Page 111 of Diego

Two weeks.

At least.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I had every intention of closing within days.

I had already started thinking about getting the keys, moving my things out of this house, sleeping in my own bed again, and enjoying the miraculous experience of walking into a kitchen without discovering five different people’s possessions scattered across it.

There was also Blair.

Primarily Blair, if I am being completely truthful.

I had a very specific vision for the first evening after closing. It involved inviting my very beautiful former broker to see what I had done with the place, removing every excuse she had spent the last week hiding behind, and eventually discovering whether she could make good on her threat to disappoint me.

Preferably while wearing those heels from yesterday.

Now my seduction schedule has been derailed by exterior sealant.

I stare at the report again, irritated enough to consider whether I am willing to accept the repair after closing.

Then common sense returns.

No.

Absolutely not.

I just spent a week telling everyone within hearing distance that I refuse to buy another property without knowing precisely what I am getting into. Closing on a penthouse with a documented failed water test because I am impatient to sleep with a beautiful woman would make me an idiot, and worse, it would give Lorenzo something to hold over me until one of us dies.

The seller fixes it.

They retest it.

Then I close.

I open a reply to the inspection team, confirm that I want the recommended repairs completed and independently verified before I proceed, then forward the relevant section to my attorney and the people handling the purchase.

My thumb pauses over Blair’s name.

I consider for a moment not sending it to her at all. Of course she’ll find out anyway. She is handling the transaction.

It's not like I could somehow convince her that I closed on the penthouse when I haven't. She's my broker.

Two more weeks.

I lean back against the headboard and look at the ceiling.

“Merda,” I groan.

The penthouse can be fixed.

My sexual frustration is another matter entirely.

Chapter Twenty

Blair

I am sitting on my couch at home when my phone chimes with an email I have been waiting for. And now that it's finally here, I couldn't care less.