Page 152 of Sinful Lies

“Alright, here it goes. I’m lactose intolerant, I had a pet bunny in high school, but it randomly died one night, and… I’ve already won the lottery.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The lottery, huh?”

I giggled, leaning in a little closer, my lips brushing against his neck as I whispered, “Why don’t you try to find out?”

“I’ve watched you drink that sickly-sweet coffee for six damn years—caramel macchiato with whole milk. So, no, you’re not lactose intolerant.” He raised an eyebrow. “And when you had your ice cream the other night, your lips swelled up a little. But I knew it wasn’t the ice cream.”

Yep, he’d kissed me so damn good, so deep that night, my lips had deliciously swelled from it.

My fingers trailed over his jaw, lightly grazing his stubble, moving down to his full lips, and then slowly back up again. Ileaned in, brushing a barely-there kiss against his lips, before pulling back.

“I never realized you paid that much attention to me, Lazzio,” I murmured softly.

His gaze softened slightly, the dark intensity melting into something deeper, something that made me blush. His fingers brushed against my cheek.

“How could I not? You’re the only thing I see.”

The words wrapped around me, sinking into my skin.

You’re the only thing I see.

Angelo’s phone had barely rung before Grace’s voice slithered into the room through the speaker.

“You can connect to the Zoom call now, sir. Mr. DuMarrais is waiting for you.”

I groaned so dramatically you’d think someone had just told me the Jimmy Choo sale had been canceled.

“Seriously?Now?Of all times? Can’t Mr. DuMarrais wait another five minutes while I save your soul from corporate monotony?”

Angelo didn’t even look up, just pinched the bridge of his nose in that infuriatingly calm way that told me that now, I was really getting on his last nerve.

“Miss Whitenhouse, not everyone has your flexible relationship with time.”

I gasped. “Flexible? I’ll have you know I’m aparagonof punctuality when it matters.”

He finally glanced up. “When does it ever matter to you?”

“Wow, harsh,” I shot back, digging a hand in his hair. “You wound me, Lazzio. I wasthisclose to calling you my favorite workaholic.”

“Get out, Miss Whitenhouse.”

“But we didn’t finish the game,” I shot back, spinning his chair just enough to make the desk dig uncomfortably into my back.

He wasn’t amused.

Before I could blink, his hands had gripped my hips and pushed me to my feet.

“Later,” he muttered, his focus already drifting toward his computer.

A malicious idea bloomed in my head.

The kind of idea that would absolutely make him hate me—just a little.

Which, obviously, made it all the more irresistible.

“Fine,” I huffed, circling his desk. “But for the record, you would’ve lost anyway.”

His eyes flickered to me, sharp as ever, before he redirected his focus to the screen.

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