Page 59 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Maybe he’s got a meeting,” I say weakly.
“Maybe. Or maybe someone died.” Sarah shrugs and walks off toward the creative pit.
I brace myself. I walk toward the reception desk.
And there he is.
Owen’s standing there. He’s wearing a navy suit, perfectly tailored, with a crisp white shirt and a dark tie. He’s holding a stack of mail.
He isn’t smiling.
The sunny, flirtatious grin that usually lights up his face is gone. His expression is polite, distant. Closed.
“Good morning, Tessa.”
The sound of my name on his lips—formal, clipped—hurts worse than a slap.
“Good morning, Owen,” I say, hugging my laptop bag closer to my chest.
“Did you have a good weekend?” he asks. It’s the kind of question you ask a stranger in an elevator.
“It was quiet,” I lie. “Productive. You?”
“Fine.” He looks at me, and for a second, the mask slips. I see the hurt in his eyes. I see the question. Are you sure?
Then he blinks, and it’s gone.
“Ethan wants the final proofs for the billboard by noon,” he says. “And Asher needs you in the war room at ten for the user flow review.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
“Great.” He nods once, curtly, and walks away toward his office, without looking back or lingering.
My lungs burn. This is what I asked for. This is “professional.” It feels cold.
I walk to my desk and sit down. I turn on my computer and open my email.
My hands are trembling.
Get it together, Tessa. You’re a professional.
I force myself to work. I answer three emails from the graphic design team. I approve a budget request for social media ads. I try to ignore the fact that Ethan’s office door is closed, the blinds drawn tight.
At 9:55 AM, I grab my tablet and head for the War Room. I walk past the break room. I walk past the rows of developers. I enter the glass-walled conference room.
It’s empty, except for one person.
Asher.
He’s sitting at the head of the table, surrounded by three laptops and a tablet. He isn’t typing. He’s staring at the door. Waiting.
“You’re early,” he says.
“I like to be prepared,” I say, stepping inside and closing the door.
The sound of the latch clicking shut seems loud in the stillness.
I walk to the opposite end of the table and sit down. “Where are the others?”
