Page 4 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

My mind continues to circle back to the fact that my body betrayed me and now we are both pretending it didn’t.

God, I cannot ever show my face here again.

I mean, I couldn’t afford to even if I wanted to. But if I somehow won the lottery or landed myself a sexy sugar daddy, I absolutely cannot come back to this spa. Ever.

Maybe I should just avoid this part of town altogether. That seems safer, right?

The rest of the massage passes in a blur of embarrassment.

“Take your time getting up,” he says gently when he finishes the massage.

As soon as he walks out the door, I'm already on my feet and halfway into my robe. Head down, I walk quickly to the ladies' room, and get fully dressed in record time. The second my shoes are on, I bolt. I don’t stop for cucumber water. Or to use the restroom.

I flee that spa like it’s on fire and I’m the one who lit the match.

Chapter 2

Lola

By the time I get home, I am equal parts mortified and blissed out.

I can still feel his hands all over me. Every muscle feels like it melted into the car seat on the drive back, and my brain—which has been trapped in a non-stop anxiety group chat for the last six months—is suddenly quiet. Not off, exactly. Just…not so loud. The volume has finally turned down enough for me to hear myself think.

The moment I shut the front door behind me, I sag against it and close my eyes. I can still hear the sound of his voice when he said those words that I cannot—will not—analyze right now.

Let me know if you need a minute to come down.

God.

I groan out loud, face heating all over again. That happened. That really, actually happened.

I toss my keys into the bowl on the side table, peel off my jacket, and head for my bedroom. I’m as quiet as I can be because I’d rather not alert either of my roommates to my presence if they’re home. When I get into my room, I lock the door behind me.

I pull out my favorite scented candle, my softest blanket, and the cute little pink vibrator I keep tucked in the nightstand drawer.

But just as I light the lavender candle on my nightstand, my phone buzzes.

I glance down. Harper.

Of course.

The screen lights up with her face. I stare at it for two full seconds before answering, because I already know how this goes. If I don’t answer, she’ll just call back.

I love her. She knows that. But right now, I’m trying to have a private moment with my newly relaxed nervous system and a rechargeable silicone lifesaver.

“Just one drink,” Harper says before I can even say hello. “You owe me one drink, Lola Monroe Hayes. I haven’t seen your face in weeks, and if you flake again, I will show up at your studio and stage a full intervention with as much drama as I can possibly create. I will chain myself to a reformer and sob at full volume. Do not test me, woman.”

I flop backward onto my bed, phone pressed to my ear. The candle is still flickering but it's useless to me now. “I was going to have a night of self-care,” I mumble.

“Girl, no. You’ve been in survival mode for a month. Self-care is great, but you need social contact that doesn’t involve any of your Pilates students.”

She’s not wrong. I want her to be. I want to tell her I’m busy or tired or too zen to go out, but the truth is I do need to see her. And she knows that.

“You’re not even going to let me say no, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” she says brightly. “You love me too much, and I’ve been patient long enough. Wear something cute. You’ve got exactly—” I hear her fake-checking her watch “—thirty minutes to meet me at Lucky’s.”

I groan, but I’m already rolling off the bed. “Fine. One drink. But I'm not putting on real pants.”