Page 135 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
We walk back inside. The door clicks shut. The lock turns.
23
TESSA
Amonth after the global launch, Rule One of the Protocol is proving to be the hardest: no physical contact within a two-mile radius of the office.
I recite it in my head as I pull my beat-up sedan into the Mosaic underground parking garage on a humid Monday morning.
Two miles means the separation starts the second we wake up. Whenever they manage to sneak over to spend the night, we have to leave my apartment in strict, agonizing shifts the next morning so no one sees us arriving together. Ethan leaves first at seven, Owen at seven-fifteen, and Asher at seven-thirty. I leave last, taking a different route, parking on a different level, and taking an entirely different elevator bank.
It’s systematic, secure, and absolute torture.
I kill the engine and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair is pulled back in a severe, professional bun, my lips are painted in a shade called Boardroom Red, and my silk blouse is buttoned to the throat to hide the faint purple bruise Ethan left on my collarbone.
“Game face, Tessa,” I whisper.
I grab my bag and step out into the stifling warmth of the garage.
My stomach gives a violent lurch—a wave of nausea that’s become my annoying morning companion for the last week. I swallow it down; the impending Series B funding round has been incredibly stressful.
I walk toward the elevators, my pulse stuttering the second the doors open because all three of them are already standing inside.
It’s incredibly rare that our timings overlap this perfectly. They’re waiting in the glass elevator—Ethan in a charcoal suit looking at his phone, Asher staring blankly at the floor, and Owen leaning against the back wall spinning his badge on his finger.
I step inside.
“Good morning,” I say, keeping my voice cool and detached.
Ethan looks up. His eyes, usually warm and possessive when we’re alone, go completely cold and flat.
“Morning, Tessa,” he says. Not Tess. Not Sweetheart.
“Good morning, Miss Hartley,” Asher says mechanically.
“Hey, T,” Owen offers with a polite nod.
The doors slide shut, sealing us in.
For a second, the silence is heavy, thick with the kind of static that usually precedes a lightning strike. I can smell them—a potent mix of expensive soap, black coffee, and clean sweat that makes my mouth water and my knees weak.
I stand at the front of the elevator, staring at the numbers as they climb. I can feel Ethan’s gaze burning into the back of my neck. He’s looking at the stray wisp of hair escaping my bun. He’s thinking about pulling the pin out.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Group Chat: SYSTEM OVERRIDE (Encrypted)
Owen: This is agony. I want to touch you.
Asher: Proximity alert. The camera in the elevator is active. Maintain distance.
Ethan: Turn around, Tessa. Just look at me.
I bite the inside of my cheek and refuse to turn around. If I look at him, I’ll crumble and throw myself at him, cameras be damned.
Me: Behave, Mr. Branson.
I hear a soft snort from behind me—Owen.
