Jesus, could this woman go any slower? He had to wonder why the fuck women would wear heels that high if they couldn’t be agile in them. Already fighting off a hangover from the night before - which had made an early run to the bodega around the corner a necessity - Diego did not have the time nor the patience to wait behind the personification of a slow moving truck on a highway. Growling quietly, he speeds up his pace, not even realizing that he had bumped against her as he did so. It didn’t matter, he had clients coming in an hour, he needed to make some attempt at looking presentable.
His head pounds by the time he reaches the fifth floor, not in the least aided by the woman’s cutting voice ringing in his ears because she simply could not have a phone call that did not concern the entire building. Diego walks into his office-slash-apartment, which was recklessly always left unlocked, while opening up a bottle of pepto-bismol and downing a generous gulp of it. This was what his mornings usually looked like, though they generally went by undisturbed. The knocking at his door is certainly new.
Confused and with a frown that speaks more to his headache than such puzzlement, he looks down at his wristwatch to check the time. Okay, so he’d been right. The clients were getting there in an hour, then who the fuck– Diego turns around to be faced with a redhead, the slow-yet-loud figure from before, and blinks repeatedly. “Right.” He says quietly, looking her up and down with unabashed suspicion. Was this a prank? “The meeting that’s happening in an hour?” Oh, he’d charge extra for this.
Why the hell was he looking at her like that!? She was suddenly reminded of her son, Rhys, and the fact that she was a mother to a boy that gave her the exact same expression when she asked him to clean his room for the fifth time in an hour. She felt affronted and -- wait; this was the guy that bumped into her! Wow. Clearly, he was from the city.
“That’s a nice way to greet your client,” she muttered, her eyes widening as she judged him shamelessly, her gaze falling from his untamed hair to the bags under his eyes. Then she realized what he’d said - happening in an hour? “Wait, what?”
Removing her phone, she found Elizabeth’s text message, scrolling to see the number four and definitely not three. “Shit, god dammit Elizabeth. I totally could’ve had that second macchiato,” the word left her in a perfect Italian accent. She heaved a sigh and shrugged a shoulder, “so, I’m not technically your client, my friend is, but she told me in person to meet her here at three and then she sent me a text this morning saying it was at four but I completely forgot. Honestly, I can just tell you what’s going on, it’s all stupid and I hardly think she even needs you,” a beat, “no offense. I just mean I think the whole thing is stupid and you don’t need a detective to figure out your husband’s cheating on you.”
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