Chapter 22 Tessa
TESSA
“Razor,” I say, holding up the black handle I found in the shower.
Ethan doesn’t flinch. He steps out of the bedroom, takes it from my hand, and drops it into the duffel bag by the door.
“Secured,” he says.
“This feels insane,” I mutter, checking the sink for stray whiskers. “We’re scrubbing my apartment like we just committed a felony.”
“We’re sanitizing the environment,” Asher corrects. He’s standing by the bookshelf, adjusting the angle of a photo frame by two degrees. “We’re removing variables.”
“The subject is my best friend,” I remind him. “Not a lab rat.”
“She’s both,” Asher says. “She’s observant. We have to be efficient.”
He picks up a pair of size twelve Italian loafers from under the coffee table. “Owen. Footwear. Sector four.”
“They’re Gucci,” Owen calls from the kitchen. “Treat them with respect.”
He isn’t cleaning. He’s standing over the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells like vanilla and brown sugar.
“And don’t touch the oatmeal,” Owen adds. “It’s for stress-eating. I’m not letting us face Harper on an empty stomach.”
“You’re cooking?” I ask, watching him sprinkle cinnamon with a flourish.
“One of us has to function,” Owen says, flashing a tight grin. “Ethan’s managing the perimeter. Asher’s wiping the physical evidence. I’m making carbs. We’ve all got roles.”
I look at the duffel bag—our “Go-Bag.”
It isn’t a mess of panic-thrown items. It’s organized. Ethan’s spare Rolex sits in a case. The toothbrushes are packed.
“Ten minutes,” Asher announces, checking the chronograph on his wrist. “Flight 492 landed. Customs cleared. Uber is en route. ETA to doorstep: nine minutes, forty seconds.”
I stop moving. I look around the living room.
It looks normal.
Too normal.
The command center of the last twenty-four hours is completely dismantled. The servers Asher had running on my coffee table are gone. The tangled sheets in the bedroom are replaced with crisp white linens that scream I sleep alone.
I look at the three men in my living room.
They look out of place. They’re too big, too intense, too aggressively masculine for this space.
Ethan is wearing a dark t-shirt stretching across his chest, arms crossed, face set in grim determination.
Owen leans against the kitchen island, feigning relaxation.
Asher stands completely still, mapping the room for weak points.
They look ready for war.
“You have to go,” I say, nerves suddenly hitting me hard. “If she sees you here…”
“We can’t,” Ethan says. He steps forward, checking the room one last time. “She explicitly asked us to come over. If we bail now, it looks suspicious. We’re her brothers. We haven’t seen her in a month. If we aren’t here with champagne, she’ll know something’s wrong.”
“But if you’re here…” I look at them. “You can’t look at me. You can’t touch me. You can’t do… that.”
“Do what?” Owen grins, though it looks tight around the edges.
“That thing where you look at me like I’m your next meal.”
Ethan’s jaw tightens. He reaches out, adjusting the strap of my tank top. His knuckles brush my collarbone, leaving a trail of heat that makes my breath hitch.
“We can handle Harper,” he says quietly. “We built Mosaic from the ground up by keeping our identities secret. We can hide this for forty-eight hours.”
“It’s not just a relationship, Ethan,” I whisper. “It’s us. It’s everything.”
“Protocol is active,” Asher says, stepping between us. He physically separates Ethan’s hand from my shoulder. “Rule one: No physical contact within a two-mile radius. That includes the apartment.”
Ethan glares at him, a low growl rumbling in his chest, but he drops his hand.
“Asher’s right,” Ethan says, switching modes. The Lover vanishes. The CEO takes over. “We’re in Big Brother mode. I’m the stern, overprotective brother. Owen’s the annoying tease. Asher’s the robot. And you…”
He looks at me, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second before hardening back into steel.
“You’re the best friend. Nothing more.”
Nothing more.
The words hurt, even though they’re necessary. I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing the knot in my throat.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Best friend. I can do that.”
Ding.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Harper: In the elevator!!! Prepare to get tackled!
Panic spikes hard in my chest.
“She’s here,” I choke out.
“Game faces,” Owen says. He leans back against the kitchen island, crossing his arms, forcing a relaxed posture that looks completely fake to me but might pass for casual to anyone else.
The lock turns. The door flies open.
Harper bursts in like a glitter bomb. She’s wearing a red beret, dragging a hot pink suitcase, and holding a bottle of duty-free Gray Goose like a trophy. She drops the bag and screams.
“TESSA!”
She tackles me. We collide in the hallway, a mess of hugs and squeals and expensive French perfume.
“Oh my god, I missed you,” she groans into my hair, squeezing me so hard my ribs creak. “You smell like… sandalwood?”
My lungs lock.
Sandalwood. Ethan’s body wash. The one I used this morning because I like the way it lingers.
“It’s a candle!” I yell, pulling back abruptly. “New candle. Very earthy. Very woodland chic. Hi! Look at you! You look amazing!”
She beams, stepping back to do a twirl. She looks radiant—blonde hair perfectly blown out, cheeks flushed with excitement.
“I know. Paris agrees with me. But look who’s here!”
She turns to the living room.
The three men are standing there. A solid wall of Branson muscle.
“The Phantom Trio!” she teases, walking over to them.
She hugs Ethan first. He stiffens, then pats her back awkwardly—three quick pats. “Welcome home, Harp.”
“You’re stiff,” she notes, pulling back and poking his chest. “You need yoga. Or a girlfriend. Still single?”
“Busy,” Ethan grunts, stepping back to put distance between them.
She moves to Owen. He picks her up and spins her around, playing the role perfectly.
“There she is! The prodigal sister.”
“Put me down, you oaf!” she laughs, slapping his arm. “Did you miss me?”
“It’s been quiet,” Owen grins. “I’ve had no one to critique my dating life.”
“I’m sure it’s tragic,” she says. “We’ll discuss it over wine.”
Then she turns to Asher.
He’s standing perfectly still, hands in his pockets. He looks at her, analyzing the data.
“Hello, Harper,” he says. “Your pupils are dilated. You look rested.”
“I love you too, Robot,” she smiles, hugging him. He stands there like a statue, letting her embrace him, his eyes flicking to me over her shoulder.
She steps back, looking at all of us. Her eyes are bright, happy, and completely unsuspecting.
“God, this is perfect,” she sighs. “The whole family, together. And just in time for the launch! I demand a full debrief. Who’s panicking? Who’s crying? Give me the tea.”
She walks past them, heading for the kitchen.
“Where’s the wine opener? I need to hydrate.”
She reaches for the drawer.
The junk drawer. The one where we frantically shoved the lube and my discarded panties thirty seconds ago.
“NO!”
I lunge. Owen lunges.
We crash into each other in front of the drawer. My hip checks Owen into the counter. He grabs my waist to steady himself, his fingers digging in for a split second before he remembers the protocol and practically jumps away.
Harper stops, holding the vodka bottle. She looks at me. She looks at Owen, who’s practically hugging the dishwasher to block the cabinet.
“Whoa,” she says, eyebrows raising. “Aggressive much? I just wanted a corkscrew.”
“It’s broken!” I lie.
“The drawer is… jammed,” Owen lies simultaneously.
We look at each other.
“The drawer is jammed,” Owen corrects smoothly, stepping back but keeping his hip against the wood. “I’ll get it. You go sit. You’re jet-lagged.”
Harper narrows her eyes at us. She looks from Owen to me.
For a second, time stops. I think she knows. I think she sees the flush on my neck, the way Owen’s hand lingered on my waist, the heavy energy crackling in the air.
Then she shrugs.
“Okay, weirdos,” she says. “But seriously. Drinks. Now.”
She walks into the living room and flops onto the sofa—my sofa, where Asher had me bent over the other night.
I exhale. I look at Owen. He looks like he just barely stopped a detonation.
Close call, he mouths.
Too close, I mouth back.
We aren’t going to survive this weekend.
“So,” Harper says, waving a slice of pepperoni pizza like a gavel. “Let’s talk about love.”
We’re sitting on the floor of my living room. The family dynamic kicks into full swing. Ethan’s sitting in the armchair—the throne. Asher’s on the ottoman. Owen and Harper are on the rug. I’m sitting by the window, as far away from the men as possible.
“We don’t have time for love,” Ethan says, taking a sip of beer. “We launch in about twenty-four hours.”
“Boring,” Harper sings. “That’s a deflection. Ethan, you’re thirty-seven. Are you telling me you haven’t been on a single date since I left?”
“No,” Ethan says.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m building an empire, Harper.”
“You can build an empire and get laid,” Harper argues. “Napoleon did it. Look at Owen. Owen, tell me you’re seeing someone.”
Owen chokes on his crust.
I stare at my pizza. Don’t look at Owen. Don’t look at Owen.
“I’m… seeing people,” Owen says vaguely.
“People? Plural?” Harper rolls her eyes. “Of course. The playboy brand remains strong. Anyone special?”
“Maybe,” Owen says. His eyes flick to me. Just a dart. A microscopic movement.
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks.
“Ooh!” Harper sits up. “Tessa! You’re blushing! Do you know who it is? Tell me! Is she pretty? Is she smart? Is she a bitch?”
“She’s…” I stammer. “She’s very smart. And… complicated.”
“Complicated is good,” Harper decides. “Keeps him on his toes.” She turns to me. “What about you, T? Any French lovers while I was gone? Any brooding artists?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Just work. Ethan works me too hard.”