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The way he looked at me on that sidewalk. And the way I wanted him to close that final inch between us.

Fuck.

This is bad.

Because I'm supposed to be figuring out Mitchell Knight.

I'm not supposed to be attracted to him while I do it.

And I'm definitely not supposed to be standing in a couture fitting room wondering what his face is going to look like when he comes back and sees me in this dress.

Chapter 11

Layla

Tonight's gala is for an environmental awareness charity raising money for some new initiative designed to teach environmental responsibility in grade schools.

Honorable.

Absolutely.

How exactly they're planning to implement it?

No fucking clue.

There's something in the program about curriculum development, community partnerships, and creating the next generation of environmental stewards, but that's the sort of language organizations use when they want to sound impressive without actually explaining anything.

I make a mental note to look it up later.

Occupational hazard.

I don't care if you're saving puppies, feeding orphans, or teaching seven-year-olds to recycle juice boxes.

If you ask people for millions of dollars, I want to know where the millions go.

Mitchell would probably tell me to stop working.

Which is ironic, considering I've watched him answer emails during elevator rides.

Speaking of Mitchell...

I glance across the room.

Don't.

Nope.

Too late.

He's talking to an older man near one of the elaborate displays, looking unfairly gorgeous in a tuxedo.

And I'm wearing an emerald-green confection of a gown.

Just like he wanted.

Not that I dressed for Mitchell Knight.

Let's establish that immediately.