Page 22 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

I adjust the heat on the grill, even though it doesn’t need adjusting. I swipe the side of my shorts with my free hand. I do anything I can to avoid looking at him again.

He leans in a little closer to me. I try to brace myself for what’s coming next.

“You left before I got up that morning.”

My stomach flips. And not in the cute, I’ve-got-butterflies-over-a-cute-boy kind of way. Nope. It's more of a roller coaster drop.

I laugh. Or I try to. It comes out weird and far too loud, ending in a pitch I’m pretty sure only dogs can hear. Then I flip a burger that wasn’t ready and manage to tear it in half before immediately knocking another one straight to the ground.

“Shit.”

Jude reaches for the tongs on the prep table, but I wave him off. I bend to pick the patty up, mumbling something about early meetings and busy weeks. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. My limbs don’t seem to want to work right. I still manage to grab it with a napkin and toss it toward the trash behind me. I don’t make it. It hits the patio with a sad little slap.

“Perfect,” I mutter.

“I’ve got it.” Jude grabs another napkin and throws the lost little patty directly into the garbage can.

“Lola,” Jude says.

I don’t answer. Instead I pretend like I’m so busy with my grillmaster responsibilities that I can’t possibly take a moment to concentrate on our conversation.

He exhales, then straightens like he’s going to say something else. But Reid interrupts him.

“Careful,” he says, glancing at the grill. “You’re going to dry those out.”

It’s a nothing comment. I’ve received far worse from Reid over the years. And even though I know he’s right, it scrapes across already raw nerves.

I keep my eyes on the grill. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You know we all saw you dropped one, right?” he adds. “Might want to double-check what’s landing on people’s plates.”

My jaw tightens.

“Not that I’m picky,” he goes on. “Just don’t want to eat food that’s been on the ground.”

Jude doesn’t say anything, but I feel him tense up beside me.

I grip the spatula tighter. “You don’t want a burger? Don’t eat one.”

“Just trying to help,” Reid says, feigning innocence. “Would hate for your little cookout to turn into a food poisoning lawsuit.”

I turn to face him. “Do you have anything useful to say? Or are you just here to be an asshole?”

He raises his brows, like I’ve shocked him.

“Didn’t realize constructive feedback made me an asshole,” he says. “Maybe you’re just sensitive.”

“Maybe you’re just a dick.”

He laughs. It’s this low, smug sound that always manages to get under my skin. “You always get this worked up when you cook?”

“You’re hilarious,” I say, shaking my head. “You may recall I’ve cooked for you a time or two. Someone had to make sure you ate something that didn’t come out of a microwave.”

“Ouch,” he says. “You’ve been saving that one?”

“Yes. You caught me, Reid. I keep an entire arsenal of insults just for you. That’s how often you’re on my mind.”

He takes another step forward, and now he’s too close. “I’m just saying,” he says, still wearing that smile that isn’t really a smile, “if you can’t handle a grill, maybe don’t volunteer to run it.”