Page 60 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

There’s a pregnant pause, then Graham says, “There were… rumors. But we never saw those things, or evidence that they were true.”

“Oh my god.” I drop my head into my hands. “And he knows about the house. Those are my best friends, I can’t just?—”

“They will befine,” Travis reiterates, reaching out and putting a hand on my knee. It’s the first time he’s touched me since that night, and when I look up, catching his eye, something weighty passes between us. If only I knew what it was.

He swallows, sits back, and goes on, “The worst that will happen is what you already saw.”

“But what if Alex snapped? What if he is?—”

“Travis already placed a protective detail on your house. Those guys shouldn’t have gotten around the detail though so we’ll have to double down,” Graham says, surprising me.

When I glance at Travis, he’s focused on something, staring at his phone and studiously ignoring me. A beat passes with nothing more than the sound of the road beneath us, air whipping past the windows.

Finally, the oldest brother lets out a breath and says, “The press won’t bother your friends anymore—they’re only interested in you. Now that they’ve seen you leave, they’ll take off, too.”

Just as he says it, several other black SUVs appear on the highway, lining up behind us, then pulling around us, splitting off in other directions. My heart stutters.

“Are those the men in black?” I ask, only half joking.

“Same make, model, and year as this one,” Travis says, glancing up from his phone quickly, then looking back down, his fingers never slowing in their typing. “Those paparazzi are following us from your house. The other SUVs will divert them from the airfield.”

I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. Around my chest is my pack with my wallet, a few tampons, gum, and a little travel packet of Advil, but that’s definitely not going to be enough for more than a day away from the house.

“Airfield?” I finally manage.

“The best thing we can do right now is get out of the city,” Graham says.

Ryan adds, helpfully, “We’re going to my family’s villa in Italy. You’ll love it. Fresh lemons, the whole thing. Plus, I can teach you a little Italian. Would you like that?”

“I thought you were from Nebraska?”

Ryan grins, flashing his shiny white teeth. He’s the only person unaffected by the weight of this escape plan. “I am, but I guess one of my mother’s grandmothers was from Italy. I did a little digging and found an old family estate up for sale. Bought it and had it restored as a gift to my mother a few years ago. She loved it. It will be like a family heirloom.”

Only a rich person would call a villa in another country an “heirloom.”

My mind flashes again to the memory of my grandmother’s record player sitting in the rain, and anger bubbles to life in my stomach. Maybe I couldn’t see it—or maybe I purposefully wasn’t looking back then—but it’s obvious to me now that there was a real power imbalance in my relationship with Alex.

One that he made sure to take advantage of. What bothers me the most is that he didn’tneedmy money. To live in that house for free and make me help him? To watch me bust my ass to contribute to a down payment on a home? Why make me work so hard when he knew I would never be able to touch what he was putting in?

And now all that money is gone. I helped to fund his rich-boy lifestyle without even realizing it.

Now, riding in the back of this SUV, I study each of the guys. Graham looks out the window. Ryan is playing a game on his phone. And Travis sends rapid-fire texts like his life depends on it.

Travis is all dark and straight-edged—a designer suit, his black hair, that unbelievable jawline. Ryan is wearing a pair of sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. Graham is in what appears to be a normal leisurewear set, but it probably costs thousands of dollars.

Maybe I should be worrying aboutthispower imbalance.

But, somehow, improbably, even with the fact that I’m about to be alone on a plane with them, and then alone in a villa with the three men, I can’t feel anything but the faintest, inappropriate, glimmeringzingof excitement.

Travis’s private plane—orprivate jet?—reflects his personality exactly.

When we rush through the drizzling rain and into the main area, it looks just like a living room, except the chairs are on a swivel, are obviously bolted into the floor, and are equipped with seat belts. There are magazine racks with the latest business and news issues, a row of expensive water bottles I’ve never heard of, and wrapped mints in little dishes.

I’ve never really understood the whole “white glove” thing until this moment. But as I stare at the gleaming surfaces in the plane, I’m sure you could run a tissue over any of them—even thefloor—and come back squeaky clean.

We’re seated, and I’m trying to figure out how to get my seatbelt on when it occurs to me, once again, that I don’t have a single change of clothing. Or a toothbrush.

“I left in such a hurry that I don’t have anything with me!”