The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (29)

A smile lights up Maria’s face when her eyes meet mine, and I can’t pretend it doesn’t spread a warmth throughout my chest.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” she adds. “I saw the bag and the car seat and thought you went home for the night.”

“And miss the look on your face when changing your first dirty diaper? No way.”

She laughs. “My God, it’s like tar!”

I pad into the room and stop just short of her so I can lean around to see the baby. “Don’t worry, little lady. My mom said the same about me.”

Maria rolls her eyes, and I put the flowers on the table by her bed and tie the balloons to the window lock so they’re out of the way before returning to her side as she’s securing the tabs of the baby’s diaper.

“So…what are we thinking about her name?” I ask. “Have you decided yet?”

She shakes her head solemnly, and I rub her shoulder in comfort. “It’s fine. She doesn’t need a name yet anyway. Honestly, she won’t even know the sound of it for a couple of months, so you could try out a bunch of stuff if you want to,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood, and Maria turns to shove my shoulder playfully before picking up the baby and cradling her.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No, no.” I scoff. “Me being ridiculous would be suggesting you name her Otis. Or Kone. Or Schindler. Or ThyssenKrupp.”

“Are those…” Her eyebrows pinch together as she concentrates. “Are those elevator companies?”

“They might be,” I admit with a wink, and she bursts into melodic laughter. I smile so big my face hurts.

“How in the eff do you know all those elevator companies?”

“I think the real question here is, how do you know?” I challenge, crinkling my brow.

“You first.”

“I’m an observant person. I notice details.” I shrug one shoulder. “I also might have a strong understanding of how each of those companies is doing in the market right now.”

“Stocks. Of course.” She laughs. “Well, I’m in real estate. And you wouldn’t believe the things clients ask sometimes.”

“Are there really elevator-brand snobs? Here? In this city? Sharing my air?”

“Yes. Lots of them. And, well, honestly, after the run I’ve had with elevators lately, I’m starting not to blame them.”

I walk to the chair on the other side of the room and settle into it while she eases herself and the baby down onto the bed. I want to offer to help, but her body language seems closed off from that, and I completely understand. We’ve gotten supremely intimate today, and she’s finally getting back a little bit of her personal space and control.

“If we’re going to point the finger, we should probably do it at the power grid,” I comment. “He’s the bad guy here.”

“Nah. I choose not to believe that. The city’s power grid is a mint antique with a lot of charm. At least, that’s how I’d describe it if I were writing it into a listing.”

I chuckle. “I love a good spin. In my business, we do the same thing. Oh yes, Mr. Jones. The market is simply coasting through some expected volatility. We’re looking for the law of averages, not the law of extremes.” I roll my eyes at myself. “Meanwhile, Mr. Jones just lost $100K in a two-day bottom.”

Her smile shows she gets it. “It’s the job, right?”

“Yeah,” I agree. “And sometimes the job is shit.”

She tilts her head in question. “You don’t like it?”

“Eh,” I admit. “Most days are okay. I like the security it’s built me in my life. I like the security I’ve been able to give my family. And I like the numbers. I like the game of it. But the all-consuming hours I put in? That’s starting to get old.”

“Oh, so it’s not just me whose job consumes their life?” she retorts on a snort. “I mean, it’s probably completely normal for a pregnant woman to schedule three showings in a row two days before her due date, right?”

“Wait…is that why you were in my building?”

“Yes.” She grimaces.

“Damn, Ri. I think you work too much.”

“Says the guy who just admitted he works too much.”

I laugh at her cheeky grin, and somewhere deep inside me, I remember how good the two of us used to be together. How we always laughed and had the kind of back-and-forth banter that made me pull all-nighters with her on the phone, despite my mom’s irritation.

“So, the hours, then?” she questions, and I meet her eyes again. “That’s what you don’t like about the job?”

The hours can be brutal. Sure, the stock market’s opening bell rings at 9:30 a.m. sharp, but the true trading, if you manage to claw your way into the investment in-crowd, starts around four. If you want to make the real moves, you’re up and trading before the sun even thinks about rising.

“That’s part of it,” I answer honestly. “But if I had to choose what bothers me the most, it’s the pressure and stress that come with messing with someone else’s hard-earned money.”

“That’s exactly why I try not to be too judgmental, even when people are pricks. I mean, it is their money they’re spending. They just want to protect it. I can understand that.”