Page 38 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

I’m not supposed to touch her. I know that; every part of me knows that. She’s Wes’s little sister, for fuck’s sake.

But every time we’re in the same room, shit goes down. She gets under my skin. I get under hers. And suddenly, I’m standing too close, and saying things I shouldn’t.

But when she didn’t back down yesterday at the studio, every rational thought in my mind turned off. All I could think was,do it. Just one taste. I need to fucking know.

And I almost did. I would’ve.

If her damn phone hadn’t rung, I would’ve closed the space, pulled her into me, and finally tasted her lips.

I haven’t stopped thinking about the almost-kiss since it happened. Which is exactly why I show up at her studio again.

I may or may not have physically wrestled Frankie for the package for Lola. Frankie is Miles’s assistant. She was halfway through organizing Miles’s calendar while sipping some matcha-green-colored liquid. Honestly, it looked like radioactive goop. It’s worse than the shit Jude drinks.

The box was on her desk. It had Lola’s name on it. When Frankie reached for it, I did too.

She didn’t let go. If anything, she held on tighter. I pulled once. She pulled back.

“I am fully prepared to fight you for this.”

That Cheshire-cat smile slowly spread across her face, and she released without any argument.

That look should’ve worried me.

Frankie is a chaos gremlin with unlimited access to everyone's calendar, inbox, and psychological weak points. She probably timestamped the exact moment I grabbed the package, and logged it in that internal database I know she keeps. Frankie missesnothing.

But I can deal with Frankie later.

Right now, all I’m thinking about is Lola—and how she’s going to take me showing up again.

It’s early as fuck, but her first class starts at six a.m.—I checked online—and I know she’ll be alone until clients start showing up.

“Seriously?” she says when she sees me.

“Relax. I’m not here to harass you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then what? You forget something yesterday? Like boundaries?”

Damn, she’s good at this. Push-pull banter that makes me want to kiss her just to shut her up.

“I’m here to help.”

That gets a snort-laugh. “Help? You?”

I take a slow step closer. “Yeah. Shocking, right? I do actually know how to do things besides piss you off.”

She blinks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You showed up before six in the morning. Without warning. And you expect me to believe this is some selfless act of goodwill?”

I shrug. “Maybe give me the benefit of the doubt for once.”

She stares at me like she’s waiting for the punchline. But there isn’t one. I really am here to help.

Miles let it slip that Lola’s not doing as well as she pretends. He was in here last week and I know she let him help her withher computer system. And Miles being Miles, he snooped at her books.

She’s floundering.

There’s some big celebrity Pilates studio a few streets over that’s poaching her instructors, her clients, and her sanity. Not that she’d ever admit it.

She’s pretending she’s fine, of course. Classic Lola. My sharp-tongued little mess is too proud for her own good. The girl is allergic to letting anyone help her.