Page 58 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

I shake my head. “It’s in here somewhere.” I dig through my bag again, more frantically this time, pulling out receipts and a melted lip balm and a granola bar.

“You want me to knock?”

The words make my stomach drop.

“No,” I say too quickly. “Please don’t. I can’t deal with them right now.”

Miles studies me for a beat. “Okay. Let’s go to my house.”

He steers me toward his house with gentle pressure on my back. I’m moving at a snail’s pace, but he just slows his pace to match mine. When we finally make it to his porch, I stumble up his steps. His arm wraps around my waist before I can fall.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I look—” I wave vaguely at myself. “I’m a mess.”

He doesn’t argue. He just nudges the door open and keeps his arm around me as he steers me inside.

The stairs are a whole different battle. I try to take them myself, but my balance is shot. I’m gripping the railing hard, basically dragging myself up the stairs.

Halfway up, I begin to sway.

“Okay. Nope. Hang on.” Miles slides an arm under my knees. I squeak as he lifts me. Did I…did I swallow a chew toy? That seems plausible in my current state of mind.

“Wait—oh my god, I can walk?—”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. My fingers dig into the fabric at his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“Lola.” His voice is firmer this time. “Stop apologizing.”

I press my face into his neck and stop talking. When we reach his room, he lowers me onto the edge of the bed.

“You’re alright,” he says. “Stay here. I’ll get you some water.”

I nod. “Okay.”

He brushes my arm before stepping back. The door clicks shut behind him.

And the second it does, I fall apart.

Chapter 17

Miles

Lola Hayes is curled up in the middle of my bed in my hoodie. Her knees are tucked to her chest, forcing the hem up until it sits on her upper thigh.

I resist the urge to pinch my arm just to make sure it’s real. It is. I can still smell the tequila on her breath and coconut balm on her lips.

The sight of her in my bed is doing something to me. Something I am fighting hard not to acknowledge. Because this isn’t flirty, confident Lola. This isn’t the version of her that throws out fast comebacks. No, this version of Lola is vulnerable.

The crying stopped a while ago. She’d tried to hide it when I came back with water and two ibuprofen but it was hard to ignore the tears trailing down her cheeks. Once she took the pills, she curled up into a ball, shivering even though the room was warm. That’s when I got her the hoodie out of my closet.

It’s been about an hour since I brought her up here. Her cheeks are still flushed, but the glassy look in her eyes has faded. The alcohol is slowly fading from her system.

She studies me for a second, then asks, “Why haven’t I ever seen you with a girlfriend?”