Page 26 of Diego

The gesture should be ridiculous. It should feel rehearsed and overly charming and embarrassingly old-fashioned. Somehow, coming from him, it feels completely natural. Smooth, charming.

My knees actually feel a little weak.

His mouth curves when he straightens, and I get the distinct impression he saw something in my face that pleased him.

“Diego,” he says.

I need half a second to remember what he means.

Then I realize he is correcting the formality.

“Diego.”

“Better.”

His voice is smooth enough that I understand immediately why men like Randall become so irritating around him. Diego does not need to work for anyone’s attention. He simply has it.

I withdraw my hand and adjust the folder against my side. “You’re early.”

“So are you.”

“If you're on time, you're already late,” I joke. I want to kick myself. What a stupid joke.

His smile widens, and I refuse to let it affect me.

Instead, I glance toward the Aston Martin because it is safer than continuing to look directly at him. “Is that yours?”

Diego follows my gaze. “It is.”

“A DB5.”

His attention comes back to me immediately, more focused than before. “You know cars.”

“A little.”

“That wasn’t just a guess.”

“No.”

I walk closer to it before common sense can stop me, letting my gaze travel over the bodywork. The restoration is beautiful. Whoever maintains it knows exactly what they are doing, and the car has clearly been driven rather than turned into an expensive museum piece.

“You actually use it,” I say.

“Shouldn’t I?”

“A depressing number of people buy classics and then become terrified of putting miles on them.”

“That seems like a waste.”

He comes to stand beside me, and I glance through the window at the interior. “How long have you had it?”

“A while.”

I look at him. “Very specific.”

“I don’t give away everything in the first five minutes.”

“Making me work for it,” I say.