Page 61 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Yes. We agreed. It’s over.”
Asher studies my face. He looks at my mouth. He looks at the pulse fluttering in my throat.
“You’re lying,” he murmurs.
“I’m not?—”
“You’re flushing. You’re clenching your jaw. You’re leaning toward me, not away.”
He leans down, bringing his face close to mine. “You don’t want it to be over. You liked it.”
“Asher, please,” I beg, my vision blurring. “I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to protect Harper. I’m trying to protect you guys.”
“We don’t need protection,” he says. “We need connection. We built an entire billion-dollar platform because we don’t know how to ask for it.”
He straightens up, moving away just as the door opens.
Ethan walks in.
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees instantly. Ethan looks impeccable. His suit is tailored within an inch of its life. His tie is perfectly knotted.
His face is a mask of stone.
He looks at Asher. Then he looks at me. His gaze is cold, dismissive. It sweeps over me like I’m a piece of furniture he’s considering replacing.
“Ms. Hartley,” he says, taking his seat at the head of the table. “Let’s get this over with.”
I swallow hard, forcing my voice to work. “Yes, Mr. Branson.”
Asher sits down next to me. Under the table, his knee presses against mine. A solid, warm weight.
He keeps it that way.
Ethan opens his file. “The beta launch is in four days. The user flow needs to be seamless. Show me what you fixed.”
I pick up my tablet. I start to present. I talk about friction points. I talk about emotional engagement. I talk about the Be Seen campaign.
But underneath the corporate jargon, my mind is screaming. Owen’s heartbroken. Ethan’s furious.
And Asher… Asher’s claiming me in the only way he knows how.
I look at the two men before me, and the empty chair between them. The Genius. The Boss. And the ghost of the Charmer. I tried to draw a line. I tried to end it.
But as Asher’s knee anchors against mine and Ethan’s pen snaps between his fingers, I realize I’m not an employee anymore. I’m a target.
12
ASHER
The beta launch party is a glitzy, loud, inefficient nightmare.
It’s Friday night at The Vaughn, a venue that charges a four hundred percent markup on vodka just because they put a piece of gold foil in the glass. The air is thick with Santal 33 colonge, warm gin, and the sweat of two hundred people pretending to be rich.
I stand near a structural pillar on the edge of the terrace, holding a glass of scotch I have no intention of drinking.
It’s a prop. If you hold a drink, people assume you are participating. If you have empty hands, they assume you are available for conversation.
I am not.
