Page 127 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
Ding.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Harper: In the elevator!!! Prepare to get tackled!
Panic spikes hard in my chest.
“She’s here,” I choke out.
“Game faces,” Owen says. He leans back against the kitchen island, crossing his arms, forcing a relaxed posture that looks completely fake to me but might pass for casual to anyone else.
The lock turns. The door flies open.
Harper bursts in like a glitter bomb. She’s wearing a red beret, dragging a hot pink suitcase, and holding a bottle of duty-free Gray Goose like a trophy. She drops the bag and screams.
“TESSA!”
She tackles me. We collide in the hallway, a mess of hugs and squeals and expensive French perfume.
“Oh my god, I missed you,” she groans into my hair, squeezing me so hard my ribs creak. “You smell like… sandalwood?”
My lungs lock.
Sandalwood. Ethan’s body wash. The one I used this morning because I like the way it lingers.
“It’s a candle!” I yell, pulling back abruptly. “New candle. Very earthy. Very woodland chic. Hi! Look at you! You look amazing!”
She beams, stepping back to do a twirl. She looks radiant—blonde hair perfectly blown out, cheeks flushed with excitement.
“I know. Paris agrees with me. But look who’s here!”
She turns to the living room.
The three men are standing there. A solid wall of Branson muscle.
“The Phantom Trio!” she teases, walking over to them.
She hugs Ethan first. He stiffens, then pats her back awkwardly—three quick pats. “Welcome home, Harp.”
“You’re stiff,” she notes, pulling back and poking his chest. “You need yoga. Or a girlfriend. Still single?”
“Busy,” Ethan grunts, stepping back to put distance between them.
She moves to Owen. He picks her up and spins her around, playing the role perfectly.
“There she is! The prodigal sister.”
“Put me down, you oaf!” she laughs, slapping his arm. “Did you miss me?”
“It’s been quiet,” Owen grins. “I’ve had no one to critique my dating life.”
“I’m sure it’s tragic,” she says. “We’ll discuss it over wine.”
Then she turns to Asher.
He’s standing perfectly still, hands in his pockets. He looks at her, analyzing the data.
“Hello, Harper,” he says. “Your pupils are dilated. You look rested.”
