Page 125 of Sexting the Boss
He picks up his phone, taps, and shows me a reservation time. “Eight.”
I glance down at my stomach then back up. “I’m not drinking.”
“I know.” His gaze flicks to my mouth for half a second and back to my eyes. “You’re still eating dessert.”
Damn it. I really love this guy.
I shower first, then I spend too long staring at my closet like it’s a personal attack. Half my clothes feel wrong, and the other half feel like I’m trying too hard. I settle on a black dress that skims instead of clings, and heels I can walk in without looking like a newborn deer.
Ethan waits in the living room in a suit that should be illegal. His tie is simple, his sleeves crisp, and he’s holding a small box in one hand.
I freeze. “If that’s jewelry, I’m leaving.”
His mouth tilts. “It’s not jewelry.”
He opens the box, and it’s a sleek little phone charm, gold and minimal, with a single engraved word.HERE.
I stare at it, then I look up. “That’s either sweet or unhinged.”
“It’s practical,” he says. “You keep it on your keys. If you ever need me, you text that word. No explanations, no debate.”
My throat tightens again, and I hate that I’m emotional, so I cover it with sarcasm like the mature adult I am.
“So, you invented a bat signal for my trauma.”
“For your safety,” he corrects. “And for my sanity.”
I take it, fingers brushing his as I do, and I tuck it into my bag like it’s a secret weapon.
The restaurant is the kind of place where the host greets Ethan like he’s expected, and the room softens around him like money has its own gravity. I brace myself for stares, for whispers, for someone recognizing us.
None of that happens.
It’s just dinner. It’s just warm light, clean tables, and the hum of people living lives that don’t involve surveillance and revenge.
We’re seated in a corner booth, and Ethan does his scan anyway, eyes moving once around the room, then returning to me. He doesn’t keep doing it. He settles.
That matters.
We order, we talk, and for twenty minutes I almost forget what our last few months have looked like. He asks about my day, he listens without checking his phone, and he makes a dry comment about a dish description that reads like a dare.
“I think they want to fight us,” I say, reading the menu.
“They’ll lose,” he replies.
Of course he says that.
Halfway through the first course, Ethan shifts, eyes cutting past me, then back. “They’re here.”
I turn.
Three women walk in. Priya first, hair glossy, eyes sharp, dress confident. Jo behind her, shorter, wider smile, the kind of person who seems friendly until you realize she’s clocking everything. Dani last, tall and bright, cheeks flushed from the cold, already grinning like she’s thrilled to be part of a story.
My chest squeezes.
I haven’t seen them in months, and I didn’t even tell them where I was, and now they’re here, and I feel exposed in the best and worst way.
Priya spots me and points, then she strides over like she’s marching into a meeting.
