Page 1 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

Chapter 1

Lola

It’s 4:48 p.m., and I’m three seconds away from completely losing my shit.

My last client no-showed, my inbox is about to explode, and I haven’t had a proper meal since last night’s dinner unless you count half a protein bar and three cups of coffee.

Rent for the studio is due Monday, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. Another instructor quit this morning to join a fancy new studio that popped up less than a mile from here. And now I’m standing at the front desk, staring at the busted essential oil diffuser, its relaxing scent of lavender gone—I don’t even have the twenty dollars to replace that at this point.

Alright, Lola. You’ve survived worse. You can fix this. Start with the email. Then the rent. Then maybe cry a little in your car.

I can’t fix any of this tonight. And trying to willpower my way through it when my cortisol’s already spiking? I’m pretty sure that’s how you become an overstimulated stress monster.

Harper sent me a link earlier—something about taking the edge off without tequila or a shopping spree. I grab my phone and tap it before I can talk myself out of it.

My fingers hover over the booking app for a massage studio, and before I know it, I tap the “confirm” button on a ninety-minute deep tissue massage complete with hot stones and a scalp massage.

Icannotafford this. I know that. It’s a completely irresponsible, wildly indulgent decision that goes against every business owner survival instinct I have. But I’m losing it. Not just stressed. Far more than just tired. I’m unraveling in ways I can’t patch with positive affirmations.

Besides, the fact that they actually have an opening for tonight feels like a sign from the heavens.

The spa is a twenty-minute drive, and I’m more excited the closer I get. I need this right now, really need this.

I walk in, and the lobby smells of eucalyptus. The woman behind the counter gives me a soft smile as I check in.

“Ninety minute deep tissue, right?” she asks.

I nod, smiling back with a look that I hope saysI totally belong hereand notI am one late payment away from losing my livelihood. She hands me a robe and a pair of disposable slippers.

The robe is plush, ridiculously soft, and probably woven from the hair of baby alpacas who eat a diet of strictly organic hay.

In the locker room, I change into the robe and slippers, tucking my clothes away into the provided locker. I stash my phone on top of my clothes. It vibrates as I shut the door, but I ignore it. Whatever it is can wait.

I head out to the waiting area and settle into one of the ridiculously luxurious recliners—it has a massage feature built-in so I can pregame my massage with another massage. There’s a trickling fountain feature, ambient music that sounds like wind flirting with a harp, and cucumber water in a glass dispenser.

I turn the massage chair on and try to convince myself this is all okay. I deserve this. I haven’t had a day off in weeks. Ihaven’t had a real moment to relax—like, really recharge—in I don’t know how long.

So, I soldier through the guilt. I coax my shoulders away from my ears. I let my back rest against the chair. I allow the adrenaline to drift slowly out of my body.

When my name is called, I feel a little more settled than when I arrived. I follow the woman down a hallway lined with doors. She opens a door and ushers me inside.

“The therapist will be in shortly,” she says in a soft and soothing voice. “You can hang your robe on the hook there. Lie face down under the sheet. Just relax and they'll check in with you before getting started.”

She leaves, and I stand there for a moment, looking around. The room is dim with a massage table set up in the center and a cabinet full of oils and towels is against the wall. Lovely “massage” music plays in the background.

I shrug off the robe, hanging it on the hook, and shove my slippers under the chair in the corner.

I climb onto the table and slide beneath the sheet. The table is heated, and damn, that feelsnice. My muscles begin to relax, one by one. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

The door opens a moment later.

“Hi there, Lola. I’m Jude. I’ll be your massage therapist today.” The voice is deep and velvety smooth.

My eyes snap open.

Oh no.

This isn’t Harmony. Or Sage. Or any other woman I’d assumed would be gently massaging my stress into oblivion.