Sexting My Best Friend’s Brothers (Surprise Baby Daddies #10)

Chapter 1 Tessa

TESSA

The bass of Doja Cat’s Woman thumps against the walls of my bedroom, shaking the perfume bottles on my dresser. It’s pulsing through the floorboards, probably annoying Mrs. Gable downstairs, but I don’t give a fuck.

Tonight isn’t just any Friday. Tonight is a funeral for my youth and a baptism for my future, all rolled into one.

I shimmy my hips, singing into the handle of my hairbrush as I survey the absolute devastation on my bed. It looks like a tornado hit a fashion boutique here. Skirts, crop tops, and discarded bras are strewn everywhere—casualties of my indecision.

“Okay, Tessa. Focus,” I tell my reflection in the mirror. “Last night of freedom. Make it count.”

In a little over two days, everything changes. No more sleeping until ten. No more freelance consulting in my sweatpants while eating cereal for dinner. On Monday morning, I become Tessa Hartley, Lead Brand Strategist of Mosaic.

My stomach flutters just thinking about it. Mosaic. The name alone sounds expensive. It’s the hottest tech startup in Austin, the kind of place whispered about in marketing circles as the “disruptor” of the year.

I still can’t believe I got it, and I have Harper to thank for the headache.

She was the one who found the listing two months ago on some obscure tech forum. She’d cornered me, eyes wide with that chaotic energy she’s famous for, and sent me the link with a cryptic note: Apply. Don’t ask questions. Just trust me.

I almost didn’t click it because the posting was vague, but Harper insisted.

“This company needs a brain like yours,” she’d said. “The job description is insane, but the pay is legitimate. I actually know the headhunter handling the search, so I can get your portfolio on the top of the pile. But you have to win the interview yourself.”

When I asked how she knew the recruiter for a ghost company, she just waved a hand and said she ‘knows people.’

“Tessa, stop underselling yourself,” she’d insisted. “You are exactly what they are describing.”

She was right. But she wasn’t kidding about the intensity.

The hiring process was like joining the CIA. Two months of interviews with a third-party recruiter who handled everything like a classified operation.

“The founders use a strict blind selection process,” the recruiter had explained during the onboarding call. “We scrub all personal identifiers—names, photos, universities—from the portfolios. They review the strategy, the voice, and the results. Nothing else.”

It was extreme, but it worked. I got the job.

But then came the airtight NDA. The contract was terrifyingly specific: absolute silence until launch. The founders delegated most of the hiring process to keep their identities offline. I don’t even get a name until Monday.

The tech blogs call them the ‘Phantom Trio’—three anonymous urban legends who refuse to put their names on the website. But the salary they offered me had enough zeros to make my remaining student loans weep with relief, so I don’t care if they’re three raccoons in a trench coat.

I have to be professional on Monday. I have to be the adult in the room. But tonight? Tonight, I just want chaos.

I turn back to the bed, looking down at the two finalists lying on the duvet.

On the left is a black bodycon. It’s a solid choice.

It hugs my waist, cutting low enough to be interesting but high enough to be decent.

It’s safe. It screams: I have a 401k, I drink vodka sodas, and I make responsible life choices.

It’s the kind of dress that gets you bought a drink, but maybe not taken home.

On the right is a red slip.

I bite my lip, running a finger over the fluid silk.

Calling it a ‘dress’ is generous. It’s a scrap of crimson silk that looks less like evening wear and more like something a mistress wears to answer the door at midnight.

It has spaghetti straps thin enough to snap with a tug, a cowl neck that dips recklessly low, and a slit that rides high up my thigh.

Harper bought it for me last week as a pre-parting gift. “For when you want to break hearts,” she’d said.

It’s scandalous. It’s the kind of dress that doesn’t just ask for attention; it forces a confession.

“Safe or dangerous?” I whisper to the empty room.

My phone flashes on the nightstand. A text from Harper asking if I’m on my way yet.

I ignore it. I need to move. Harper is the reason for the party, but she’s also the reason I need tonight to be epic. She’s leaving for Europe next week. My best friend, my partner in crime, will be gone.

If I wear the black dress, I’ll have a nice, fun night. If I wear the red one... well, anything could happen.

I snatch up the red slip and decide to ditch a bra entirely. I hold up the sticky adhesive cups, but then I look at the dress. Nah. I toss them back into the drawer. The back is too low for straps, and the front is reckless, so fuck it. I want it that way.

I slide the silk on, the fabric melting against my bare skin, and turn to the full-length mirror.

Damn.

It fits like a glove. Better than a glove. It fits like a secret. My cleavage is… prominent. The lace detailing around the bust frames everything like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

“Oh, yeah,” I grin, posing with a hand on my hip and tossing my hair over one shoulder. “This is definitely a mistake. The good kind.”

But is it too much?

I frown, twisting to see the back. Is it giving Sex Goddess or Desperate? I’ve been out of the dating game for six months to build my portfolio, so I need a second opinion. I need Harper to tell me I look like a queen so I can walk out that door with zero regrets.

I grab my phone, angling it high to get the best lighting. Snap.

I open my gallery, scroll back to the photo of the black bodycon I took ten minutes ago, and look at the new one. The red slip.

The lighting in the red one is golden, catching the sheen of the silk perfectly. My lips are painted a dark berry, my eyes are bright with adrenaline, and the dress… Well, the dress definitely answers the question.

I keep the Photos app open, my thumb hovering over the screen. Harper is waiting and I needed to be out that door like five minutes ago. I just want to send this and go.

I select both pictures: the red slip and the black bodycon. Side by side. Safe vs. Dangerous.

I hit the Share icon. The row of suggested contacts pops up—a line of little circles at the top of the screen.

Harper’s face is the first one.

I tap it. The chat draft opens with the photos attached.

I type the caption quickly:

Me: Help. Red or Black? Which one guarantees I get laid tonight?

I hit send.

The little whoosh sound of the message flying away echoes in the silence of my bedroom. I toss the phone onto the duvet, turn on my heel, and strut toward the bathroom to find my waterproof mascara. I’m humming along to the music, swaying to the beat, thinking about tequila shots and bad decisions.

I’m reaching for the doorframe when the music suddenly drops in volume.

Ping.

I pause, a smile tugging at my lips. Harper is fast today. She must be glued to her phone, probably procrastinating on packing. She’s going to tell me to wear the red one, obviously.

Ping. Ping.

The music stays low, failing to recover as the notifications pile up. My smile falters. Three pings? Rapid fire. Is she freaking out? Does she hate it?

My pulse spikes. The pounding bass suddenly sounds distant, drowned out by the heavy thudding of my own heart. I turn slowly, looking at the phone lying on the duvet.

I walk back to the bed, my stomach doing a strange stutter-step. I reach out and pick it up. I don’t even have to unlock it. The notifications are right there on the lock screen.

Harper (Surprise) (3 New Messages)

I choke on a breath.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”

I stare at the screen in horror. I tapped the group chat, the one named Harper (Surprise), which also has a picture of Harper’s face as the icon. I didn’t notice the name. I just saw her face, blindly tossed the grenade, and walked away.

No!

The text previews are clear as day.

Owen: Red. Definitely Red. But you better have good security, because you’re going to cause a riot.

I swallow a curse. Of course, it’s Owen. The charmer. The youngest. The one who taught me how to do a keg stand when I was a freshman and has a smile that could ruin a nun’s vocation in five seconds flat. He’s picturing it. He’s picturing me in this dress, starting a riot.

The next notification is right below it.

Asher: The black is boring. The red is torture. Wear the red.

My throat closes up entirely. Asher rarely texts. In the planning chat over the last two weeks, he’s contributed exactly two thumbs-up emojis. He’s the quiet, intense tech genius who usually prefers code to human interaction. Torture. He’s daring me. It sounds dark and dangerous, just like him.

And then, the final one.

Ethan: Christ, Tessa. You’re not wearing that out unless you want trouble.

My face burns so hot I think I might dissolve right here. Ethan. The oldest. The former special ops soldier turned corporate suit. But the expensive tailoring doesn’t fool anyone. He still looks at everyone as if they were a security risk he needed to size up.

Unless you want trouble. The way he says it… it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to protect me. It sounds like a challenge. It sounds like he’s the threat.

I’m mortified. I’m going to have to fake my own death.

I’ll change my name, move to a research station in Antarctica, and live with penguins.

I can’t face them. But I have to drive to the venue right now, look them in the eye, and pretend I didn’t just solicit sex advice from my best friend’s brothers.

“Fix it,” I whisper to myself, panic overriding the shame. “Fix it now.”

I unlock the phone and open the chat. The photos are there—the black bodycon and the red slip, side by side, glowing. And right underneath them, the three replies stare back at me.

And under the photos, the tiny gray text mocking me: Read.