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“It’s my first one.”

“You’ve got more?”

“Lots.”

“Lucky me.”

I narrow my eyes.

“You’re an American billionaire who could’ve bought into practically any major sport you wanted. Football. Basketball. Baseball. Hockey. Instead, you sank millions into a rugby club in North Carolina when most Americans couldn’t explain the difference between a ruck and a maul if their lives depended on it.”

One corner of his mouth twitches.

“So you know the difference?”

“I do my homework.”

“I noticed.”

There it is again. That tone. That subtle suggestion that he hasn't simply noticed my work.

He's noticed me.

My pulse kicks harder.

Ignore it, Hawthorne. This man is your story. He’s not into you. Do your job. Nothing else.

“You’ve spent a fortune on this team,” I continue. “Facilities. Players. Coaches. Marketing. Community outreach. And now they’ve won the Championship Cup.”

“They have.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“So why? Why did you start this venture?”

He studies me. And for the first time since he walked over, Mitchell Knight isn’t flirting.

He’s simply looking at me. Assessing. Maybe trying to decide how much I already know.

Good. This is territory I understand.

“Maybe I like rugby.”

“Maybe you do. But a lot of people like a lot of things.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe men like you rarely spend tens of millions of dollars because they like something.”

His laugh is low. Genuine. And annoyingly attractive.

“Men like me?”

“Billionaires.”

“Ah.”