Page 3 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I stare at the screen in horror. I tapped the group chat, the one named Harper (Surprise), which also has a picture of Harper’sface as the icon. I didn’t notice the name. I just saw her face, blindly tossed the grenade, and walked away.
No!
The text previews are clear as day.
Owen: Red. Definitely Red. But you better have good security, because you’re going to cause a riot.
I swallow a curse. Of course, it’s Owen. The charmer. The youngest. The one who taught me how to do a keg stand when I was a freshman and has a smile that could ruin a nun’s vocation in five seconds flat. He’s picturing it. He’s picturing me in this dress, starting a riot.
The next notification is right below it.
Asher: The black is boring. The red is torture. Wear the red.
My throat closes up entirely. Asher rarely texts. In the planning chat over the last two weeks, he’s contributed exactly two thumbs-up emojis. He’s the quiet, intense tech genius who usually prefers code to human interaction. Torture. He’s daring me. It sounds dark and dangerous, just like him.
And then, the final one.
Ethan: Christ, Tessa. You’re not wearing that out unless you want trouble.
My face burns so hot I think I might dissolve right here. Ethan. The oldest. The former special ops soldier turned corporate suit. But the expensive tailoring doesn’t fool anyone. He still looks at everyone as if they were a security risk he needed to size up.
Unless you want trouble. The way he says it… it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to protect me. It sounds like a challenge. It sounds like he’s the threat.
I’m mortified. I’m going to have to fake my own death. I’ll change my name, move to a research station in Antarctica, and live with penguins. I can’t face them. But I have to drive to the venue right now, look them in the eye, and pretend I didn’t just solicit sex advice from my best friend’s brothers.
“Fix it,” I whisper to myself, panic overriding the shame. “Fix it now.”
I unlock the phone and open the chat. The photos are there—the black bodycon and the red slip, side by side, glowing. And right underneath them, the three replies stare back at me.
And under the photos, the tiny gray text mocking me: Read.
My knees give out. I sink onto the edge of the mattress, clutching the phone. My thumb flies to the screen. I press and hold on the photos, the little trash can icon popping up. Delete for Everyone.
My finger hovers over the button, trembling. Then I stop.
It’s too late. They’ve already seen it. They’ve already replied. If I delete it now, I just look guilty. It changes it from a “funny mistake” to a “dirty secret.” It makes it look like I care.
“Damn it,” I curse, dropping my hand.
I type frantically, my fingers slipping on the glass screen.
Me: WRONG CHAT! Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Ignore that!
I stare at the message for a second, waiting for a reply, for a “Lol no worries” or a “We didn’t see anything.”
Radio silence. Nothing.
They aren’t letting me off the hook.
I shove the phone into my clutch like it burned me, grab my keys, and bolt out the door. My heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest, and my hands are shaking so bad I almost drop the keys. I have to drive. I have to focus. And I have to figure out how to survive the next few hours without dying of embarrassment.
By the time I pull up to Harper’s apartment building, I’ve checked my makeup in the rearview mirror a million times. I’m flushed, my eyes are bright, and I look exactly like a woman who just accidentally sexted three men.
“Pull it together, Hartley,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel. “You are a Brand Strategist. Be professional.”
The passenger door flies open, and Harper throws herself into the seat, bringing a cloud of expensive body spray and chaos with her.
“Hey, bestie!” she beams, tossing her bag into the back. “I am so done with packing. If I see one more cardboard box, I’m going to scream.”
