Page 31 of Angel

Still, a girl had to be prepared for whatever occasion she was thrown into.

I tossed in my favorite swimwear, a mix of minimalist bikinis and a classic one-piece, alongside chic cover-ups tailored for private beaches and boat excursions.

Sunglasses, my makeup bag, toiletries, and high-SPF sunscreen went in, followed by comfortable leather sandals and sneakers.

Plus a selection of lacy, silk lingerie, which, to be honest, was just for me.

Angel would never see them, I thought, with a touch of bitterness.

Finally, I packed my travel art kit, with sketching pencils, paint, brushes, A4 canvases, and a foldaway easel.

Taking a moment, I sent a quick text to my boss Toni at Art Nouveau, the gallery where I worked.

I already had a week off work, but I explained that due to family circumstances, I needed at least 3 more weeks, and I was happy to take them unpaid.

Hell, I’d no choice.

Still, Toni was an awesome boss, and I hoped she’d find someone to cover for me from the art curators team.

Shrugging on a jacket, I exited, wheeling my bag to find Angel leaning one hip on the back of my thrift-store sofa, scrolling through his phone with a frown.

I surveyed the living area, which was now orderly, not a stray cup or plate in sight, neatened to a fault.

Blinking in surprise, I declared, ‘I’m ready.’

‘Got your passport, Rox?’ Angel rasped, his gravelly intonation cutting through my shock.

‘Yes, it’s right here in my purse,’ I murmured.

When I reached for my rolling suitcase, he intercepted me, taking over from me to guide it along despite my immediate protest.

‘I’ve got it. Let’s move.’

My chest tightened at the timbre of his voice, and also at his take-charge instinct, which always melted my defenses.

‘I need to swing by my place, too,’ he muttered as he loaded my bag downstairs into his Defender’s back seat.

We drove toward Bellmont-Hillsboro, a laid-back neighborhood in south Nashville.

Close to Vanderbilt University, it was packed with trendy boutiques and delicious restaurants, clustered around 12th Avenue.

The neighborhood was full of historic homes with breathtaking architecture, and we pulled into the gravel driveway of one.

In all his years dating my half-sister, I never once received an invitation to his house.

We always met at the Rosedale estate, at Evangeline’s townhouse, or out on the town.

Angel parked in his vast underground garage.

He led me inside without ceremony as I tamped my awe, while at the same time trying to glean every detail about his private world.

Angel’s sprawling home was stunning, far removed from my little one-bedder.

The interior walls were cream, the decor standing out in a midnight-and-beige color palette.

Custom statement furniture sat well appointed in the expansive open floor plan.

At Angel’s gesture, I sat on a charcoal Chesterfield designer sofa that took pride of place in the lounge room.