Page 23 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“You guys are… a lot,” she says, turning to look at me. “I always knew you were smart—the story about Asher taking apart the toaster when he was ten is practically a legend—but this… Mosaic is something else.”
I glance at her. The sunlight is hitting her profile, lighting up the stray strands of red-gold hair that have escaped her bun. She looks beautiful.
“It has to be,” I say, my voice dropping. “We bet everything on this, Tess. Every cent we had, our reputations, our sanity. If this launch fails, we don’t just lose money. We lose the only thing we’ve ever built. And we aren’t allowed to fail.”
“Who says?” she asks softly. “Your parents?” My jaw tightens.
“Our parents couldn’t care less. It’s Ethan. And me. Mostly Ethan.”
I reach over to adjust the air conditioning, letting my hand brush her knee for a fleeting second. The heat of her skin burns through the fabric of her dress. She doesn’t pull away. In fact, she leans into the touch, just a fraction.
“That’s why he’s so hard on you,” I add quietly. “He’s terrified because you’re the only thing in his life he can’t control.”
“I doubt that,” she says, looking out the window as the Austin skyline blurs by. “He seems perfectly in control to me.”
“You’d be surprised,” I murmur.
Ten minutes later, Perla’s is bustling, filled with the hum of conversation and the clatter of silverware. We snag a table on the patio, sitting under a large oak tree draped with lights. It’s a beautiful Austin day—sunny, warm, with a light breeze.
It feels like a date. It definitely feels like a date.
Tessa seems to realize it too. She’s fidgeting with her napkin, looking everywhere but at me.
“So,” she says, grabbing her water glass a little too tight. “Appetizers. I was thinking we should avoid anything messy. No ribs, no heavy sauces. People will be holding drinks and networking.”
“Agreed,” I say, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table. “We need elegant finger foods. Maybe those little crab cakes?”
“Crab cakes are good,” she nods, relaxing a fraction. “And maybe bruschetta? It’s colorful.”
We talk about the menu for about ten minutes. She’s smart, decisive. She has good taste. I watch her hands as she talks, the way she animates her points. She’s passionate about this job. It’s sexy as fuck.
“And the oysters,” I add.
The waiter arrives with a silver platter of them on ice before she can protest.
“I didn’t order these,” Tessa says, eyeing the shells warily.
“I pre-ordered,” I grin. “Perks of being a regular. Try one.”
“I don’t know if oysters are the best ‘networking food,’ Owen. They’re messy.”
“Only if you do it wrong.”
I pick up a shell. It’s cold and rough against my fingers. I garnish it with a squeeze of lemon and a drop of hot sauce.
“Watch,” I instruct.
Tessa watches, her gaze locked on my mouth.
I tip the shell back, sliding the oyster into my mouth, swallowing it smooth and slow. I lick a drop of lemon juice from my bottom lip.
Tessa’s breath hitches. It’s a tiny sound, but I hear it.
“Your turn,” I challenge, holding out a prepared shell to her.
She hesitates, looks at the oyster, then at me. The space between us shrinks, pressurized by the unspoken thing we aren’t allowed to talk about.
“It’s just an oyster, Tess,” I tease softly. “Don’t be scared.”
