Page 12 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I look at Asher. “What?”
“She asked for help,” Asher says, finally looking up. His eyes are clear and analytical. “She wanted to know what works. She treats attraction like a variable to be optimized. Ideally, she approaches her job the same way.”
I stare at him. Only Asher could look at a photo of a woman in lingerie and analyze her work ethic.
“Just… keep it professional,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Owen, you handle the onboarding. Show her the systems. Introduce her to the team. And keep it public.”
“Me?” Owen points to himself. “Why me? You’re the CEO. Technically, she reports to you.”
“Because if I do it,” I admit, the truth clawing its way out of my throat, “I might fire her just to get her out of the building.”
Owen laughs. “You’re terrified of her.”
“I’m not terrified. I’m risk-averse.”
“Same thing.” Owen stands up, buttoning his jacket. “Relax, E. I’ll handle the tour. I’ll be the perfect gentleman. I won’t even look at her legs.”
He heads for the door.
“Owen,” I call out. He pauses, hand on the handle. “Check her file. Make sure the employment contract is fully executed before she logs in.”
“Already done,” Owen salutes lazily, grabbing his own coffee off the edge of my desk. “See you in the War Room.”
He leaves. Asher pushes off the wall and follows him without a word, presumably to go stare at his monitors and avoid human contact until lunch.
I am alone again. I sit back down and take a deep breath, trying to steady the rhythm of my heart. It’s just a job, I tell myself. She’s just an employee. I look at the empty glass desk outside my window again.
Then, I see movement. The elevator doors at the far end of the floor slide open. A figure steps out.
And there she is.
She pauses for a second, a strand of loose auburn hair falling over the strap of her leather tote bag, scanning the open-plan office. She looks… different. The red silk is truly gone. In its place, she’s wearing a tailored cream blouse tucked into high-waisted navy trousers that cut off just above her ankles. It’s professional. It’s modest. It’s exactly the kind of outfit a Lead Brand Strategist should wear on her first day.
And I hate it.
Even with the high neckline and the sensible fabric, I know exactly what is underneath. My brain unhelpfully overlays the image from Friday night—the curve of her waist, the shadow of her cleavage, the way her skin glowed in the dim light of the lounge.
She starts walking toward the reception desk, the sharp sound of her heels echoing against the polished concrete.
“Showtime,” I mutter.
I walk out of my office into the open lobby. Owen is already there, leaning against the reception desk, beaming like he’s welcoming a celebrity. Asher is lurking near the server room door, holding his tablet like a shield.
“Tessa!” Owen calls out, his voice echoing in the quiet space. “You made it. And you’re early. We like early.”
Tessa jumps slightly, then smiles. It’s a polite, nervous smile. “Hi, Owen. I figured I should get a head start on the login protocols.”
“Smart,” Owen says. He pushes off the desk and gestures grandly to the space. “Welcome to the nerve center of Mosaic. It looks a little like a spaceship and smells like expensive coffee, but you’ll get used to it.”
She laughs, but the sound is tight. Her eyes dart past him and lock onto me.
Her smile vanishes.
She straightens her spine, squaring her shoulders like she’s bracing for impact. “Good morning, Ethan. Or should I say, Mr. Branson?”
The formality is a slap. Mr. Branson. It’s correct. It’s respectful. It’s what I wanted. So why the fuck does it annoy the hell out of me?
“Ethan is fine,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. I hold my ground, crossing my arms over my chest. I need the barrier. “We don’t stand on ceremony here. We care about results.”
