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“You could start by putting me down.”
I stare at her.
“Why?”
Her lips twitch. “Because I'm pretty sure normal people don't conduct entire post-sex conversations pinned to walls.”
“I'm not sure I qualify as normal people.”
“Good point, Mr. Billionaire.”
Chapter 17
Mitchell
I smile, but something about the words catches.
Mr. Billionaire.
That's what she called me from the beginning. Usually with enough sarcasm to make it sound like an insult.
“Does that matter to you?”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“The billionaire part.”
“That you have money?”
“Yes.”
She blinks. And I know Layla well enough already to recognize when she's formulating an answer versus when she's genuinely caught off guard. This is the latter.
“Honestly?” she says. “I haven't really thought about it.”
“Truth,” I murmur.
Her eyes narrow. “Are you fact-checking me now?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“That's my occupation.”
“I have an almost photographic memory, Firecracker. Everything is my occupation.”
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.
Then the smile fades. Not completely. Just enough for me to know the journalist in her has turned the question around.
Of course she fucking has.
“How about you?”
“How about me?”
“Have you thought about the fact that I don't have your kind of money?”
The question is softer than everything that came before it. There's something beneath it.
