Page 72 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

After, he wraps a towel around my body and dries my hair with slow, careful motions.

He helps me dress in pajamas then pulls back the covers and helps me climb into bed.

“Can I make you something to eat? You’ve got to be hungry,” he asks.

“Starving actually,” I respond.

He leaves and comes back ten minutes later with scrambled eggs, toast and an assortment of berries.

I gobble it up, not even caring how unladylike I look.

“Thank you so much. That’s the first real meal I’ve eaten today.”

“You need to take better care of yourself, Lola.”

“I know. I’m trying.” I feel like crying but hold it back. I don’t want to make this awkward.

He puts my empty plate on my dresser before climbing in bed with me. He positions himself behind me and pulls me in until my head is resting against his shoulder and I can feel the rise and fall of his chest.

His hands find my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tense muscles with practiced precision. I inhale sharply at the initial intensity, then exhale as the knots begin to release.

"You're carrying everything right here," he murmurs, working the rigid band between my shoulder blades. His fingersare strong but gentle, finding every painful spot with uncanny accuracy.

I let my head drop forward as he moves up to my neck, his thumbs circling the base of my skull where tension always collects. The pressure is perfect—firm enough to reach the deep tissue but never crossing into pain.

"God, that feels amazing," I breathe.

He hums in acknowledgment, moving to my temples with feather-light circles. His fingertips trace my jawline, releasing tension I didn't even know was there. When he returns to my scalp, applying gentle pressure in spiraling patterns, I feel myself melting.

My breathing slows. My mind, which has been racing for days, finally quiets. It's like he's not just massaging my body but somehow reaching all the tangled thoughts in my head and smoothing them out too.

I feel myself drifting, suspended in that peaceful place between wakefulness and sleep. For the first time in weeks, my nervous system isn't on high alert. The constant buzz of anxiety fades to a distant hum.

"Better?"

“Oh my god, yes. I forgot how magical your hands are.”

He chuckles quietly. “I’m here to remind you anytime you’d like.”

I don’t know when it happened—when he stopped being the easy choice and became the one I’m afraid to lose. Somewhere between his quiet patience and the way he always knows what I need before I say it, he stopped being just comfort and started meaning something more.

I want this.

I want him.

And not just tonight. I want this to be real. Even if things are messy and nothing about my life makes sense right now. I still want him here, beside me.

I know there are things to figure out with Reid and Miles, too. But I can’t let Jude go. I won’t.

Jude is propped against my headboard looking sexy as all hell. If I didn’t have to head over to the studio right now, I’d be climbing back in and having my way with him.

He watches me get dressed. There’s something warm in his gaze that makes me pause in the middle of tugging my tank over my head. He has this cute little smirk on his face that I want to kiss right off. So, I do.

I press a knee into the bed and reach for him. He meets me in the middle, fingers sliding under the hem of my shirt.

“Hi, baby.”

I close the space between us, just enough to brush my nose against his. My lips are inches from his when the door flies open.