Page 13 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

I blink. That’s all I can manage to do.

I stare at her for a second, trying to decide whether it’s worth pushing back. It’s not. Of course it’s not.

“Sure,” I say, exhaling a sigh that carries every ounce of my resentment with it. “Why not.”

Gigi beams. “Perfect. I told them to come by around seven.”

And then she’s gone, back through the house in a trail of expensive perfume. She’s probably already planning outfits and Instagram captions in her head.

I slide down and drop my head back against the washer with a dullthud.

Of course she didn’t ask if I was up for this. They never ask. It’s not malicious—it’s just…casual entitlement. They assume I’ll say yes because no one ever says no to them.

I push off the washer and grab the basket. I still need to switch over the towels, defrost the ground beef, and find the strength to pretend I’m not two seconds away from an actual breakdown.

New neighbors. Great. Just what I need tonight because I’msoin the mood to entertain.

I try to tell myself it’ll be fine. I could use a bit of social interaction, right? I curse Harper for being away the next few days. I could really use her as a buffer right now.

It’s just burgers. Nothing more than a little backyard mingling.

The fact that Gigi is already plotting how to sleep with all of them doesn’t matter and I swear I’m definitely not wondering what they look like.

It’ll be fine. And I really try to believe that.

But deep down, I have a sinking suspicion that things aren’t fine at all.

Chapter 4

Jude

The 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.