Page 42 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
OWEN
Friday, 5:45 PM
Toxic. That’s the only word for the air in the office today.
It’s not the ventilation system. It’s not the reek of tepid energy drinks and warm plastic from the developer pit.
It’s Ethan.
Since this morning’s strategy meeting, my brother has been a walking detonator. He stalks the perimeter of his glass office, radiating a frequency of rage that has every developer in the pit wearing noise-canceling headphones. He stares at monitors he isn’t reading.
And he completely ignores Tessa.
From my desk, I see her. She sits rigid in her chair, typing with a mechanical rhythm. She looks exhausted. Dark smudges bruise the skin under her hazel eyes, shadows that weren’t there at the start of the week. She hasn’t smiled since she stormed out of that conference room.
Ethan is breaking her.
He thinks he’s protecting the company. He thinks he’s “establishing boundaries.” But from where I’m sitting, it looks like he’s punishing her because he wanted to kiss her and didn’t.
“Enough,” I mutter.
I stand up and button my jacket. The “firewall” Ethan just ordered is a death sentence for morale, and I’m done watching the slow-motion crash.
“Where are you going?” Asher asks without looking up from the nest of Ethernet cables on the floor.
“I’m pulling the ripcord,” I say. “Before he fires her for breathing too loud.”
Asher pauses, holding a blue wire. He looks at Tessa, then at the closed blinds of Ethan’s office.
“The dragon is volatile today,” Asher notes.
“He needs to get laid,” I correct. “But since he’s too busy being a martyr, I’m going to go do the job he refuses to do.”
“Owen.” Asher’s voice carries a warning.
“Relax, Ash. I’m just taking the new hire for a drink. Someone has to remind her we aren’t all psychopaths before she quits.”
I wink at him and stride across the bullpen.
I stop at Tessa’s desk. She’s staring at a spreadsheet like she wants to set it on fire.
“Fatal error?” I ask softly.
She jumps, blinking rapidly as she looks up. “What?”
“You have the ‘murder face’ on,” I say, leaning my knuckles on her desk. “I assumed the printer was acting up again.”
Tessa looks at me, then back at her screen A slow, tired smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “No. Just budget reconciliations. Ethan approved the campaign, but he just rejected the packaging designs. He said the font was ‘frivolous.’“
“He wears gray socks. Exclusively.” I lean a hip against her desk, lowering my voice. “You look like you need a drink, Tess. A real one. Not the sad office sludge.”
“I have work to do,” she sighs, gesturing to the screen. “And if I don’t finish this, he’s going to?—”
“He’s not going to do anything,” I interrupt. “Because you are clocking out. You survived two weeks at Mosaic. You survived the ‘Shark’ pitch. You survived the ‘Cold War’ of the last few hours. That calls for a celebration.”
She hesitates. Her gaze drifts to the closed door of the CEO’s office. The blinds are drawn, but the weight of his presence presses against the glass.
“I don’t know, Owen…”
