Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers (Filthy Rich Harems #7)

1. Serena

Serena

“Since when do you care so much about architecture?”

Alex smirks down at me after asking the question, and I push down the flutter of frustration that rises in my chest in response. We’re standing arm-in-arm, right in the center of a massive living room, flanked by a tall stone fireplace and the petite real estate agent, who watches us anxiously.

I asked about the carvings over the doorway, resisting the urge to trail my fingers over the design. This is the kind of room that can be difficult to photograph, the bright light from above playing harshly with the warm glow of the vintage furniture and ancient, deeply rich wood tones.

Now I feel like I overstepped, and the agent showing the home seems to feel she needs to compensate for the uncomfortable energy between my boyfriend and me.

She smiles widely, lipstick working hard to keep up with the relentless pep of her expression.

Eagerly, she waves a hand, “I’m more than happy to tell you all about it.

The home is full of carvings in real mahogany, and the original features are so charming, aren’t they?

” She pauses to point up at the vaulted skylight, showing off the soft gray overcast above.

“This home was actually designed and constructed for immigrants coming from Amsterdam?—”

As she goes on, detailing the townhouse’s history, what a rare find it is, our luck at a chance at owning it, I can’t stop myself from glancing up at Alex again.

He stands tall, his back straight and his chin pointed at the agent.

He has more than a foot on me, but even from my lower vantage point, I can make out the soft shining of his eyes, the curious slant of his mouth that communicates total interest in what she’s saying.

I know that expression. He’s directed it at me often—across the bar where we met, in bed, over burnt toast and rubbery eggs for breakfast.

Jealousy and irritation sprout from the frustration in my chest. I try to think about therapy, about breathing through the feelings. About the fact that he was just questioning my interest in architecture, and now he’s giving her all his attention.

I remind myself that it’s not Alex’s fault he’s a good listener. It’s not his fault the real estate agent is taking a step closer, that her eyes are dipping down to his lips. He’s handsome and charming, and I’ve already caused enough trouble in our relationship by being so suspicious of him.

“…called barrel vaulting, and it’s part of what gives the great room such a grand feel to it. These are twenty feet tall!”

Alex’s eyebrows raise as he nods. Then, he glances down at me again. I watch his chin soften, that copper stubble over his jaw shift and catch the light and it washes away all the suspicious feelings. They catch in my throat and defrost, and I tighten my hold on his arm.

Not for the first time in my life I think, I am so fucking crazy.

Here he is, gazing down at me like I’m the only woman in the world.

Coming to tour this townhouse even though it’s not remotely his vibe at all.

Since suggesting we look to buy a place together—“renting is such a bad financial move”—Alex has been all about the hyper-modern, technologically advanced mansions outside the city.

We’d be bridge and tunnel people, but we’d also live in a house that memorized our moods and routines.

This place is the opposite of that. A gorgeous townhouse in Gramercy Park, surrounded by other old-world homes and buildings.

Alex has been putting in the work. Suggesting and attending couples therapy with me. Taking me out on well-planned dates. Touring homes in the heart of the city with ancient wine cellars and European architecture.

And here I am, assuming every question and comment is a pointed, sharpened barb.

“I love it,” I breathe, finally, in response to a question nobody asked. Something passes over Alex’s face, just a shimmer beneath the surface that moves too quickly for me to catch.

“Well, just wait until you see the view from the solarium,” the agent says, eyes flitting over to Alex again. He doesn’t even look at her, just slides his hand into mine and smiles, drinking in my happiness like it’s the only thing that matters to him.

The moment we’re through the front door of our rental house, Alex is winding his arms around my waist and drawing me in close to him. I’m flooded by the scent of his cologne—a bottle I gave him for his birthday—and the unmistakable, solid smell of him.

“You really liked that place,” he says into the crook of my neck. I laugh at the way his stubble tickles my clavicle and push back against him a little.

This is another sticking point for us—Alex, affectionate to a fault. Touchy, always. He’s all hands and lips and hot breath, and I’ve never been that good with physical intimacy. I still fight against the urge to stiffen when he hugs me.

Which is, again, not his fault.

“I did,” I admit, swallowing and feeling the gentle pressure of my throat against his forehead as it moves. Two bodies, alive and together. A reminder of the connection between us.

When I close my eyes, I see the inside of that gorgeous townhouse again.

It was a dream. The kind of place with history, the ghosts of Danish merchants, creaks and hollow sounds when you move across the hardwoods.

Odd quirks like the dumbwaiter and slightly crooked stairs.

But it’s not the kind of place Alex wants.

And not only am I trying to compromise, but I’m also aware of the fact that since he’s the one with a trust fund, he’ll be pulling a lot more of the weight when it comes to mortgage payments on a place like that.

It bothers me, but it’s something I’ve been working through with my therapist.

So, instead of telling him how much I can see myself living there, I say, “But not as much as I liked the tub at the other place.”

He lifts his head, narrowly avoiding a collision with my chin. Earlier, his eyes shone with interest, but now they sparkle with pleasure. This close, I can see each fleck of amber in his brown irises. “The one with the garage? Over the water?”

I force myself to nod, thinking about the sleek, white modern box.

The koi ponds outside and the solar driveway.

Self-heating, built to withstand the even, steady hum of an electric sports car gliding over its surface.

Every part of that home was finished with a protractor in hand, set to a precise ninety-degree angle.

Alex’s smile is infectious, and I’m smiling too, laughing as he noses against me, hands sliding down to my waist. Then we’re kissing against the wall, breath and touch and his chest against mine.

I register the exact moment his tone shifts from affection to desire, his exhalations coming harder, his hands tightening on my hips. My muscles tense, my body sending up walls and blocking him out before he has a chance to get close.

“Sorry,” I breathe, pushing him back and looking into his eyes. “I have that thing. Senior photos.”

Groaning, he drops his forehead against my shoulder. His hands are still anchored on my hips, squeezing, pulsing steadily like a caged animal. “Skip it,” he mutters, voice low, only half-joking.

I laugh through the twinge of annoyance.

Alex is always asking me to abandon sessions, drop weddings when they interfere with his weekend plans.

But even with him paying two-thirds of the rent for this place, and even with my newest, high-paying client, I still feel the squeeze at the end of the month.

Remember that it’s you both against the problem, I hear the counselor saying, her gravelly voice low and even. Affection can go a long way toward softening a moment. Remember what you love about each other.

“I wish,” I murmur back, pressing a chaste kiss against his mouth before untangling myself from him. When I’m a few steps away, I turn, catch his disappointed expression, and shoot him a bold smile fueled by guilt. “You’ll be here when I get back, right?”

His eyebrows stay low, but his mouth curls, softening the expression. We hover like that for a lingering moment, caught between rejection and happiness, then his brow lifts. “Depends. What do you have in mind?”