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“That was definitely a something.”

She smiles. I don't like that smile.

“You're in trouble, little Firecracker.”

“I am not.”

“Of course not.”

“I'm a journalist.”

“How unfortunate for Mr. Knight.”

“Mitchell Knight is my subject.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I'm writing a story about him.”

“I'm sure you are.”

I narrow my eyes. She pats my arm.

“Come, darling. Let's make that man regret leaving for an hour.”

Oh, Jesus.

“No. We are absolutely not dressing me for Mitchell Knight.”

“Of course not.”

She pulls back the curtain.

“We're dressing you for you.”

That shuts me up. Because that's different.

That I can do.

I step into the fitting room. Still, as she begins pulling fabrics and talking about necklines and silhouettes, I can't stop thinking about the man who just walked out the door.

Mitchell Knight is supposed to be a story.

Thirty days of access.

Thirty days to figure out what he's hiding and why a man who guards his privacy like a state secret suddenly invited me behind the walls.

I should be watching him. Analyzing him. Looking for cracks.

Instead, I'm starting to notice things that have absolutely nothing to do with the story.

His smile.

His scent.

The way he remembers everything I tell him.

The way his voice changes when he calls me by that little nickname. Firecracker.