Page 44 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

“Nothing’s wrong, why would you ask that?”

“That’s your ‘pretend chill’ face.”

“My what?” I laugh.

“Your “pretend chill” face,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “The one where your mouth’s smiling but your eyes are doing that thing they do when you’re very much not fine.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I know you, Lola.”

“Oh, my god, Wes. I’ve just had a long day, that’s all.”

He watches me for a minute, then nods and gestures toward the kitchen. “Your timing is perfect. The food is almost ready.”

“You’re cooking? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I will have you know, I’m a fantastic cook. I’ve been working on it.”

“Fantastic feels like a bit of stretch. I’d go with something more realistic, like ‘at least it’s edible’.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m honest.” I flash him a smile even though he already knows I’m kidding.

I take a seat at the island as he moves toward the stove.

“How was the studio today?” He stirs something in a pot, then sets a timer. “Busy? Must’ve been if you’re so tired you’re wearing your ‘pretend chill’ smile.”

“Yeah, that’s not a thing. And it was fine,” I lie.

He gives me a look that says he’s not buying it, but I’m not about to spill my guts. So, I lie some more.

“All my clients were relaxed and centered. Very namaste.”

“Even I know that’s yoga, Lola.”

I sigh and lean my elbows on the counter. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“I could,” he says, tossing a spoon into the sink, “but then you’d think that fake smile of yours was working. You just look stressed, Lola.”

“I will have you know that I am the picture of mental health.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m Gordon Ramsay.”

“You’re burning something, Gordon.”

He turns back to the pot with a muttered curse.

He finally plates up some food that looks only slightly edible, and he sets the plates on the island.

We talk about nothing for a while. He does his parent-y big brother thing and makes sure I’m eating and sleeping. I’m not, but I tell him I am. He doesn’t bring up the fact that I now live next door to his best friends, so neither do I. I’m guessing they haven’t told him and I’m not about to be the one who spills the beans. I’m too tired to play ten thousand questions with him.

He doesn’t bring up the studio again, which I’m grateful for. I don’t want to have to conveniently leave out the fact that my instructors are gone, my rent is going up, and I’m worried I’m going to have to fold the business.

And he avoids asking anything about my dating life. We have a mostly don’t-ask-don’t-tell philosophy on that. And thank god. Because there is no way in hell I’m telling him that I slept with Jude—who he may or may not know—and almost slept with his best friend. In my studio. Just hours ago.

I feel a little better when I leave, but it doesn’t last long. Because back home, things are worse.