Page 39 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

It drives me fucking insane.

She always has something to prove. She seems to believe that if she slows down for even a second, someone’s going to decide she doesn’t deserve any of it. It’s bullshit, but she believes it. So she works herself into the ground trying to outrun it all.

But she shouldn’t have to.

And Icanhelp.

And I don’t mean just moral support and using my leftover celebrity status—though I’m sure that part could be helpful for her too. I mean actual, physical help.

She’s short-staffed? Fine. I know enough Pilates to hold my own in a beginner class. I don’t have the certifications or anything, but I took enough classes while I was still a professional football player to teach a class.

I hated Pilates at first. My coach forced me to take it while I was recovering from my second shoulder tear. I thought it was slow and easy and pointless—until I could barely move the day after my first class.

So I paid attention. I learned the exercise names, the transitions, and the breathing. And yeah, I cracked jokes the whole time, but I actually took it seriously. And it’s a whole lot harder than it looks.

Plus, I’m a people person. I may be tooting my own horn, but the ladies do love me. The celebrity doesn’t hurt either. They’llsign up again just to stare. And if that boosts Lola’s retention rate, then I’ll smile through the entire class.

The backend stuff? The marketing? I already do half that shit for Miles. Copywriting, tone alignment, targeting—boring but useful. Her site’s a mess and her brand voice is inconsistent. I can clean it up so it actually sounds like her and resonates with her target audience.

She’s going to fight me on this, but I’m not backing down. It’s not charity. I want to be here. I want her to stop drowning.

And yeah, maybe I want to be the one who saves her.

Mostly I just want to be near her.

Lola does not seem to feel the same way though. She rolls her eyes and walks away from me.

“That’s it?” I ask.

She spins back around. “What do you want, Reid? A pat on the head? A slow clap?”

“No,” I say, stepping into her personal space again. “I want you to accept the help.”

She snorts. “Right. Because you woke up at dawn with a sudden urge to be useful?”

“Look, I know the situation sucks. Sierra’s studio is a vampire. It’s bleeding you dry and you’re trying to pretend it’s just a paper cut. But it’s not. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Her jaw ticks. She’s not okay. Not even close. But she’s stubborn and she’s not going to let me do this for her.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do, though.”

She scoffs and heads into the small office behind the front desk. I follow behind her.

“I can help with beginner-level classes. Brand strategy. Hell, even front desk shit if you really need the help. I’ll even fold your towels. It’s not beneath me. And let’s be real—half your clients would sign up just to watch me stretch.”

Her eyes flash. “Jesus, Reid. I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re barely treading water.”

She folds her arms. “And you think playing receptionist-slash-buff instructor is going to fix that?”

“If you let me,” I say, holding her stare, “I can take some of the weight off.”

She scoffs. “This isn’t about helping. You’re just bored. But I’m not here to be your entertainment.”

My shoulders stiffen. “That’s rich, coming from someone addicted to martyrdom.”