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“You're thinking it.”

“I always think plenty.”

I gasp.

“You stole that from Mama Paola.”

“I'm adaptable.”

“You're a thief.”

“Dance with me, Layla.”

My heart squeezes.

“You want to dance with me?”

He stands and offers me his hand.

“Yeah. I do. I like dancing with you.”

Goddammit.

How am I supposed to protect myself from this version of Mitchell? I put my hand in his.

“You're getting soft, Mr. Knight.”

He pulls me to my feet.

“Tell anyone and I'll deny it.”

We dance.

We drink some more wine.

We laugh.

And somewhere along the way, I stop taking mental notes.

I stop analyzing. I stop trying to determine what everything means.

For a few hours, I'm not Layla Hawthorne, investigative journalist.

I'm simply Layla. And I'm having fun.

Real fun.

The kind I didn't realize I'd been missing.

Later, Carolina catches me alone in the restroom. I'm washing my hands when she comes to stand beside me.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then she meets my gaze in the mirror.

“I've never seen Mitchell like this with anyone.”

My hands stop beneath the water.

“What do you mean?”