Page 48 of Diego

“That I’ll drink to.”

We touch glasses lightly, and I take a sip.

It is excellent.

I look down at the glass. “Okay. That’s annoyingly good.”

“Annoyingly?”

“Yes. Because now I understand why people spend stupid amounts of money on wine.”

“You should taste it when it's been properly decanted.”

“Maybe it's better if I don't.”

He laughs and takes another drink, then gestures toward the living room. “Come on. If we’re trapped here, we might as well take advantage of the view.”

I follow him back toward the windows, carrying my glass carefully. The city stretches out below us, the late afternoon light shifting warmer across the buildings. It is strange how quickly the penthouse has changed from a property I am trying to sell into a place we are temporarily occupying.

Diego settles into one of the chairs near the glass and looks entirely too comfortable there.

I sit across from him and glance toward the skyline. “You do look like you belong here.”

His eyes come back to me. “Still with the sales pitch?”

“No. Observation.”

“And your professional opinion?”

I take another sip before answering. “My professional opinion is that this place suits you better than anything else we saw today.”

“Even the lake house?”

I consider that while I take another sip. “I think that the lake house gives you something this place can’t. You joke that I built my pitch around your family, but I think you like the idea more than you let on. Of having the house that everyone comes to, the place that the kids remember growing up around.”

His expression changes slightly, and I know I hit the nail on the head.

“But this,” I add, looking around the penthouse, “fits the life you actually live every day. Less maintenance, less property to manage, and you still get the privacy and space you care about.”

For a second, he says nothing.

The easy amusement has faded from his face, and something harder to read takes its place. I immediately wonder if I pushed too far, if I took one afternoon of showings and decided I understood more about him than I actually do.

Maybe I should have kept that observation to myself.

Then he looks down at his glass, gives a small shake of his head, and the tension leaves his expression almost as quickly as it appeared.

The familiar charm has slid neatly back into place. “So, do you psychoanalyze all your clients, or am I getting special treatment?”

The smile that follows is lighter, more familiar.

I let out a breath and take another sip.

“It's part of the overall service. I'll add it to your closing costs.”

His grin returns fully. “Just like a broker.”

Chapter Eleven