Page 149 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Something like that. Or bad sushi.”
Sarah laughs, grabbing a fresh paper towel. “Careful,” she teases. “My sister thought she had bad sushi for three weeks. Turns out she was six weeks pregnant with twins. We call them Spicy and Tuna.”
She tosses the paper in the trash. “Feel better, hon. Drink some ginger ale.”
She walks out, and the door swings shut.
I stand completely still. The water is still running, dripping from my chin onto my silk blouse.
Pregnant.
The word echoes in the tiled room, bouncing off the mirrors.
Spicy and Tuna.
“No,” I whisper.
I turn off the faucet, my hand shaking so badly I fumble the heavy metal handle.
I walk back to my desk. The office is buzzing with ringing phones and laughing coworkers as normal life happens all around me.
I slump into my chair and unlock my computer, immediately pulling up the calendar to stare blankly at the grid for April and May.
My period is regular—it runs on an exact twenty-eight-day cycle. Harper used to make fun of me for being so rigidly organized about tracking it.
Looking at today’s date, I start counting the weeks. One. Two. Three… Six weeks. I’m two weeks late.
I didn’t miss it; I actively suppressed it. I pushed away the sake and skipped the raw fish last night, fully knowing my body was revolting but refusing to let the terrifying thought actually form.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to work the math backward.
I remember exactly what happened a month ago. The reckless afternoon. The panic attack. The very first time we broke the seal and didn’t use protection.
Why didn’t I take emergency contraception? Because I was on the birth control pill. Or, I was supposed to be. Between the insane stress of quitting my freelance jobs, Markus Vance’s threats, and moving my entire life to Mosaic during launch week, I completely forgot to take it for a few days.
By the time the dust finally settled, the window for Plan B was gone, and I foolishly assumed the risk was minimal.
Oh god.
“Tessa?”
I jump. Asher is standing beside my desk holding a tablet, with pure concern radiating off him. His blue eyes scan my face, immediately taking in the severe pallor and the sweat on my upper lip.
“Your respiration is shallow,” he says softly, his eyes tracking the slight tremor in my hands. “And your skin lacks color. Are you ill?”
“I’m fine, Ash,” I whisper, looking around to make sure no one is listening. “Just… tired.”
“You aren’t fine,” he states, his voice low. “You’re deviating from the baseline, Tessa. You never leave meetings, and you’re actively sweating.”
He reaches out to touch my forehead, and I instantly flinch back.
“Don’t,” I hiss. “Not here. Protocol.”
Asher’s hand drops. He looks genuinely hurt for a microsecond before the stoic mask slides right back into place.
“Understood,” he says stiffly. “Protocol. Go home, Tessa. Work from home. I’ll cover for you with Ethan.”
“I can’t go home,” I say. “I have… errands.”
