Page 21 of Executive Privilege

"Diego," Nicholas says, a warning in his voice.

"What? I'm just making conversation." Diego turns back to me. "What do you think of the work?"

"It's incredible," I say honestly. "Raw and honest and completely unapologetic. This piece especially—" I gesture to a smaller canvas nearby, all blues and grays with unexpected touches of gold. "It feels like hope breaking through storm clouds."

Diego's expression shifts to genuine surprise. "That piece is called 'After the Rain.'"

"Sadie has excellent instincts," Nicholas says quietly, and the pride in his voice makes warmth spread through my chest.

"Clearly." Diego studies me with new interest.

"I used to paint a little. Nothing serious, just stress relief."

"Nothing serious," Diego repeats, amused. "The best art is never serious. It's necessary."

A group of potential buyers approaches, and Diego excuses himself to charm them. Nicholas and I continue through the gallery, but his earlier careful control seems to be fraying at the edges.

"You paint," he says as we stop in front of a piece that's all movement and energy.

"Badly. And rarely. It's not like I'm hiding some secret artistic talent."

"What do you paint?"

The question is quietly intense, like my answer matters more than casual conversation. "Abstract mostly. Colors and movement. Things I can't put into words."

"I'd like to see your work sometime."

The statement is carefully neutral, but there's an undertone that makes my stomach flutter. "I don't think you would. It's probably terrible by actual art standards."

"I don't care about actual art standards. I care about—" He stops himself, jaw tightening.

"What?"

"Nothing. We should probably head to dinner soon. I made reservations."

So it is going to be art and dinner. I had a feeling, but I didn't want to assume. I didn't eat before coming just in case.

As we make our way toward the exit, Nicholas's hand settles on my lower back, and the touch burns through the fabric of my dress.

We walk to the restaurant is a few blocks away. It's intimate and dimly lit with exposed brick walls and candles on everytable. Very definitely date territory, despite Nicholas's careful insistence that this is just art appreciation.

"This is nice," I say as we're seated at a corner table.

"Diego recommended it. Said the food was worth the pretension."

Our waiter appears, professionally friendly, and Nicholas orders wine without consulting me. It's expensive. Something I would never order. He does it so casually, I realize this is just how he exists in the world.

"Tell me more about your friendship with Diego," I say after the wine arrives.

"We've been friends since we were twelve. He moved to Austin from Barcelona with his parents, spoke about three words of English, and got into a fight with the school bullies on his first day." Nicholas takes a sip of wine. "I helped him out. We've been friends ever since."

"He seems to care about you a lot."

"Diego thinks I work too much and live like a monk." Nicholas's smile is self-deprecating. "He's not wrong."

"Is that why you live in the hotel? The monk-like existence?"

The question slips out before I can stop it, and Nicholas goes very still.