Page 16 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

Sid groans and throws his head back. Georgia lunges after Grayson, laughing and trying to get the remote from his hand. And, just like that, my roommates have already forgotten all about the invitation in my hand.

I look down at it, frown, and set it down on the old buffet table by the front door.

Going is a terrible idea. Stupid. Reckless.

Nothappening.

Chapter 8

Serena

When I hold the fancy key card to the hotel room door, even the sound the lock emits before opening is luxurious.

A cool draft of air rushes out toward me as I walk in. It smells like freshness and roses, and I do my best not to swoon. It’s possible that I got up extra early to sneak out this morning before any of my roommates saw me. And it’s possible that Sid ran into me in the hallway, sleepy and in his boxers, making a zipped-lips motion at me when he realized where I was obviously going in a nice outfit, with my makeup done.

Last night, I could hardly sleep. At two in the morning, I was in bed staring up at the ceiling, heart pounding as I thought about Travis Oakley.

What better way to get back at that fuckwad than to sleep with his brother?

Was I actually contemplating sleeping with the man? My boss, a decade older than me?

No. Not at all. I wasn’t considering it when I got out of bed and showered, not when I dried my hair, not when I sat and did my makeup more meticulously than I ever would for a shoot. I’mbehind the camera, not in front of it. What would I need to look good for?

I didn’t think about the slide of his dinner jacket over his strong shoulders, didn’t think about how it would feel to push my fingers through his hair. Didn’t think about his hands splaying over my sides, gripping my body as he lifted me into bed.

Now, my head flooded with those thoughts, I come to stand in the middle of the hotel room and realize something I’d never considered a possibility.

The room is empty.

Well—it’s well-furnished, of course—but I’m the only person inside. There is a dress hanging from the closet door, the silky fabric reflected back in the mirror on the door. Letting go of my duffel bag, I cross the room and pinch the fabric between my fingers—silky, luxurious. The kind of thing one might wear to the launch of a high-end hotel brand.

There’s a small, folded card attached to the garment, and I pick it up, reading.

S, I know this is not your style, but would prefer for you to blend in. Please wear it for me. Thanks. T.

For a long moment, I stand still in the rose-scented room, staring down at the note. I try to picture him writing it. Is this normal? An employer having a dress code is one thing, but luring me to a hotel room just to leave me a dress for the shoot?

Please wear it for me.

I shouldn’t be disappointed. I should be grateful that Travis isn’t actually interested in me. That this is just about me looking right for the brand. It’s no secret that appearances are important for Onyx.

This was reckless. Last night, the version of myself that argued against the idea was the one with her head on hershoulders, and it would be good for me to let her be in charge today.

Still, even though I know I should be logical about this, that I should ignore my worst impulses, I step forward and bury my nose in the dress, wondering if there might be a hint of Travis’s cologne left behind.

Travis arrives at the launch party at exactly a quarter past seven.

His suit is impeccable, and I’m sure it cost a pretty penny.

He tugs casually on the cuffs when he walks in, flashing a bright white smile at the first person to greet him. I have never seen him smile like that at the office before. It’s performative, obviously, but I’m still struck by the longing to be on the other end of that smile.

I catch the moment, that first clasping of hands, a brisk, business-like conversation. My heart grows heavier, more insistent with each second Travis appears on my camera screen.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Last night should have been a wake-up call about this little infatuation. Instead, my friends knowing about it just makes me want him more.

My feet ache in my heels, my dress feels tight, and my only solace has been the camera in my hands. For hours, I’ve dutifully captured every part of the event, from the set-up and the catering to the first guests arriving in their expensive vehicles outside.