Page 33 of Diego

“Better not.”

Her brows rise. “Worried about me?”

“Worried about getting sand in my car.”

She laughs. “Completely understandable.”

Then she turns toward the water. “The beach is fully private.”

I can see that immediately.

Natural-looking rock walls curve inward on either side of the property, high enough to block access from the neighboring stretches of beach without making the space feel enclosed. The effect is almost ridiculous in how secluded it feels. From where I am standing, there is nothing but sand, water, stone, and the property behind us.

A private little piece of the lake.

Blair gestures toward one side. “The boathouse is right there.”

I follow her hand and see it built neatly into the edge of the property, close enough to the water to make actual use of it without intruding on the beach.

I spend another minute looking around, taking in the stone landing, the water, the walls, and the house rising above us.

By the time we turn back toward the stairs, I have forgotten that my first reaction to the place was that it was too much.

Blair looks at me as we reach the bottom step. “Do you want to go back up and look at the house?”

“Yes.”

The answer comes easily.

“Yes, I do.”

Chapter Eight

Blair

By the time we make it back up the stairs from the beach, I have a much better read on Diego than I did when we arrived.

He likes privacy, but he notices practicality. He likes beautiful things, but he does not seem particularly interested in owning them simply because they are expensive.

He pays attention when I talk about security, and even more when I explain how the house might actually work for his family, not just for him. That part matters, because the more I researched him last night, the more obvious it became that buying a house for Diego Conti probably means thinking beyond Diego Conti.

He holds the gate for me as we step back onto the lawn, and I glance toward him. “Ready to see the part you’d actually be living in?”

“I would have no problem sleeping right by this pool.”

I smile and lead him back toward the house. “Then at least let me show you the kitchen before you commit.”

We take the stairs to the deck again, and I bring him through the wide glass doors we left open earlier. The kitchen deserves more attention than either of us gave it the first time through.

It is enormous without feeling commercial, with a long stone island running through the center, custom cabinetry along the walls, and windows positioned so that even standing at the sink means looking out toward the lake.

“This is one of the better kitchens I’ve seen in a house this size,” I tell him. “If you cook, you have everything you need here, and enough space to actually enjoy doing it. And if you don’t cook, whoever does will probably be very happy with you.”

Diego looks at me. “You’re assuming I have someone cooking for me?”

“I’m covering both possibilities.”

“I can cook.”