Page 77 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

Lillie:UR ENTIRE LIFE ISNT RIDING ON THIS, GRAY

Georgia:Neither is yours, Lil. Just wear that pink dress—it’s cute on you. Goes nice with your hair

Sid:Gag. Stop being so nice to each other or I’ll leave the chat.

Sid:This is what I’m wearing

Sid:Image

Georgia:Sid, you are not wearing that

Sid:Who’s going to stop me

Lillie:My Chrysler Pacifica, my rules. That fedora will be burned if it comes within two feet of my baby’s sliding doors

Sid:Fine.

Sid:This is discrimination.

Sid:Censorship.

Grayson:I think the hat is hot

Serena:can u guys stop blowing up my phone? i’m trying to get ready

Serena:also, Lil, you don’t have to drive. they’re sending a car for you

Sighing, I silence my phone and turn it over and try to focus on what I’m doing with my makeup.

Since we got here, the guys have been showering me with an obscene amount of gifts.

“Some TV producer started a make-up line,” Ryan said as he dropped some fancy gold boxes on my bed. “Wanted to gift me some, but I thought you might be more into it.”

Turns out, that random producer is insanely famous, best friends with Zendaya and was, apparently, personally mentored by Rhianna. Her new make-up line is already sold out for the pre-order.

So now I sit in front of the mirror, practicing with a blue eyeliner, trying to perfect a line around my eye in a way that looks cool, and not like a kindergartener face-painting a raccoon.

Finally, after wrestling with the look for ages, I give up on using most of it and decide to give half the makeup to Lillie. She’ll lose her mind for it, and I’m much better with the classic shades, anyway.

Feeling sort of anxious, I head down the stairs and into the main foyer. Travis’s country estate is like something from The Sound of Music—grand in a way that I’m still struggling with. When I tip my head back, the ceiling is at least twenty, maybe even thirty feet high, and adorned with a shimmering golden chandelier.

The floors are marble. None of the windows on the first floor open, since they’re protected by the historical society. Through the front windows, you can make out the long roads splitting off, dividing the front lawn, which is, of course, larger than a football field.

But at this moment, none of that—not the fancy paintings or sculptures, not the way the late afternoon light shines in through the massive windows, not the trailing ivy on the back of the house or the gardens beyond—has my attention.

What has my attention is the table in the middle of the foyer.

It’s usually decorated with a vase of flowers, typically picked from the gardens outside. Now, instead of flowers, an antique record player sits directly in the center, the brass horn shining, freshly polished, in the glowing sunlight.

“What…?” I ask the empty hall, walking up to the record player, laying a hand on the side gently, as if it might fall apart. It should be back at the house, with my roommates. How the hell did it get here?

“Here,” Travis says, stepping into the room, flipping a vinyl around in his hands. It’s one of my grandma’s, a Beatles record with a fraying cover. “Let’s try it out, shall we?”

I stare at him, then watch in disbelief as he slides the record from the sleeve and sets it carefully on the turntable. After a few adjustments, he drops the needle and takes a step back.

A moment later, the first few funky notes of “Come Together” fill the hall, and a rush of emotion fills my throat. I meet Travis’s eyes, still not quite understanding.

In this moment, I can see my grandma dancing, laughing, her arthritis not stopping her from twirling around the kitchen and shaking her bum. When the chorus hits, I can see her holding a sauce-laden spoon up to her mouth, singing into it like a microphone.