Page 11 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
That is good news. Huge news, actually. A TechCrunch feature is exactly what we need to satisfy the investors before the Series B round.
“Good work,” I nod, taking a sip of the coffee. It’s bitter and hot, exactly how I like it. “Make sure they send the questions in advance. I don’t want any surprises.”
“Speaking of surprises,” Owen’s grin widens, shifting into something sharper. “She’s here.”
My hand goes perfectly still on the coffee cup. I don’t have to ask who she is.
“Is she?” I keep my voice flat, my eyes on my screen.
“Yep. Just walked into the lobby. She’s early. Fifteen minutes early.” Owen leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “She looks… professional. No red silk today.”
“Don’t,” I warn him.
“What? I’m just reporting the facts.”
“We are not talking about the dress, Owen. We are not talking about the text. That didn’t happen.”
“It definitely happened,” Owen laughs. “In fact, I have the screenshot.”
“Delete it.”
“Make me.”
I glare at him. “This isn’t a game. She’s our employee. If HR gets wind of that text, or the fact that we replied to it, we’re looking at a lawsuit that could tank the Series B before we even launch. We have to be smart.”
“I know, I know,” Owen waves a hand dismissively. “Strictly professional. I remember the lecture.”
The door opens again. This time, it’s quieter.
Asher slips inside. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He’s wearing a black hoodie over a T-shirt, his blonde hair messy, his blue eyes intense and shadowed, and he’s holding a tablet.
“The encryption protocols are updated,” Asher says, his voice rough as he leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “And I updated her permissions.”
“Whose permissions?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Tessa’s,” Asher says. “I gave her access to the raw user session data. She needs to see the behavioral patterns to build the marketing personas.”
“Raw session data?” I frown. “That’s high clearance, Ash. Usually, we wait until after the probation period.”
“She needs it,” Asher shrugs. “If she’s going to do the job, she needs the tools. I sandboxed her environment. Scrubbed logs. No PII. She can only see patterns.”
“It’s a massive risk,” I snap. “She leaks one piece of user data, we’re finished.”
“She won’t,” Asher says simply. “I rigged the sandbox myself. The second Owen hands over those credentials and she logs in, I’ll be tracking every keystroke.”
I look at my brothers. Owen is grinning like he just picked a lock. Asher is staring at the floor, humming with that quiet, intense energy he gets when he’s obsessed with a problem.
And I realize, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that my strategy of “ignore it and it will go away” is destined to fail. They aren’t ignoring it. They’re circling it.
“Listen to me,” I say, standing up. I put my palms flat on the desk, looking between them. “I mean it. She’s Harper’s best friend. Her parents treat us like sons. If we mess this up, if we make her uncomfortable, or if we cross a line, we lose more than just a strategist. We lose our sister. We lose our family.”
Owen’s smile fades slightly. “We know, Ethan. You don’t have to lecture us.”
“Then act like you know,” I snap. “When she walks through those doors, she’s Ms. Hartley and we’re her bosses. There’s no flirting, no commentary on her wardrobe, and absolutely no mention of Friday night.”
“Fine,” Owen sighs, “but you have to admit, the irony is incredible. We hire a Brand Lead to fix our image, and she starts by sending us a nude.”
“It wasn’t a nude,” Asher corrects him softly. “It was a question.”
