Page 138 of Diego

“Not a damn word,” I say.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was thinking.”

“That is usually where the trouble starts.”

His smile deepens, and for a moment he just looks at me.

Not in the same way he looks at me when I am dressed for work.

This feels different. More intimate somehow.

Which is ridiculous because I am wearing sweatpants.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks.

“You’re already here.”

“That is not an invitation.”

I step back, and he walks in.

Naturally, the apartment seems approximately half its normal size the moment he enters it.

He is too tall, too broad, too well dressed, and too accustomed to spaces considerably larger than mine. Suddenly I am aware of every square foot. The short entry. The couch only a few steps away. The kitchen barely beyond that. The narrow hallway leading toward the bedrooms.

I liked my apartment ten minutes ago.

Now I am mentally comparing it to his penthouse again, which is stupid and irritating.

Diego looks around once, taking everything in without making a production of it.

“Nice place.”

I fold my arms. “Thanks,” I answer begrudgingly.

His gaze comes back to me, then his attention shifts past me, and he lifts a brow.

I turn to see what he's looking at.

My pizza.

I immediately become defensive. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

“I have a nothing face?”

“Yes, you have a nothing face, and you're not wearing it right now.”

He walks toward the living room and looks into the box.

“Pepperoni.”