Page 50 of Diego

I lift my glass. “You make it sound unpleasant. We have wine... good wine.”

She laughs. “That depends entirely on whether Randall decides this is somehow my fault.”

I look at her more closely. “Would he?”

Her expression shifts for a fraction of a second before she smiles. “Randall has a gift for creative interpretations.”

There is enough truth in that answer to get my attention, especially after what I learned earlier about the way he handled today’s showings. I make another mental note to find out exactly what kind of operation Shaw has been running at Meridian, but Blair has already moved past it, picking up her wine and settling back into the chair across from me.

“It's nearing end-of-day anyway,” she says. “I'll update them in the morning. Apparently, there are already rumors going around that you’ve decided to buy the place.”

I glance around. “That didn’t take long.”

“Luxury real estate survives on gossip almost as much as commission.”

“That sounds like most fields.”

There is a flicker of amusement in her face, and just like that, the heavier thoughts from a few minutes ago begin to recede. Blair has an easy way of pulling me back into the moment without seeming to try. Maybe that is part of why she is good at this job. She reads a room quickly, adjusts without making it obvious, and somehow keeps the conversation moving without forcing it.

She's very poised, prepared, and completely in command of whatever room we walk into.

But I like seeing glimpses of the other side of her as well.

The one that laughs before she can stop herself.

The one that notices a classic car before she notices the man driving it.

That had caught me off guard this morning. Most women look at the Aston because they know it is expensive. Blair looked at it like she understood it.

I turn my glass slowly between my fingers. “How did you get into cars?”

She glances down at her glass, and her smile turns softer. “My dad.”

From her tone, it's obvious that he's passed away.

“He was into classics?”

“Very. Cars were kind of our thing.” She looks back at me. “I grew up around garages, car shows, parts spread across workbenches. He taught me how to tell when an engine sounded wrong before I was old enough to drive.”

“That explains why you knew exactly what I was driving this morning.”

Her smile returns. “A DB5 isn’t exactly hard to recognize.”

“Most people still wouldn’t know what it was.”

“Most people didn’t spend half their childhood being quizzed on headlights and body lines.”

I smile. “He sounds serious.”

“He was.” Her expression warms with the memory. “He could tell you the year of a car from twenty feet away and then spend another ten minutes explaining exactly why you were wrong if you disagreed.”

I laugh softly. “I think I would’ve liked him.”

She looks proud at that comment.

This is different from the flirting earlier. Easier, somehow. There is no audience, no schedule, no house to evaluate, no reason for either of us to keep moving. The city sits beyond the windows while the light fades, and the whole penthouse has taken on a surreal feeling.

Blair settles deeper into the chair, tucking one leg beneath the other. She took off her jacket at some point, and without it she looks less like the broker who met me outside Meridian this morning and more like the woman underneath all that polish.