All Chapters of Choked And Claimed By My Brother’s Best Friend : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

My ringtone erupted like a fire alarm, and before I’d even registered the sound, Alonzo was unplugging my phone from a kitchen outlet and sliding it across the counter to me.Peter’s goofy grin lit up the screen like a judgment from heaven, and my shoulders went rigid at the sight of his caller ID. I hit decline so fast I nearly broke the screen.“You charged my phone,” I said, because stating obvious facts seemed safer than acknowledging the elephant currently tap-dancing through the kitchen.“Same charger as the Bluetooth speaker.” His voice was carefully neutral, but I could practically hear his thoughts screaming at maximum volume.We stared at each other across the breakfast bar, the unasked question crackling between us like we were playing the world’s most uncomfortable game of chicken.The thing was, I couldn’t talk to Tatiana or Daphne about Peter’s accusations without admitting he wasn’t completely wrong about Alonzo. Without explaining what happened a

My throat worked around a swallow; my tongue felt like sand against the roof of my mouth.“Whether you have a boyfriend or not is irrelevant to me,” Alonzo said, voice level, thumb tracing idle circles in the air as if he were drawing out the thought for me to see. “It’s irrelevant to how you want to be touched. A social contract doesn’t govern your body’s needs.”“That sounds like a very expensive way of saying you don’t believe in monogamy.”“I don’t.”“Then we’re incompatible.” I lifted my chin. “I’m a picket-fence kind of woman. And Peter is a picket-fence kind of man. That makes more sense for everyone.”“Do you want to stay with Peter and buy a picket-fence house with him?”“No.” The word dropped through me like a stone cutting cleanly through lakewater. I half expected it to skip. It didn’t. It sank. And I wasn’t even surprised.“Do you want me to keep touching you?” he asked, barely moving—only his thumb sketched along the curve of my breast through cotton, light as a whisper.

I dragged my stylus across the tablet screen, crossing out another useless paragraph about international ski properties. My lawyers had delivered a prenup draft that read like they’d copy-pasted from some generic billionaire playbook instead of doing actual research on Constance Montana.Swiss chalet rights? Seriously?The woman hadn’t left her house in fifteen years. Pretty sure she wasn’t planning skiing weekends in the Alps anytime soon. And the section about “potential future children living abroad” was pure fantasy – this marriage would last exactly as long as it took to merge Montana Corp with Xenos. Maybe eighteen months if we were being generous.These idiots had clearly never met an actual recluse heiress. They were probably picturing some social butterfly who’d want access to vacation homes and international custody arrangements. Constance would more likely negotiate for premium WiFi and organic grocery delivery.I fired off an email that would definitely r

I opened my door to find what looked like a tiny human being consumed by the world’s most aggressively cheerful backpack. Blue and pink straps, keychains that sounded like a wind chime having an anxiety attack, and enough zippers to stock a small factory.Allie stood there in yoga pants and a crop top, looking completely different without her signature red lipstick. The whole blonde bombshell vibe had been replaced by something that screamed ‘eager exchange student ready to backpack through Europe with a Let’s Go guide and unlimited optimism.’“Sorry, you must have the wrong address,” I said, leaning against my doorframe. “The dorm for Swedish exchange students is two blocks south.”“Very funny, Mr. Benington.” She rolled her eyes, but those soft pink lips curved into a smile that made something in my chest do unauthorized gymnastics.I grimaced. “No. Don’t call me that when you look like this.”“Like wha— ew, you’re disgusting.”“I told you not to call me th

Tuesday felt like a soft relaunch of summer. Alonzo swung his door open with that cool, unbothered smile, ushered me inside, and said, “Shoes off, Blondie. Library’s open. You hungry?”He’d already ordered lunch—sushi laid out in disciplined rows on the kitchen island like jewels in lacquered boxes. He used chopsticks with the kind of unshowy competence that made me aware of my elbows. After, he sent me back to the library and disappeared for calls, reappearing mid-afternoon with Starbucks cups balanced in one broad hand.“This is for you,” he said, sliding a plastic cup across the desk. The drink was an ice-cold cloud—milk, sugar, happiness.“You’ll live to love it,” I told him.He took one experimental sip of my order and physically recoiled. “This is a dessert pretending to be coffee.”“That’s why it’s perfect.”He lifted his own cup—black coffee with the faintest smudge of milk. “Some of us prefer honesty.”“Some of us prefer joy,” I countered, and to