Page 195 of Diego

“Blair.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

He lifts a brow.

“I was, maybe, considering the possibility.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

He reaches across the desk and takes my hand. His thumb brushes over my knuckles.

I drop my shoulders in defeat. “I won't. I promise.”

That seems to satisfy him.

“Good.”

He releases my hand and begins transferring files to my laptop for me. He shows me which internal notes are current and which came from Meridian before the acquisition, and then he gives me access to a handful of databases Conti Enterprises already uses for property research.

I barely hear the last part because I am already thinking about how I want to organize everything.

“Cara.”

I look up.

“You are doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Planning three hours ahead while I’m still talking.”

“It's called efficiency.”

“It's called obsession.”

“You're one to talk.”

“I'm not work-restricted,” he counters.

I suppose he has a point.

Twenty minutes later, he has relocated me from his office to the living room sofa where I can put my feet up.

He sets my laptop on the coffee table, puts a glass of water within reach, adds a bowl of sliced fruit, then disappears into the kitchen and returns with crackers and cheese as though I might be stranded here for days rather than sitting thirty feet from a refrigerator.

I stare at the collection.

“You understand I am capable of getting food.”

“I do.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.”

I shake my head.