Page 141 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“So, totally normal,” she laughs. “I honestly worry about them, Tess. When I left Austin, Ethan looked like he was about to snap, and I swear Asher just looked lonely.”
She leans closer to her camera, her expression softening into something genuine and vulnerable.
“I’m really glad you’re there,” she says seriously. “Knowing you’re in the office with them makes me feel so much better.They actually listen to you. You’re the glue that keeps them human.”
I feel hot tears prick the corners of my eyes. I’m not the glue, I want to scream. I'm dynamite.
“I try,” I whisper instead.
“Hey,” she says, immediately noticing my expression. “Are you okay? You look incredibly stressed. Ethan sent me a text saying he’s stuck in a War Room meeting and might be late for our catch-up later. Is everything okay over there?”
“It is,” I assure her. “It’s just intense right now.”
“Well, don’t let them burn you out,” Harper orders strictly. “If Ethan makes you cry, you tell me. I’ll fly back and stab him with a salad fork.”
“I will,” I promise.
“I have to go,” she says, suddenly glancing off-screen. “Jean-Luc is downstairs with his scooter, which is both terribly dangerous and ridiculously romantic.”
“Go,” I laugh. “Don’t die.”
“Love you, Tess! Give the boys a hug for me, but not a weird one!”
She winks, and the screen goes abruptly black.
I sit alone at my desk, feeling entirely isolated despite the low hum of the bullpen around me.
Give the boys a hug for me.
I drop my head into my hands, letting the physical, crushing weight of the guilt wash over me. I’m lying to my best friend, deceiving a ruthless investor, and sleeping with my bosses.
I slowly look down at my stomach. I’ve been feeling completely off all week—nauseous, exhausted, and suddenly hypersensitive to smells. It’s probably just the stress from the launch aftermath and the exhausting toll of keeping so many massive secrets.
It has to be the stress.
I yank open my desk drawer, pull out a bottle of antacids, and quickly pop two of them into my mouth.
Just stress, I tell myself firmly.
But as I swallow the chalky tablets, a tiny, freezing spike of dread settles deep in my gut. It’s a terrifying variable I haven’t calculated yet.
What if it’s not stress?
I shove the thought away, because I absolutely cannot deal with what-ifs right now. I have a multimillion-dollar Morality Clause to dodge. I have a company to save. I have three men to protect.
I turn back to my computer and force myself to focus. The work continues, and the secret continues. But the clock is loudly ticking down, and I have a terrible feeling that Sterling’s brand of family values is about to make my life a lot more complicated.
24
OWEN
The ink on the Sterling Capital contract is barely dry when I watch Robert Sterling slide the document into his leather briefcase. It’s a slow, deliberate movement, like a predator sheathing its claws before snapping the brass locks closed.
Click. Click. It sounds like a jail cell closing.
“Excellent,” Sterling says, standing up and smoothing the lapels of a suit jacket that probably costs more than my first car. “The Series B funds will be wired tomorrow morning. Fifty million dollars of fresh capital, gentlemen. Do try not to spend it all on bean bag chairs and ping pong tables.” He offers a thin, bloodless smile. “Your Series A funding gave me a foothold, but this new cash gives me oversight. I look forward to a boring, highly profitable partnership.”
He looks at Ethan first. “Keep the ship steady, Branson. I don’t like surprises, and volatility is bad for my blood pressure.”
