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Firecracker.

The nickname he apparently decided belongs to me sometime during our shopping adventure.

I should tell him to stop.

It's presumptuous.

Overly familiar.

Completely inappropriate considering he's the billionaire I'm supposed to be investigating.

I don't tell him to stop. Which probably says something deeply troubling about me.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Always.”

His eyes hold mine when he says it. And damn if that one little word doesn't land somewhere deeper than it should. Then his expression shifts.

“Although I do need to speak with the congressman for just a moment.”

“Go. I'll try to survive without you.”

His lips twitch.

“Stay out of trouble.”

“I'm a professional journalist.”

“Exactly my concern.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Go away, Mitchell.”

That gets me the full smile which is ridiculously sexy.

Because, yeah, I said Mitchell.

We're on a first-name basis now.

Somewhere between the department store disaster, Elle commandeering my body for an hour, and traipsing around New York together, Mr. Knight apparently became too formal.

He told me if we're going to spend thirty days together, hearing it every five minutes is going to make him feel like he should be charging me tuition.

So, Mitchell. And he has permission to call me Layla.

Perfectly normal.

Two adults using first names. No big deal.

Except hearing Layla in that deep voice makes my knees a little weak.

And Firecracker? That's worse.

So much worse.

Because Layla is my name. Everyone gets to use it.