Page 124 of Diego

His thumb rests near my jaw, and his eyes move over my face with enough attention that panic starts gathering again beneath my ribs.

I cannot tell him here.

Not in a parking garage.

Not five minutes before we walk into a room filled with people waiting for us.

I just have to get through the next hour.

Or however the hell long this takes.

That is it.

You can do this, Blair.

I pull together the most convincing professional smile I have and meet his eyes. “Nothing is wrong. It’s been a long few weeks, and I’m ready to get this finished.”

He watches me for another second, clearly unconvinced.

The elevator doors open beside us.

I step away from his touch before he can ask another question, turn toward the elevator, and walk inside.

Chapter Twenty Three

Diego

Everything is signed.

Finally.

After six weeks of delays, repairs, inspections, revised reports, legal review, and more discussion about windows than any person should be forced to endure, the penthouse is finally mine.

The last signature went down a few minutes ago. Callum Greer confirmed the funds and finished whatever final title-company bullshit remained between me and ownership.

Nadia has already closed her folder and slipped most of the paperwork into her case. Priya Sethi is speaking quietly with Jonathan Montes near the kitchen while Martin checks something on his phone. The formal part is over, and everyone has migrated into the living room in front of the wall of windows that caused this entire mess in the first place.

I look out through them now with considerably more affection.

They are new, resealed, and let the afternoon light of Chicago in just the way I remembered, without a single damn drop of water getting through.

Montes is nothing like what I imagined.

After six weeks of dealing with him exclusively through attorneys, brokers, documents, and other people’s descriptions, I had formed some vague impression of a difficult older man guarding his off-market penthouse like a dragon sitting on gold.

Instead, Jonathan Montes is somewhere in his fifties, silver threaded heavily through dark hair, impeccably dressed without appearing particularly interested in the fact, and surprisingly easygoing for a man who just transferred ownership of a property worth several million dollars.

He also has excellent taste in wine, which improves my opinion of him considerably.

“I thought we should open something worthwhile,” he says from the kitchen island.

My eyes go there before I can stop them.

Bad idea.

There are places in this penthouse I have successfully looked at today without remembering Blair naked.

The kitchen island is not one of them.