Page 104 of Love or Tequila in Unexpected Places

Twenty-Five

ALLISON

Allison stared at the chaos before her, her heart sinking at the sight. The living room looked like a battlefield after the storm, boxes scattered everywhere, some half-open, others leaning precariously, as if daring her to touch them. When had her belongings multiplied to such an alarming degree? She’d only packed the essentials—at least, that’s what she told herself. Now, it looked like her entire life had exploded inside Angelo’s apartment.

“Oh, fuck me,” she muttered under her breath, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stuff.

“Is that a request?” came a smooth, deep voice from behind her.

She leaped at least a foot in the air, whirling around to face the source. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she clutched her sweater as if it might calm the rapid thudding. Angelo stood there, far too close for comfort, a smug grin playing on his lips.

“Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed, glaring at him. For someone with a frame like his—tall, broad-shouldered, and undeniably solid—he had the uncanny ability to move silently, like a damn ghost. Or, as she imagined, a very large and sneaky cat.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny, Mr. Taylor,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word as she tried to collect herself.

Angelo’s grin widened, a flash of amusement lighting up his dark eyes. He moved around her with a casual grace, his presence magnetic in a way that was entirely unfair for a Monday morning, and her gaze followed him.

“Oh, we’re back to formalities now, are we?” he teased, his voice low and full of mischief.

Allison’s breath hitched involuntarily as he came fully into view. His black button-down shirt was neatly pressed, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms—veiny, muscular, and distractingly masculine. Her eyes traced the lines of his arms, the kind that made her think he spent his spare time lifting cars or saving small children from burning buildings. His pants, black corduroy that clung in all the right places, were semi-casual but devastatingly effective at highlighting his long legs.

Focus, Allison. There are boxes to unpack, not thirst traps to fall into.

As if sensing her internal battle, Angelo cleared his throat dramatically, his smug smile deepening. “See something youlike, Ms. Lockwood?” He crossed his arms, the motion flexing his forearms slightly, as if he knew exactly the effect they were having.

Allison mentally slapped herself, willing her gaze to stay above his shoulders. “Just wondering which poor grandpa woke up this morning wondering where the hell his pants went.”

1—0.

Really mature. Well done, me.

Angelo raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching in amusement. “Funny, I was thinking the same about your sweater.”

1—1.

Her jaw tightened, a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment flooding her as she glanced down at the oversized knit sweater she wore. It was slouchy, comfortable, and, okay, maybe a bit shapeless, but she loved it.

“Touché,” she muttered, before spinning on her heel and marching further into the room, determined to escape the pull of his teasing gaze. Under her breath, she whispered to her sweater, “Don’t listen to him. You’re fabulous.”

The room was bathed in warm, golden light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the rising sun spilling across the sleek surfaces. It should’ve felt welcoming, but the monochromatic decor—black couch, black coffee table, black everything—gave it the vibe of a chic vampire lair.

“You need color in here,” she called over her shoulder, running a hand over the cool, dark surface of the coffee table. “I’m glad I packed my couch cushions. You might as well be living in a dungeon.”

Angelo shrugged, sinking onto his black leather couch with a grace that made her scowl. How could anyone that large move so smoothly? “A stylish dungeon, at least.”

She rolled her eyes, gesturing to the mountain of boxes surrounding them. “What are we going to do about all this?”

“I have no clue,” Angelo replied, completely unbothered by the mess. He tapped his phone lazily as if the scene before them wasn’t a logistical nightmare. “But I think we’re going to need some help.”

Allison raised an eyebrow, arms crossed as she glanced at him skeptically. “And who, exactly, is going to help us at—” she glanced at the clock on the wall, groaning as she realized the time, “—the crack of dawn on a Monday?”

Without missing a beat, Angelo’s fingers danced across his phone screen. He shot her a smirk that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “I have an idea.”

“Why does that sound ominous?” she muttered, narrowing her eyes at him. His ideas rarely meant anything good for her sanity.

Angelo’s smirk widened into a full-blown grin, the kind that had trouble written all over it. “Relax, Pinkie. It’s nothing illegal.” He paused, looking almost too pleased with himself. “Probably.”

That did nothing to calm her nerves. “If you’re about to hire some sketchy Craigslist movers, I swear—”

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