Page 52 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I look up. Owen is watching me closely. He’s noticed the hesitation. He’s noticed the way my grip tightened on the phone.
“He asked if I’m okay,” I admit.
Owen’s jaw clenches. He sets the spatula down. “Tell him you’re fine.”
“I’m fine.”
“Tell him you’re with me.”
The words hang in the air.
Tell him you’re with me. He’s marking his territory. He’s daring me to lie.
“Owen,” I say softly. “If I tell him I’m with you… if I tell him I’m wearing your shirt and eating your pancakes… it explodes. You know it does.”
“Maybe it needs to explode,” Owen says. He walks around the island. He stands between my knees, his hands resting on my thighs over the denim of his shirt. “I don’t like hiding, Tessa. I don’t like pretending I didn’t just spend the whole night worshipping you.”
“I know.” I rest my forehead against his chest. “But not yet. Please. Not yet.”
I’m terrified. I’m terrified of losing the job. I’m terrified of Harper’s reaction. But mostly, I’m terrified of what happens to them, to the brothers, if I come between them.
I saw the way Ethan looked at the red dress. I saw the way Asher looked at me in the car.
If Owen claims me now, it forces a war.
Owen sighs, his hands squeezing my thighs gently. “Okay. Not yet. But I’m not going to keep it a secret forever.”
“Just for the weekend,” I remind him.
“Just for the weekend.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Answer the text. Tell him the copy is fine and to go eat a vegetable. Then turn the phone off.”
I nod.
I type the reply.
Me: I’m fine. The copy is solid. Stop overthinking it.
I hit send.
Then I turn the phone off and place it face down on the counter.
“Done,” I say.
“Good.” Owen exhales, a soft smile replacing the tension as quickly as it arrived. “Now, eat your pancakes. We have energy to replenish.”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously, picking up my fork. “What do you have planned?”
“Well,” Owen says, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. “I was thinking we could test the structural integrity of the shower again. Just to be safe.”
I laugh, shoving a piece of pancake into my mouth.
But as I chew, I can’t stop thinking about the phone lying face down on the counter.
And the man on the other end of the line who is sitting alone in his glass tower, wondering if I’m okay.
The sunlight hits the far wall of the kitchen, and the morning haze starts to thin. I look at the digital glow on his microwave, and reality starts to claw at my throat.
