Page 128 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“I love you too, Robot,” she smiles, hugging him. He stands there like a statue, letting her embrace him, his eyes flicking to me over her shoulder.
She steps back, looking at all of us. Her eyes are bright, happy, and completely unsuspecting.
“God, this is perfect,” she sighs. “The whole family, together. And just in time for the launch! I demand a full debrief. Who’s panicking? Who’s crying? Give me the tea.”
She walks past them, heading for the kitchen.
“Where’s the wine opener? I need to hydrate.”
She reaches for the drawer.
The junk drawer. The one where we frantically shoved the lube and my discarded panties thirty seconds ago.
“NO!”
I lunge. Owen lunges.
We crash into each other in front of the drawer. My hip checks Owen into the counter. He grabs my waist to steady himself, his fingers digging in for a split second before he remembers the protocol and practically jumps away.
Harper stops, holding the vodka bottle. She looks at me. She looks at Owen, who’s practically hugging the dishwasher to block the cabinet.
“Whoa,” she says, eyebrows raising. “Aggressive much? I just wanted a corkscrew.”
“It’s broken!” I lie.
“The drawer is… jammed,” Owen lies simultaneously.
We look at each other.
“The drawer is jammed,” Owen corrects smoothly, stepping back but keeping his hip against the wood. “I’ll get it. You go sit. You’re jet-lagged.”
Harper narrows her eyes at us. She looks from Owen to me.
For a second, time stops. I think she knows. I think she sees the flush on my neck, the way Owen’s hand lingered on my waist, the heavy energy crackling in the air.
Then she shrugs.
“Okay, weirdos,” she says. “But seriously. Drinks. Now.”
She walks into the living room and flops onto the sofa—my sofa, where Asher had me bent over the other night.
I exhale. I look at Owen. He looks like he just barely stopped a detonation.
Close call, he mouths.
Too close, I mouth back.
We aren’t going to survive this weekend.
“So,” Harper says, waving a slice of pepperoni pizza like a gavel. “Let’s talk about love.”
We’re sitting on the floor of my living room. The family dynamic kicks into full swing. Ethan’s sitting in the armchair—the throne. Asher’s on the ottoman. Owen and Harper are on the rug. I’m sitting by the window, as far away from the men as possible.
“We don’t have time for love,” Ethan says, taking a sip of beer. “We launch in about twenty-four hours.”
“Boring,” Harper sings. “That’s a deflection. Ethan, you’re thirty-seven. Are you telling me you haven’t been on a single date since I left?”
“No,” Ethan says.
