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His face turns serious. The next thing I know I’m in his arms, tightly pressed against his hard chest.
“There is no one else,” he says adamantly. “No one else has mattered.” He leans down and kisses my lips with a firmness that cements his words.
In truth, I never doubted his feelings or if there was anyone else. It was a joke, but I would be a liar if I said I didn’t enjoy the way he gets all possessive. I want him to deepen the kiss, to bend me over the counter and make me yell out his name fiercely until we both come, to make me pay for even bringing up the idea that he could think about someone else.
But he pulls back from the kiss. The fire burning in his eyes, however, tells me he’s just barely hanging onto his control.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.
“For what?” I’m confused.
“Your numbers. I shouldn’t have kissed you before we know you’re okay.” He captures my wrist in his hand and looks over the numbers on my watch. Even before I can get a look at them myself, I can tell they’re moving in the right direction.
The way the tension eases from the lines in his forehead is an indication. Sure enough, once I check, they’re back in a safe range.
“Still a little low.”
“Give it some time,” I tell him. “I’ll finish this granola bar.” I take another bite of the bar still in my hands.
“I should’ve let you finish before kissing you.” He rolls his lips together in a way that speaks to his guilt.
I hate the way my illness can sometimes take the spontaneity out of my life. More than one ex of mine made comments on how they wish they didn’t have to plan things out ahead of time so often on account of my potential to fall ill or need extra insulin or food.
Even the “nice guys” I dated would get slightly annoyed at times, including my ex-fiancé.
“I think the kiss is helping my blood sugar.” I show him my numbers again. They’ve risen a little and are now in a comfortable range. “Who was the call from?” I ask just to change the subject.
“No one important,” he says dismissively. The hard set of his jaw indicates otherwise. “I started working on something in my office.”
“Can I see it?” I love seeing his designs. “I’ve talked to you ad nauseam about the gallery and the artists I want to feature. You haven’t shared any of your recent designs with me. Not since your new job at Townsend.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. I pull him by the hand down the hall to his office. Diego isn’t the type to brag on himself. Though he’s an excellent architect and has a masterful eye for design, he’ll rarely make a big deal out of his own work.
We enter his spacious office. This room was intended to be the second largest bedroom in his three-bedroom condo, but he turned it into a private office. Three of the four walls are lined with desks, covered in large building mockups. I recognize them immediately because they’re designs that he’s worked on in the past.
Across the room is his beautiful wooden drafting table. On the table’s work surface sits a large piece of grid paper with pencil sketches on it. The design itself takes up most of the table’s workspace. It must’ve taken hours to complete the design with this kind of detail.
“This is the project you’re working on for Townsend?” I ask, looking down at what will become a ten-story building, octagonal in shape.
When I feel him come up behind me, I lean back to lean into his chest. His arm wraps around my waist, securing me to him.
“Our client wants an eco-friendly building. The design shape allows for different parts of the building to receive a considerable amount of sunlight throughout the day.”
He points to the area where the building’s roof will be.
“We’ll place solar panels all along here.” He drags his finger across the roof portion. “And it’ll capture and store the energy in electric battery banks. The client wanted to be able to run the building on fifty percent solar power. With the design we’re utilizing and the panels, I believe we can get to seventy percent. Maybe even eighty.”
“That’s amazing, Diego.”
“In the center, here,” he points to the middle area, “will be a park. Since the building will be composed of residential and commercial spaces, I insisted we create room for sufficient greenspace. The walking trail within the center of the building will be about a half a mile around.”
“That’s a lot.”
He nods when I look up at him. “Too much?” He peers down at me as if genuinely seeking my opinion.
“No.” I shake my head. “I love greenspace, especially in something like this. Coming from living the past few years in New York, I always appreciated it when building designers considered greenspace as part of their design. It allows for a place for people to forget they’re in the middle of a city with millions of people. I think it’s good for stress relief.”
He nods and kisses my forehead. “I thought so, too. It kind of reminded me of that park you took me to in New York when I came to visit the first few times.”
