Page 11 of Diego

Diego

Randall Shaw starts irritating me before I have even set foot in his office.

He is polite, attentive, and eager in the way people in his position are when they know exactly how much money is sitting across from them. He offers me coffee twice, asks whether the temperature in the office is comfortable, and spends an unnecessary amount of time telling me how pleased everyone at Meridian is about the acquisition.

Every sentence is polished. Every smile is practiced. Every gesture is a little too deliberate.

I have dealt with men like him most of my life.

They mistake flattery for charm.

“So,” Randall finally says, leaning forward behind his desk, “I took the liberty of pulling a few properties as soon as I heard you were coming in. Obviously, I didn’t have much time, but I think I have a strong sense of what you’re looking for.”

I glance at the screen he has turned toward me.

The first place is all glass and white stone, with a living room that looks large enough to host a charity gala and about as inviting as one. The furniture is staged in rigid little arrangements that no human being would ever actually sit in, and every photograph makes me like it less and less.

Randall starts talking before I have finished looking at the first image.

“Exceptional building. Full-service staff, private elevator access, twenty-four-hour security, fitness center, wine storage, valet, one of the best locations in the city.”

I click to the next photograph.

Then the next.

“Too much glass.”

Randall pauses. “The views are extraordinary.”

“I’m sure they are.”

He watches me for a second before reaching for the mouse. “Of course. We have other options.”

The next property has dark wood everywhere, including what appears to be an entire wall made of cabinetry. It is larger, more traditional, and apparently designed for someone who wants every room to look like a private club.

I make it through three photographs before shaking my head.

Randall laughs lightly. “Not your taste?”

“No.”

“That’s why we look.”

He moves on quickly, still smiling, and I dislike him a little more for how easily he keeps trying to agree with me after getting everything wrong.

The third place is a penthouse with a terrace that occupies almost as much square footage as the interior. Randall becomes enthusiastic about the entertaining potential, pointing out an outdoor kitchen, multiple seating areas, and enough room for a crowd.

“I’m looking for somewhere to live,” I say.

“Absolutely.”

“Not somewhere to host two hundred people.”

His smile tightens for half a second before returning. “Naturally. I only meant that the space gives you options.”

But that's not what he said or focused on.

“I have plenty of places to entertain.”