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He took a sport that barely registers on the average American radar and somehow turned a small North Carolina city into rugby country.

Tonight, his team lifted the Cup. So maybe everybody else is satisfied with the obvious story.

Billionaire buys team.

Team wins championship.

Billionaire wins too.

Cute.

But I want the rest of it.

Why rugby? Why Consequence? Why these men? And why does Mitchell Knight seem so damn determined to make the Carolina Rovers matter?

“There you are.”

The voice comes from behind me.

Male.

Deep.

Amused.

And entirely too close.

I turn.

Oh. Oh, hell.

Every photograph I’ve seen of Mitchell Knight is a fucking lie. They don't capture the sheer presence of the man.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wickedly handsome.

The custom black tuxedo fitted perfectly over a body that makes me wonder whether billionaires have access to some secret gym the rest of us don’t know about.

His bow tie is already undone, hanging loose around his collar, and there’s a glass of amber liquor in one hand.

But it’s his eyes that catch me. Icy blue. Like a glacier. Only, somehow, they’re not cold.

I shiver under his scrutiny. Those stunning eyes of his sweep over me once.

Slowly.

Not rudely.

Somehow that would be easier.

But no, Mitchell Knight looks at me like he’s just discovered something interesting. And Mitchell Knight strikes me as a man who gets very, very focused when something interests him.

I lift my chin.

“Mr. Knight.”

His mouth curves.

“Layla Hawthorne.”