Page 192 of Diego

Warm against me despite the cold air. Annoyed that I picked her up. Alive.

Our baby alive inside her.

Right now, that's enough.

Chapter Thirty Four

Blair

I have reached the point where boredom has stopped being just an inconvenience and has become a genuine threat to my sanity.

It would probably be easier if I were the kind of person who could spend hours reading, watching television, or sitting on the terrace without feeling as though I should be doing something useful.

Unfortunately, I have spent most of my adult life working. Even when I am technically off, there is usually a listing to review, a client to call, a property to research, or an email I can answer. Having all of that abruptly taken away has left a hole in my days that staring at Lake Michigan cannot fill, no matter how beautiful the view is.

Worse, my newly acquired clients are disappearing one by one.

Not literally. They are still very much alive and still looking for real estate, which is exactly the problem. They cannot wait around indefinitely while I recover. The first few were easy enough to hand off because their searches were not urgent, and I could convince myself I would pick them back up later.

Then Rafe Calloway needed another showing, a couple relocating from New York moved their timeline forward, and a woman I had spent almost three weeks courting finally decided she was ready to list her coveted property.

All of them needed someone who could actually leave the house.

I understand it. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

Leah and Carter have both been messaging me constantly, partly because they are covering some of the work and partly because they are worried. I told them I had a medical issue and needed time away, which is technically true, but neither of them is stupid.

Carter asked whether I needed anything delivered. Leah offered to come sit with me. Both have tried, in increasingly creative ways, to get me to explain what happened.

But I just can't. There is no version of the truth I can give them that does not immediately create a million more questions. I am pregnant. The father is Diego Conti. I had a subchorionic hematoma. I spent a night in the hospital. I am now—temporarily—living in Diego's newly purchased lake house, which, incidentally, I sold him.

The whole thing reeks of favoritism, and, well, sleeping my way to the top.

And, while we are discussing workplace complications, there is still Randall.

I am not ready for any of that to become Meridian gossip.

So I am stuck with vague answers, concerned messages, and the growing suspicion that everyone at work believes I am either seriously ill or involved in some secret legal problem.

At the moment, I am sitting in the chair across from Diego’s desk in his home office, explaining all of this to him for what is probably the third time in ten minutes. The millionth time this week.

“I need something to do.”

Diego looks up from his laptop. “You have things to do.”

“I have things to occupy time. Not the same.”

His mouth twitches.

“Don't you dare give me that placating smile. It's insulting.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

He leans back in his chair, abandoning any attempt to hide it. “What exactly qualifies as something to do?”

“Work.”