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I said it.

He's also forty-three years old, irritatingly brilliant, controlling, arrogant, secretive, and entirely too accustomed to getting whatever he wants.

Also, I know I’ve fallen in love with him.

One of those things is considerably more dangerous than the others.

His hands settle at my waist.

I look up.

Way up.

He towers over me, makes me feel small, petite even, and cherished.

Cherished.

That's the word that nearly breaks me. I've felt wanted before. Desired. Sexy.

I've even had men tell me I'm beautiful. But this feels different.

Mitchell looks at me like I'm precious to him.

And after tonight—after watching the Rovers together, after seeing their wives light up when their husbands walked into the room, after Mitchell crossed his own library and kissed me hello like it was the most natural thing in the world—I can't pretend I don't want that.

I want to be precious to him.

I want to be the woman he looks for. The woman he kisses hello. The woman who belongs beside him at the table.

I want something I have absolutely no business wanting this badly.

Him.

“Where'd you go?”

His voice is low. I blink.

“What?”

“You disappeared on me.”

“I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

I give him a look. His thumb traces my waist.

“Especially for you.”

“Asshole.”

“Reporter.”

I smile. He smiles back.

Then neither of us is smiling anymore. Because his gaze drops to my mouth.

Mine drops to his. And suddenly the air changes.