Chapter 3 Ethan #2
Tessa jumps slightly, then smiles. It’s a polite, nervous smile. “Hi, Owen. I figured I should get a head start on the login protocols.”
“Smart,” Owen says. He pushes off the desk and gestures grandly to the space. “Welcome to the nerve center of Mosaic. It looks a little like a spaceship and smells like expensive coffee, but you’ll get used to it.”
She laughs, but the sound is tight. Her eyes dart past him and lock onto me.
Her smile vanishes.
She straightens her spine, squaring her shoulders like she’s bracing for impact. “Good morning, Ethan. Or should I say, Mr. Branson?”
The formality is a slap. Mr. Branson. It’s correct. It’s respectful. It’s what I wanted. So why the fuck does it annoy the hell out of me?
“Ethan is fine,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. I hold my ground, crossing my arms over my chest. I need the barrier. “We don’t stand on ceremony here. We care about results.”
“Right,” Tessa nods. “Results.”
She’s looking me in the eye, but I can see the rapid, betraying beat in the hollow of her throat. She’s terrified. Good.
“Did you bring the signed contract?” I ask, holding out my hand.
“Yes.” She reaches into her bag. For a split second, I worry she’s going to pull out her phone—that damned phone with the group chat history. But she pulls out a crisp blue folder instead. She hands it to me.
Our fingers brush.
Her skin is hot, and the contact burns, traveling up my arm to settle heavily in my chest. Tessa pulls her hand back quickly, her breath catching.
“Signed and dated,” she says, her voice a little breathless.
“Good.” I open the folder, pretending to scan the signature just to give myself a moment to recalibrate.
“Owen will get you set up with your keycard and your login credentials. Your desk is the glass one over there. It has the best view of the city, which usually means it’s the most distracting, so try to focus. ”
“I’m very focused,” she says quietly.
“We have a team stand-up at ten,” I continue, snapping the folder shut. “I expect you to have reviewed the current user acquisition stats by then. They’re on the shared drive. Can you handle that?”
It’s a challenge. I’m being an ass, and I know it. I’m trying to push her away, to establish the hierarchy, and to remind us both that I am the boss and she is the employee.
Tessa’s hazel eyes narrow slightly. The nervousness evaporates, replaced by a flash of that stubbornness I remember from when we were much younger.
“I reviewed the acquisition stats this weekend,” she says, in a cool tone.
“Your retention rate drops by twenty percent after the first week. It’s not a user acquisition problem.
It’s an onboarding engagement problem. You’re getting them to the door, but you aren’t giving them a reason to stay inside. ”
Silence stretches across the lobby.
Owen lets out a low whistle. “Damn. She did her homework.”
Asher steps forward from the shadows, his interest piqued. “She’s right. The drop-off correlates with the profile completion step. It’s too long.”
I stare at her. She isn’t backing down. She’s challenging me on my own data. And God help me, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Fine,” I manage to say, keeping my face impassive. “Then fix it. That’s what we hired you for.”
“I intend to,” she says.
“Good.” I turn on my heel. “Owen, give her the tour. Don’t take all day.”
I march back into my office and shut the door with a snap. I walk to my desk and sink into the leather chair, exhaling a harsh rush of air that sounds too loud in the stillness. My heart is thumping against my ribs like I just ran a sprint.
This is going to be a disaster.
I’m trying to work. I really am. But every time I look up, she’s there.
Her desk is directly in my line of sight. I can see the back of her head, the curve of her neck as she leans over her keyboard. She’s been working for four hours straight. No lunch. No breaks except for one trip to the coffee machine.
She’s driven. I respect that. But I also hate that Owen keeps stopping by her desk.
He’s there right now, sitting on the edge of her desk, swinging his leg, holding a stack of papers. He’s laughing and leans down, whispering something in her ear.
Tessa smiles. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
A sharp, irrational spike of anger stabs through me. Professional boundaries, Owen.
I stand up without thinking. I walk to the door, yank it open, and stride across the floor.
“Owen,” I bark.
They both jump. Owen looks up, entirely unrepentant. Tessa looks guilty, even though she hasn’t done anything wrong.
“Hey, boss,” Owen says. “Just getting Tessa up to speed on the press kit.”
“The press kit is digital,” I clip out. “You don’t need to sit on her desk to explain a PDF.”
Owen rolls his eyes, sliding off the desk. “Relax, E. We’re brainstorming.”
“We’re working,” Tessa corrects him quickly, looking at me. “I was just asking about the tone for the launch interviews. I think we need to pivot away from the ‘tech genius’ angle and focus more on the ‘human connection’ aspect.”
She’s good. She pivots to work instantly to defuse the tension.
“The human connection is the point,” I say, stepping closer to her desk.
I rest my hands on the back of her chair, leaning in slightly.
I smell her—sweat and cheap jasmine. It’s the same scent from the party.
“But we can’t sell a connection if the product crashes.
Owen, the marketing budget needs your approval. Now, please.”
“Slave driver,” Owen mutters, offering Tessa a mocking two-finger salute before heading downstairs.
Now it’s just me and her.
The open-plan office is busy—coders with headphones, designers sketching on tablets—but in this little bubble of space, it feels like we’re alone. Tessa stares at her screen, typing furiously, ignoring me.
“You didn’t eat lunch,” I say.
Her fingers pause. “I’m not hungry.”
“Liar,” I say softly.
She looks up at me then. Her eyes are defiant. “I’m busy, Mr. Branson. I have a retention problem to fix.”
“Ethan,” I correct her. “And you can’t fix anything if you pass out from low blood sugar. Order something. Put it on the company card.”
“I brought a salad,” she says. “It’s in the fridge.”
“Then eat it.”
“Are you micromanaging my lunch break now?”
“I’m managing my assets,” I say, my voice dropping an octave. “You’re an expensive asset, Tessa. I need you to run at peak efficiency.”
“Is that all I am?” She tilts her head, her gaze locking onto mine. “An asset?”
The tension snaps tight between us. It’s the same magnetic pull from Friday night. The same Red or Black challenge.
I lean down, bringing my face close to hers. I lower my voice so only she can hear.
“You’re a liability, Tessa,” I murmur. “You’re a distraction. And you’re the most dangerous thing in this building.”
Her breath hitches. Her lips part slightly.
I want to kiss her. I want to pull her out of that chair, drag her into my office, lock the door, and ruin every single professional boundary I just set up.
But I don’t. I straighten up, adjusting my cuffs.
“Eat your salad,” I command. “That’s an order.”
I walk away before I do something stupid.