Page 176 of Diego

“What are you doing?”

So much for stealth.

I turn around with the knife still in my hand and find him standing at the entrance to the kitchen in a sweater with the sleeves pushed up, phone in one hand, expression caught somewhere between surprise and concern. That sweater makes him look unfairly sexy when I'm definitely not feeling my best.

His gaze moves from me to the counter, then down to my socked feet as if checking whether I have somehow injured myself during my journey across the house.

“Making lunch.”

He crosses to me. “Why didn't you call me?”

“Because if I had, you would have made it for me and brought it upstairs.”

“Exactly.” He reaches for the knife in my hand as if to finish making it himself.

I turn it in his direction threateningly and narrow my eyes. “Don't you dare.”

He looks amused. “Oh, you're well enough for a knife fight now, are you?”

“If that's what it takes to get out of that bedroom for a few minutes, yes.”

His hands lift in surrender. “All right. Keep the weapon.” The amusement fades. “How do you feel?”

“I feel fine. I took the elevator, walked about thirty feet, and somehow survived the journey.”

Some of the concern leaves his face, and he leans one hip against the counter and watches me resume slicing the tomato. “Good.”

“I needed to do something normal, even if it was just making a sandwich.” I slide the last tomato slice onto the bread and stop. “Do you want one?”

I can see the internal war behind his eyes. If he says yes, then I'll be making him a sandwich too, but if he says no and then he makes one himself, I'm going to be upset with him.

I see my own triumph on his face before he says, “Yes, thank you.”

I smile and reach for more bread. Diego opens the refrigerator beside me and starts pulling out more ingredients, and for the next few minutes we work around each other easily. He slices more cheese while I spread pesto. It is such an ordinary thing that I find myself enjoying it far more than making lunch should warrant.

When both sandwiches are finished, I reach for the plates, but Diego gets there first.

I look at him.

“You made lunch,” he says. “I can carry it.”

I consider objecting purely on principle, then decide I have already won the argument that mattered. “Fine. You can have that one.”

His mouth curves as he picks up both plates and heads toward the terrace doors.

I follow at an easy pace, taking my time without needing to be reminded. The terrace is only a short distance away, and when Diego opens the door, cool air moves into the room along with the soft rush of the lake beyond it.

He sets our lunches on the table and pulls out a chair for me. This time I sit without argument.

I have escaped the bedroom, made my own lunch, and walked all the way to the terrace under my own power.

I can concede the chair.

Chapter Thirty One

Diego

I wake before the sun is fully up with Blair tucked against me and my hard-on pressing into the soft curve of her ass.