Page 102 of Diego

I have thought about those four minutes a maddening amount.

It is curious.

That is the only word I have for it because this is not generally a problem I have. I like women. Women generally like me. Sometimes we enjoy each other for a night, sometimes longer, and afterward life continues without anyone staring at their phone, waiting for a call or a text. Or an email about condominium association records.

Yet I have spent the better part of a week wondering whether Blair is deliberately avoiding speaking to me.

I strongly suspect the answer is yes.

The possibility amuses me almost as much as it annoys me.

“Are you listening?”

I glance toward Ricardo as the private elevator rises toward the penthouse.

“Of course.”

He gives me the look of a man who has known me my whole life and therefore recognizes bullshit on sight. “What did I just say?”

“That you are deeply grateful I invited you along this morning and consider it an honor to help your younger brother evaluate his future home.”

“I said the building’s reserve figures looked strong.”

“Same general sentiment.”

Ricardo shakes his head and looks down at the folder in his hand. I asked him to come because he understands real estate, numbers, and acquisitions better than most people I know, and because I want another set of eyes on everything before I commit.

Lorenzo has already had people go through the building history, ownership, litigation, permits, assessments, and anything else he could find. Nothing has surfaced that concerns us so far, but after being removed from my apartment because someone else failed to keep a building structurally sound, I have discovered a new appreciation for excessive due diligence.

I am buying this place, but I am not doing it blindly.

There is also the small matter of wanting somewhere of my own again.

The boys have been generous. More generous than I expected, considering they appear to believe my temporary residency entitles them to information about every hour I spend outside the house. I appreciate having somewhere comfortable to stay, and there are worse things than coming home to family, food, noise, and somebody always awake no matter the hour.

There are also significantly better things than sharing a house with five single men in their twenties.

This morning alone, I found one shoe beneath the kitchen table—just one, no matching pair—somebody’s protein shaker abandoned on the stairs, and a disagreement underway about who had finished the last of Dante’s coffee without replacing it. I left before the argument inevitably escalated.

My new penthouse cannot close fast enough.

The elevator slows.

Ricardo glances sideways at me. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m thinking about moving.”

“That must be it.”

I look at him. “Do not start with me.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Keep it that way.”

The elevator doors open before Ricardo can answer, and whatever clever response he has disappears from my attention almost immediately. It's a good thing because I have no doubt Lorenzo's suspicions have made their way among my brothers.

Blair is standing across the penthouse near one of the walls of windows.