Page 10 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

His exhale caresses the back of my neck as he presses himself in closer. And I almost stay. The temptation to lean back intohim 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 astudio 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.”