Chapter 10 Tessa #2
I’m wearing Owen’s shirt.
It’s a cliché, I know. But my blouse is wrinkled, and his white button-down smells like him. I rolled the sleeves up, but they still hang past my fingertips. The hem hits my mid-thigh. It feels like a hug.
I sit on a barstool at his kitchen island, watching him cook.
He’s surprisingly domestic, moving around the kitchen with the same easy grace he uses in the boardroom to flip pancakes, brew coffee, and slice fruit.
“Blueberry or chocolate chip?” he asks, holding up two bags.
“Both,” I say. “I earned it.”
“You certainly did.” He winks, tossing a handful of chips into the batter.
The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of melting chocolate and the low hum of the coffee maker. For a heartbeat, it feels like we’re just a normal couple on a normal Saturday.
Then the counter vibrates.
Bzzz.
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. My phone is lying screen-up—a glowing rectangular intruder in the middle of our breakfast.
Ethan.
The name flashes on the screen like a warning siren.
Owen freezes too, spatula in hand. He looks at the phone, then at me.
“Are you going to get that?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
I reach out slowly and pick it up.
Ethan: I reviewed the ‘Be Seen’ assets. The copy for the billboard is wrong. Call me.
I exhale shakily, my chest loosening. “It’s work. He hates the billboard copy.”
“On a Saturday?” Owen scowls. “He needs an intervention. Don’t answer it.”
“I have to,” I say. “It’s the beta launch campaign. If the copy is wrong, the printers need to know by Monday.”
I unlock the phone. I start typing a reply.
Me: I’ll check the files. What specifically is wrong with it?
My thumb hovers over the send button.
But then, another text comes through.
Ethan: Also. Are you okay?
I stare at the screen.
Are you okay?
Three words. Simple. Harmless. Except they aren’t.
But coming from Ethan? It’s an earthquake.
He shut me out yesterday because he was afraid he’d lose control. He hasn’t spoken to me since—not after he must’ve watched me walk out that door with his brother. And now, amidst work demands, he’s asking if I’m okay.
“Tess?” Owen asks.
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.
“I have to go,” I say, pulling my gaze away from the flickering numbers. “I have errands. My laundry is piling up, and my cat is probably plotting my murder.”
“You have a cat?” Owen asks. “Why didn’t I know you have a cat?”
“Because we’ve been busy doing other things, you know?” I say, pulling on my skirt.
I feel the loss immediately. Putting my own clothes back on feels like putting the armor back on. I’m becoming a Brand Strategist again.
Owen walks me to the door. He’s wearing sweatpants low on his hips and nothing else. It takes a significant amount of willpower to walk away from that view.
“I’ll drive you home,” he offers.
“No,” I say. “I’ll take an Uber. It’s safer. If someone sees your car parked outside my building…”
“Right. Too many moving parts,” he mutters, sounding like Asher.
He pulls me in for a kiss. He lingers, his mouth warm and solid against mine, anchoring me to the spot. It feels less like a goodbye and more like a down payment.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his lips.
“For what?”
“For making me feel… reckless.”
“Anytime, trouble.”
I step out the door. The elevator ride down to the lobby feels like an eternity. By the time I hit the busy Austin street, I’m blinking in the harsh afternoon sunlight.
I pull my phone out and hold the power button.
The screen flares to life.
The moment it connects to the network, the backlog of notifications starts to flood in. I ignore the buzzing just long enough to call an Uber. While I wait, I finally check the screen. Three emails from Sarah. One from HR.
And a text from Asher.
Asher: Your phone has been off for several hours. Your phone pinged the network from Icon Towers downtown. That is Owen’s loft.
I stop breathing, a cold sweat breaking across the back of my neck.
I stare at the message.
He knows. Of course he knows. He’s the Watcher.
The three dots appear. He’s typing again.
Asher: The probability of you discussing marketing strategy on a Saturday morning is 2%. The probability of you sleeping with him is 98%.
I hold my breath.
Asher: Be careful, Tessa. Owen breaks things. He doesn’t mean to, but he does.
I lower the phone, my hand shaking.
I thought I had forty-eight hours. I thought I had a weekend of secrecy.
But the Phantom Trio sees everything.
My Uber pulls up. I get in, sliding into the backseat.
“Tessa?” the driver asks, glancing at his mounted phone.
“Yes,” I say, buckling my seatbelt. “The destination is correct.”
I look out the window as the city scrolls by.
I slept with one brother, the second one knows, and the third one—who called me a liability—just broke his silence to ask if I’m okay.
I didn’t just cross the line.
I erased it.
Now, I have to figure out how to live in the chaos I created.