Page 44 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Why did you ask?” she says suddenly.
“Ask what?”
“To bring me here. Is it pity? Did Ethan send you to do damage control?”
I laugh, but it’s a dark sound. “Ethan doesn’t send me anywhere, Tess. And I don’t do pity.”
I lean forward, invading her personal space. The air shifts between us, thick with the heat radiating off the concrete.
“I’m doing this because, since that meeting this morning, I’ve watched you biting your lip and it’s driving me insane. I’m doing this because if I had to watch you type one more spreadsheet while looking like you wanted to scream, I was going to put my fist through a monitor.”
She stops moving. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back up to my eyes.
“You’re the dangerous one,” she whispers.
“I thought I was the nice one? The one who lets you win at Mario Kart?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “Ethan is the wall. Asher is the ghost. But you… you make people think you’re safe. You make them think you’re just the charming guy who fixes the printer.” She takes a sip, her eyes never leaving mine. “That makes you the worst of them all.”
Guilt flickers in my chest, hot and sharp. She sees right through it.
“I’m not safe,” I admit, my voice dropping to a rough murmur. “I never said I was safe.”
“I know.” She sets the glass down. Her hand trembles slightly. “I don’t think I want safe anymore. I tried safe all week. It hurts.”
I reach across the table. I cover her hand with mine. Her skin is warm, electric against my palm.
“Then stop playing safe,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where?”
“My loft. It’s two blocks away.”
She hesitates. I can see the war in her eyes—the sensible career woman versus the reckless desire that got us into this mess.
She stands up.
“Okay.”
I unlock the door and kick a stray sneaker out of the hallway.
My loft isn’t a museum like Ethan’s penthouse. It smells of old wood, coffee, and the expensive scotch I left uncorked on the counter. It’s messy and real.
The moment the door clicks shut, the dynamic snaps.
We aren’t colleagues anymore. We aren’t friends.
Tessa stands in the living room, clutching her purse like a shield.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, tossing my keys into a bowl. “Water? Wine?”
“No,” she says. She sets her purse on the floor. She takes a step toward me. “I don’t want a drink.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to stop talking,” she says breathlessly.
I grin. “Make me.”
