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“People call you eccentric. They call you a playboy. They call this team your very expensive toy.”
His expression cools by a degree.
There. Finally. I found something.
The journalist in me pounces.
“So I’m asking you, Mr. Knight. Are the Carolina Rovers just another toy?”
His icy blue gaze locks onto mine. All that unexpected warmth disappears.
“No.”
One word.
No teasing.
No charm.
Nothing playful whatsoever.
And suddenly I know.
There is something here.
“Then what are they?”
His jaw tightens. Before he can answer, someone barrels past us, catching my shoulder hard enough to knock me sideways.
My borrowed heel slides.
“Oh!”
The room tilts. I don’t hit the floor.
An arm catches me around the waist. A strong one. And suddenly I’m pressed against a very solid billionaire.
My palms land flat against his chest.
His hand spreads across my lower back. His face is inches from mine. And every coherent thought in my head evaporates.
Fantastic.
So much for professionalism.
Mitchell’s gaze drops to my mouth.
“Careful, Sweetheart,” he murmurs.
Oh, fuck.
I swallow.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re standing on my shoes.”
I look down. I am standing on his very expensive hand-tooled Italian leather shoes.
