Page 106 of Love or Tequila in Unexpected Places

“Since when?” she grumbled, but she felt the sting of gratitude somewhere underneath the exasperation.

“I’m not the villain you make me out to be,” Johnathan teased, giving her a light punch on the shoulder. “Now, let’s stop talking and start unpacking. This place isn’t going to organize itself.”

Angelo chuckled, but Allison was already mentally exhausted by the testosterone-filled camaraderie happening in her once-peaceful morning. “I still don’t get how you two went from nearly fighting to—” she waved her hand between them,“—whateverthisis.”

Angelo nodded towards the stairs, clearly ready to move on. “Why don’t we talk upstairs for a minute? I’ll explain.”

Allison narrowed her eyes. “Fine. But this better not be some trick to get me to carry more boxes.”

She followed him up the sleek, modern staircase, trying to hide her growing curiosity about the rest of his place. The open layout of the living room gave way to an even more impressive view of his home—or, as she liked to call it, the stylish black-and-white prison. The kitchen to the left was a designer’s dream, all stainless steel and marble countertops. It looked like the kind of kitchen where someoneelsecooked for you, not the kind you actually used.

When they reached the second floor—if anyone were to have a two-story penthouse, it would be Angelo Taylor—Allison’s eye twitched. “No chairs in the dining room?”

Angelo glanced back with a shrug. “I haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Yeah, because dining tables are just for decoration, right?”

He smirked but didn’t respond, leading her down a short hallway to what was, of course, a black-and-white bedroom. The king-sized bed in the center was perfectly made, the kind of bed you’d see in a magazine, not in someone’s actual home. No personal touches, no knick-knacks. Just pure, sterile minimalism.

“Sit,” Angelo said, nodding toward the bed. “You’ve had a rough few days.”

Allison sat, her body grateful for the chance to rest, but her mind was still spinning. “Okay. Explain. What’s with the bromance?”

Angelo shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck—something she found oddly adorable. “I didn’t want to leave things bad with your brother. It didn’t feel right, especially since… well, you know.”

Allison felt her heart soften. He’d done it for her.

“Let me guess,” she said, smiling slightly. “Now you two are getting along fine.”

Angelo chuckled. “If by ‘fine’ you mean I’ve survived coffee with him once, then yeah, we’re ‘fine.’”

AKA friends.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the warmth spreading through her chest. The man had gone out of his way to make peace with her brother. That counted for something. Something big.

He scratched the nape of his neck shyly, glancing everywhere but at her, and she might have cooed if her mind hadn’t been preoccupied. His biceps flexed as he continued scratching, and once again, Allison was struck by how ridiculously gorgeous this man was.

She swallowed audibly, causing Angelo to stiffen and finally look up at her. His eyes were the exact color of molten chocolate and gold, even from this distance, and she couldn’t look away. She felt trapped, like a fly caught in a spider’s web, helpless and awaiting her imminent doom.

Damn, I’m in deep trouble if I’m waxing poetic about flies.

“We should—” she began, her voice faltering as she cleared her throat, trying to push past the sudden tightness that gripped it. She tried again, her cheeks flushing. “We should probably head back down. John will think we’re…”

She trailed off, her gaze dropping. Angelo’s eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her pulse race. He took a slow step closer, his movements deliberate and predatory.

“He’ll think we’re what, Allison?” His voice dropped an octave, growing impossibly deeper. She shuddered under his gaze, which had darkened to the color of wet November soil.

She swallowed hard. The words stuck in her throat, her resolve wavering.

“No.” His voice was suddenly right at her ear, his breath warm and almost unbearable. “Your mind is brilliant, and I love seeing it work. But right now,” he whispered, lowering himself on his knees, his gaze flickering between her eyes and her lips, “you need to answer me, pet.” His tone was low, almost a growl, and Allison’s thighs clenched in response. From the flicker of his expression, he noticed.

That nickname again. She cursed inwardly, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment. How was she reacting to a nickname that seemed to set women back decades? Though she doubted many of those women had a six-foot-four, half-Greek man like Angelo whispering to them like this. She pitied them.

Angelo’s hands were on her then, his touch featherlight as he trailed from her neck down her arms to her waist and finally toher thighs. Each touch left a trail of fire on her skin, and she felt every place he’d touched ignite with heat.

“Allison,” he growled, his light touch turning to a fierce grip that made her shiver. The fire spread from her chest to her toes, and she would have willingly turned to ash if only he would touch her higher.

It took a moment for her to remember she was supposed to speak. “He might think we’re doing something… inappropriate.” Her voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the silence of the room.

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