s laughing. I can see from here she’s had a wardrobe change. Though this outfit choice doesn’t look like it covers much more than the last. Girl’s a whole highlight reel.

I crack my neck, and head toward the door.

Gigi opens the door before I can knock. Her new pink outfit is definitely something to behold. Tons of ruffles and even a few bows. She looks like a cupcake with pink icing.

“There you are. Thought maybe you chickened out.”

“Not me. I’d never turn down a good burger.”

She gives a slow nod, dragging her fingers down the edge of the door. “Good to know. Well, I’m certainly glad you came.”

I hold up the six-pack. “Brought a few friends.”

She laughs at that. Her fingers graze my forearm as she steps back—but only just enough to let me squeeze by. “Then you’re officially invited in.”

I move forward but she stays exactly where she is.

I have to angle my shoulder to pass through the door, and her body brushes against mine as I do.

No apology. That was the point. She doesn’t step back once I enter either.

Her free hand slides up the front of my chest, two fingers tracing the line of my shirt, then resting just under the collar.

“You clean up even better than I imagined,” she says.

“You imagined that?”

“I imagine a lot of things.”

She lets her fingers linger before stepping back. When she turns, she angles her hips just enough to brush against my zipper.

Yeah. This totally ends with me in her bed.

Gigi walks ahead of me, hips swaying with a little extra exaggeration. I let my eyes follow because she clearly wants me to look.

She tosses a casual glance over her shoulder. “You didn’t bring your roommates?”

“They’ll follow. Or they won’t.”

“Hmm.”

I follow her through the living room. The music’s playing low from a speaker near the window.

It's something upbeat and trendy I’ve heard before.

Everything about this place screams feminine and expensive from the sickly-sweet smell to the obscene number of throw pillows scattered about on the furniture.

When we reach the kitchen, she stops just shy of the doorway and turns to face me full-on.

“I should warn you,” she says, smile widening. “My roommates are very single. Very curious. And very, very competitive.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“Oh, honey.” Her gaze drops to my mouth, lingers, then slides back up. “I already told them they’re too late.”

“Is that so?” I murmur.

Gigi bites her lip and steps in close. She tilts her chin toward me, waiting to see what I’ll do with the opening. I reach for her before she pulls away. My hand settles at her waist, fingers sliding across the curve of her hip.

I lean in close enough to press my lips to her ear. “You’ve been working hard to get my attention. You have it.”

She giggles. “Good. I’d hate to waste the outfit.”

“You didn’t.”

She steps back half a step, cheeks flushed now.

“You should know,” she says, voice lower. “I’m a terrible hostess.”

“I’m not here for manners.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine.”

She smooths her hand down the front of her dress again, and backs toward the hallway.

“Kitchen’s this way.” Gigi glances over her shoulder, then raises her voice. “Ladies, we have a guest.”

Another woman appears and I assume it’s one of Gigi’s roommates. Her dress has more coverage than Gigi’s, but it’s hanging on by sheer willpower alone. Her tits are front and center, pushed up to the edge of reason, and I make no attempt to hide where my eyes land.

She watches me watch her. It only makes her smile wider. She places her hand on my bicep and makes a soft low humming sound.

“Oh my,” she says, dragging her eyes up to mine. “You’ll do quite well.”

“I’m Blaire,” the newcomer says. “And I collect bad habits. How do you feel about being one of them?”

“Not a fan of being collected.”

Her fingers trail down my chest now. “You’re tall, unfairly symmetrical, and clearly in need of a new girlfriend.”

“Subtlety is an art, Blaire.” Gigi rolls her eyes.

“I don’t believe in subtle.” Blaire turns her head slightly, eyes still on me. “Especially when he looks like this.”

“I told you he was cute.”

“He’s better than cute.”

Blaire loops her arm through mine and leads me into the kitchen. She starts talking again—something about her roommates and the grill, a joke about one of them breaking the corkscrew. But I’m not really listening.

My focus locks on the woman standing by the kitchen counter.

She’s not dressed to impress like her roommates. No, she’s dressed for comfort. Her feet are bare and she has on ripped jean shorts. The cropped tank she’s wearing stops just below her ribs, and the neckline dips far enough to make my thoughts short out for half a second.

She doesn’t see me yet.

She’s focused on cutting up a tomato. She moves with an easy, grounded confidence that hasn’t changed since the first day I met her.

She starts to slice the tomato, and then she glances up. And freezes.

For a second, we just stare at each other. My brain stalls, caught between disbelief and that low-grade annoyance that always comes with her presence. The last place I expected to see her was here. But there she is.

Lola.

And she’s just as beautiful as I remember.

Her ponytail is messy with a few strands stuck to the side of her neck. I want to brush them back. I want…no.

Blaire doesn’t notice the shift. Or maybe she does and pretends she doesn’t. She reaches for a bowl on the counter and speaks with an airy lilt. “This is Lola. She runs a Pilates studio or something. I forget the details.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she spits out.

She lifts her chin slightly. Her expression doesn’t give much away, but I know that look. I’ve earned it more times than I can count.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks. She’s placed the knife down and has her hands on her hips.

“I was invited.”

“ You’re the new neighbor?”

“Looks that way.”

“Wow,” she says. “They’re just letting anyone into the neighborhood these days.”

I laugh, a humorless sound with a bite at the end of it. “Still bitter?”

“Still full of yourself?”

She exhales hard through her nose and turns away, reaching for the knife again.

Of course she’s going to act like I’m not standing here.

She slices clean through a tomato, the blade landing with a hard thunk that makes me wonder if she’s picturing a vulnerable part of my anatomy instead of the tomato.

“You two know each other, I take it?” Blaire interjects.

We both ignore her.

“Didn’t take you for the domestic type,” I say.

She grabs another tomato and lines it up on the board. “Didn’t take you for the neighborly type.”

She lets the knife land with a dull thud. “I thought you moved to Chicago.”

“I did.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Observant.”

She sets the knife down and wipes her hands again.

“Let me guess,” she says. “They kicked you out.”

I tilt my head. “Still carrying that chip on your shoulder?”

“Still pretending you’re not an asshole?”

I take a step closer. She holds her ground, but I catch the slight shift in her stance.

“I forgot how charming you are.”

“And I forgot how exhausting you are.”

She turns to the fridge, grabs a drink, and lets the door fall shut behind her. She takes a long sip, not looking at me.

I’ve never been able to ignore her. And I’ve also never been able to stand her for more than five minutes at a time.

We’ve always burned too hot. We’re either at each other’s throats or ignoring each other’s existence. There’s no middle ground.

“I’m surprised you haven’t left yet,” I say.

She blinks. “Why would I leave? I live here.”

“So if you had known I was coming…”

Her eyes flash. “I would’ve left.”

The air snaps between us.

Then I hear the front door open and close. Voices carry down the hall, footsteps follow.

Jude walks in first.

He’s mid-laugh when he looks up and sees Lola. And freezes. Everything about him changes as his eyes stay fixed on her.

“Lola?”

Something about the way he says her name sets me on edge. And then there’s the way she looks like a damn deer in headlights. His presence is an even bigger shock than mine. And that’s saying a hell of a lot.

Which means one thing.

He’s fucking slept with her.

There’s a sharp, stabbing pain right under my ribs.

“Well,” I say, trying hard to keep my tone light, “this is cozy.”

Lola doesn’t respond. Her face is completely blank now. But her grip tightens on the knife in her hand, and her jaw tenses.

Jude’s still watching her. Dude looks like he’s seen a ghost.

Then Miles walks in.

I feel bad that I don’t get the chance to warn him what he’s walking into. He barely gets two steps into the room before he stops.

I get to watch the realization hit him in real time. The click of recognition followed by the change in posture and the slow raise of his eyebrows behind those thick-framed glasses he always wears. His mouth moves, but he doesn’t say anything.

Now all three of us are staring at Lola, who looks ready to bolt. She looks like she wishes the floor would swallow her up so she can escape the awkwardness of this moment.

Blaire and Gigi are watching too. Gigi’s grip on her glass becomes white-knuckled and Blaire settles her hand on the counter like she’s ready to launch herself over it.

I guess their little flirtation game just got interrupted. Immediate game over because every man in this room is focused on one woman and one woman only.