Page 18 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

Alessio flops lazily onto the couch, arms spread along the back like he owns the place.

“Should I take notes?” His voice is thick with amusement.

“Rule one: no girls.”

“Jealous already?” He grins, one brow raised.

I ignore him. “Rules two and three: no sneaking out, no fighting, no suspicious phone calls at weird hours. This apartment is on lockdown.”

He stretches his legs out, all lean muscle and cocky ease. “You’re adorable when you’re in control and those are three rules by the way.”

“Rule four: don’t touch my things.”

His grin sharpens. “Even your—”

“Especiallymy underwear.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, gaze hot and lazy. “Just checking.”

"Rule five: wear a damn shirt if you're going to saunter around the apartment."

"Yeah, rule five is not happening."

I fold my arms tightly. “Rule six: no sex.”

He whistles low, mock-impressed. “With anyone, or... just me?”

I glare. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. I’m extremely flattered.” He pushes to his feet and walks closer, until the air between us goes molten.

“But, Sophie,” he murmurs, voice like smoke, “some rules are meant to be broken.”

I refuse to step back. I’ve handled worse.

Right?

The heat between my legs has other ideas.

***

Later that evening, we’re seated across from each other at the dining table, a minefield of schedules, PR frameworks, and investor deliverables spread between us. My laptop is open again, its screen glowing like an interrogation lamp, but that’s not what has me squirming in my seat.

It’shim.

Alessio leans back in his chair, loose-limbed and too damn relaxed for someone whose entire life is dangling by a thread. He watches me with that lazy, amused gaze like he knows I’m fighting not to look at his bare chest again. Or his mouth. Or the vein that traces down his forearm as he drags a finger across the table, slowly, like he’s tracing an invisible path to where my composure ends.

I clear my throat. “You’re expected at the children’s foundation gala Friday night. You’ll shake hands, take photos, say something that won’t get you arrested.”

“Charming the masses. Got it.” He smirks. “Should I wear a halo or just the tux?”

“Whichever hides the horns.” I scroll through the draft itinerary.

He chuckles. “Careful, dolcezza. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“It wasn’t.” My words came out too fast.

His gaze sharpens, not mocking this time. Curious. Like he’s peeling me apart, layer by layer, looking for the soft center I buried a long time ago.

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