Page 13 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
My skin tingles with heat in all the places his hands touched me, in the dream, in my mind, and I can still feel the echo of him between my thighs. When I step out, I wrap the towel tightly around myself. I stare into the mirror and find my reflection flushed, eyes too bright. I drag my palm across the fogged glass, smearing it with condensation, but it does nothing to erase the thoughts spiraling through my mind.
I go through my skincare routine with military precision, serum pressed into high points of my face, moisturizer gliding along my jaw, eye cream tapped gently beneath tired eyes. Then makeup. Concealer to blur the shadows. Brows brushed and filled, arched with quiet defiance. A dusting of blush to fake calm. And crimson lipstick because today, I need the illusion of control. At my closet, I skip the soft sweaters and go straight for the armor, black cigarette trousers, sharp and tailored, cinched perfectly at the waist. I pair them with an ivory silk blouse that floats over my skin like water, light and fluid, tucked just so. I fasten gold hoops at my ears and a delicate bracelet at my wrist. Every movement is intentional.
Every choice is calculated. These aren’t just clothes. They’re a message. The woman in the mirror doesn’t shrink. She stands her ground. The car ride into the city is quiet. Outside, the skyline blurs past in a rhythm that matches the uneven beat of my pulse. I try to focus on the streetlights, the traffic, the familiar landmarks. But all I can think about is that dream. His mouth on my skin. His hands everywhere. Jack. Jack. Jack. I shouldn’t want him. Not like this. Not now. But I do.
***
When I walk into the boardroom, it’s already humming with anticipation. Executives in tailored suits sit around the polished table, murmuring in low tones. Laptops are open. Coffee cups in hand. Eyes track me as I enter, some curious, some calculating. And then there’s Jack. He’s seated at the head of the table, cool and composed in a dark navy suit that looks custom-made. His jaw is set, eyes unreadable, but they lock on me the moment I step through the door. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. He watches me like I’m the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. I take a breath, square my shoulders, and begin.
“This brand doesn’t need a band-aid or a buzzword,” I say, clicking to the first slide. “It needs a reset.” The room stills. I move through the visuals, consumer trends, brand audits, engagement stats, storytelling strategy. I speak clearly, confidently, letting the work speak for itself. “You don’t need to be louder,” I finish. “You need to be real. Show the process. Show the mess. Show the people behind the product. That’s what makes the difference now.”
Jack doesn’t interrupt once. He doesn’t jot down notes. He just watches. The weight of his gaze is enough to make my skin flush, even beneath silk and strategy. It’s too much, and not nearly enough. When I finish, silence stretches across the room like held breath.
Then Jack says, “Approved.” Just one word. No explanation. No hesitation. It ripples across the room in hushed reactions, nods, murmurs, papers being gathered.
The woman in navy seated nearest the screen gives a tight smile. The man beside her closes his laptop with a satisfied snap. Chairs scrape softly as people begin to rise. I unplug the remote, collect my notes, and walk toward the exit. I can feel Jack behind me even before I hear his footsteps.
He falls in step beside me, too close for it to be casual. “You owned that room,” he says, voice low.
“I know.” I glance at him, a small smile playing at my lips. Then he stops. He steps in front of me and lifts a hand, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers barely touch my skin, but the contact is enough to send a bolt of heat down my spine. The gesture is intimate. Completely inappropriate and entirely intentional. It’s not a mistake.
A promise of everything he hasn’t said yet. The sensation lingers, his touch, his nearness, the way he looked at me like he could see all the things I was trying so hard to hide. And I feel it everywhere.
When I return to my desk, there’s a bouquet waiting. Peonies. No note. I run my fingers over a petal, delicate and soft. The scent is subtle, but it clings to me, sweet and haunting. I stare at them for a long moment, trying to slow the quick thrum of my heart. I don’t need a card to know who sent them. I want him to touch me like that again. Only this time, I want it to be real.
8
JACK
She doesn’t see me watching her. From the window of my office, she’s just a silhouette in motion, elegant, determined, entirely unaware of her effect. Her head tilts slightly down as she moves through the corridor, fingers absently tapping the corner of a folder, lips drawn into a focused line. I’ve learned what that look means. It means she’s thinking five steps ahead of everyone else. Ivy Stone always is.
She’s magnetic without trying, without even realizing she’s doing it. She’s only been here a few weeks, but already, something in the air has shifted. It’s not obvious. Not the kind of thing you can put on a slide in a boardroom. But it’s there, quiet, electric, undeniable.
The board leans in when she talks. Our numbers are improving, not by accident, but because she sees what others miss. She spots patterns I stopped noticing years ago. She’s reawakening a part of the company I thought had gone numb, and a part of me too, if I’m being honest. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s changing everything. Including me.
A knock slices through the stillness. Sharp. Intentional. Before I can answer, the door swings open. Derek storms inlike a man looking for a fight. His movements are jagged, eyes already burning with accusation.
“She’s staying in your building.”
I turn toward him slowly, grounding my voice in calm even as something coils tight in my chest. “Who?”
“Ivy.” He spits her name like it burns. “She’s living with Graham and he, last I checked, lives in your building. You really expect me to believe that’s just a coincidence?”
I don’t respond right away. It isn’t a coincidence. It’s one of those twisted alignments the universe tosses into your lap, unasked for but not entirely unwelcome. She needed a place, and Graham offered. I hadn’t known she’d end up with him. But maybe, selfishly, I hoped she would. I told myself it wouldn’t matter. That her being close wouldn’t change anything. But it did. Knowing she was just down the hall gave me a kind of comfort I hadn’t expected. I didn’t push her toward it, but I didn’t pull away either.
My silence is enough.
“You’ve wanted her from the beginning,” he says, voice rising. “Don’t bother denying it. I’ve seen the way you look at her. But here’s something you didn’t know, she wanted me. She still does. She was in my bed three nights ago, moaning my name like nothing had changed.”
I meet his glare head-on. “You cheated on her.”
He laughs, a cold, bitter sound that slices through the room. His smile sharpens, gleaming with cruelty. “She told me she hated me, then let me fuck the apology out of her. That’s Ivy. Says one thing, means another.”
“Don’t deflect. This isn’t about me.”
He snarls. “You were waiting. Hiding in the background like some white knight with a savior complex. Just like Dad.”
That lands deeper than he knows. I feel the hit in my ribs, heavy and immediate. Our father, the man who taught useverything about power and nothing about love. The man we’ve both spent our lives trying not to become, in opposite but equally broken ways. I don’t rise to it. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
