Page 28 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

I force myself to step back, grabbing a folder from the edge of the counter as shield. “Focus. This gala needs to go perfectly.”

He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t back off either. Just stands there with that maddening half-smile.

But I can feel it. His presence clinging to me even after I turn away. Gravity, pulling, always pulling.

The tension in the apartment stretches, a rubber band ready to snap.

I’m standing by the dining table now, sorting through the paper folders I'm using as a distraction from him.

Trying to act like I’m totally fine, like my hands aren’t shaking slightly from the way he looked at me just now.

Like I’m not still hearing the echo of his voice asking, “Was it?”

Alessio goes to the couch, sits, lounging, one ankle resting casually over his knee, and flips through a few documents I left out for him about the upcoming gala.

He’s doing that thing again. Watching me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. But I feel it, the weight of a spotlight on bare skin.

“You’re kind of hot when you’re not yelling,dolcezza,” His voice is low, lazy.

I glance over my shoulder. “Don’t push me, Marchetti.”

He rises slowly, a predator closing in. Each step deliberate. Confident. Dangerous.

He stops just inches from me. “I’m not pushing. I’m stating facts. You, all buttoned-up and not spitting fire? That’s my favorite flavor.”

My pulse skitters, sharp and erratic, impossible to control. I will my breath to stay even, to not betray me.

But it does.

His gaze drifts downward.

I know what he’s thinking.

His body isn’t exactly subtle about it either. The outline of his cock strains against the fabric of those damn sweatpants,

I tear my eyes away before I do something I’ll regret.

“That’s your problem. Not mine.” I brush past him, folder clutched tightly to my chest.

But my face is on fire, and my body? My body wants things I’ve spent years trying to forget.

***

Later that night, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of city traffic filtering in through the window.

The apartment is dark, quiet, but my mind won’t shut up.

Not after the way he looked at me.

Like he sees straight through every rule I’ve clung to. Like he knew all I needed was one push and I’d let it all go.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the image of him in his sweatpants, cocky smirk, stupidly chiseled abs out of my head.

But it lingers. It clings.

I’m supposed to keep my distance. Maintain control.

But with Alessio Marchetti, every breath feels like I’m tiptoeing across a wire strung over fire.

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