Page 30 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“We’re here,” I say abruptly, pulling up to the curb in front of her apartment building. It’s an older brick building, renovated but still gritty.
I put the car in park.
“Thank you,” she says. She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t open the door. “For the ride. And the brownie. And for not making fun of my dead car.”
“It wasn’t the car’s fault. It was an electrical failure.”
“Right.” She bites her lip. She looks at her building, then back at me. “Do you… do you want to come up?”
My hands lock on the wheel. “Come up?” I repeat.
“For coffee,” she adds quickly. “Or water. Since you probably don’t drink coffee at night. Just… as a thank you. I don’t want to owe you.”
“You don’t owe me.”
“I know. But…” She trails off. Her eyes are searching mine, wide and vulnerable in the dark car. “I don’t really want to be alone right now. The signal is weak tonight.”
The signal. She’s using my language. I should say no. Ethan would say no. Owen would say yes, but for the wrong reasons.
I unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Decaf,” I say. “If I have caffeine now, I won’t sleep for three days.”
Tessa smiles. It’s a genuine, unguarded smile that cracks my defenses wide open.
“Decaf it is.”
Her apartment is small, cluttered, and warm.
It smells like her. Sweat and floral. It hits me before I even cross the threshold. There are throw pillows everywhere. A stack of fashion magazines on the coffee table next to a stack of coding manuals.
It’s chaotic. It’s perfect.
“Make yourself at home,” she says, dropping her bag on a chair. “I’ll start the kettle.”
I stand in the middle of the living room, feeling too large for the space. I keep my hands in my pockets to stop myself from touching things.
I walk over to a bookshelf. It’s overflowing. The Art of War is wedged next to Vogue.
“You have eclectic taste,” I call out toward the kitchenette.
“I contain multitudes,” she calls back. I hear the sound of water running. “Don’t judge the romance novels. They’re research.”
“Research for what?”
“On what women actually want.”
She walks back into the room holding two mugs. She has taken off her blazer. She’s just in the cream silk blouse now. It’s sleeveless. Her arms are bare and smooth.
She hands me a mug. “Chamomile. I figured it was safer than decaf coffee.”
“Safe is boring,” I murmur, taking the mug. Our fingers brush.
“You said the black dress was safe,” she whispers, without pulling her hand away.
“It was.”
“And the red?”
