Page 35 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

I don’t turn at first. It’s probably just a delivery. Or someone who wandered in from the juice place next door. But then I hear the voice.

“Well, well. Didn’t realize you were mid–Downward Spiral.”

I freeze mid-cue. Every muscle in my body locks up. I turn my head slowly and—yep. Of course.

Reid is standing just inside the doorway, holding a box under one arm and wearing an arrogant smirk I want to smack off his ridiculously handsome face.

“I come bearing tech,” he says, lifting the box. “Miles said this needed to be dropped off today. I graciously volunteered.”

I don’t have time for this. I force a smile, give him a tight nod, and try to refocus. “Lift, hold, lower—two more reps.”

He leans against the front desk like he owns the place. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but it’s definitely not just aboutthe box. He’s watching me. And now I’m messing up my own sequence.

Jesus. MaybeI’mthe reason my studio is failing. I can’t even manage to hold it together when he watches me.

I cue the next position and hope he’ll get bored and leave.

He doesn’t.

He crosses one ankle over the other, scrolls on his phone, and looks entirely unbothered while I try not to combust. Every time I glance toward the front of the studio, he’s still there.

And I swear—he’s enjoying every second of it.

Just as I’m about to kick his ass to the curb, one of my clients pipes up from the reformer near the back.

“Wait—is that—oh my god,it’s Reid Morgan!”

He doesn’t even try to look surprised. He just lifts his chin and flashes that signature grin. He wouldn’t be so pretty if I accidentally kicked all his teeth out.

“Guilty.”

Another client perks up. “You played for the Storm, right? You were number twelve—my brother wasobsessedwith you.”

He chuckles and gives a modest shrug. Fake bastard. He’s thriving off the attention. “That was me.”

She turns to her friend, smacking her arm. “He was supposed to be, like, the next big thing.”

I cringe at that. Reid was projected to have a hall of fame career with the stats he was throwing in his first few years.

He flashes that lazy grin. “Yeah, well. Knees had other plans.”

They laugh. Not polite giggles—real laughs.

And then the question I’ve been dreading.

“Are you staying?”

Reid glances over at me. He raises an eyebrow like he’s asking for permission, but we both know he doesn’t care what I say.

He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

I swallow the scream building in my throat and force my jaw to unclench. “Grab a pair of socks below the desk and take the empty reformer in the back.”

He steps out of his shoes, pulls on a pair of sticky socks, and joins the group with zero hesitation. He follows my cues with annoying precision. His form is perfect. His balance is obnoxiously stable. He doesn’t even flinch during the teaser series, and I know for a fact it’s burning.

And worst of all—he talks.

He cracks jokes under his breath and makes little quips during transitions. The jerk somehow remembers everyone’s name within ten minutes and uses them to charm the panties off every one of the women.