Page 87 of Diego

Diego sees it anyway.

His smile grows.

“That,” I say, pointing at him, “is exactly the problem.”

“What is?”

“You.”

“Ah.”

He walks closer, now dressed enough that I should find him less distracting.

I do not.

He leans over, caging me in with one hand on either side of me. Just like he did last night.

I press back and realize the island is directly behind me.

My face burns.

Diego’s grin turns wicked.

“Not a single word,” I say in warning.

He gives me that innocent look again, but it lasts only three seconds before his eyes drop to my mouth. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

I let my head fall back with a groan. “That is not how dignity works.”

Chapter Seventeen

Diego

I walk into the house just after 8:00 with my jacket slung over one shoulder, my tie in my pocket, and a mood so good I am dangerously close to whistling.

The place is quiet compared to last night, which means at least half the boys are already gone or still asleep. I close the front door behind me and head toward the stairs, already thinking about a shower, and a fresh suit.

Plus I have to deal with the penthouse. Buying it feels almost inevitable now. I liked it before the fire alarm trapped us there. I liked it considerably more by the time morning arrived, although I suspect the reasons for that have very little to do with the architecture.

I make it three steps into the foyer before Tomasso appears from the hallway with a coffee mug in his hand.

He stops.

I stop.

His gaze travels slowly from my tie folded in my pocket to the shirt I am fairly certain has been buttoned incorrectly somewhere around the middle, then down to the jacket over my shoulder.

His eyebrows climb.

“Buongiorno,” he says.

I narrow my eyes. “Morning.”

Tomasso takes an infuriatingly leisurely sip of coffee. “Sleep well?”

“Very.”

“That’s nice.” There is far too much in those two words.