Page 27

My attention returns to her before I can stop it.

The name fits. Soft somehow.

Pretty.

I like it.

Goddammit.

The name means nothing to me. She means nothing to me.

Yet.

It’s the yet that’s got me half hard and angry as a goddamn hornet.

“Who is she?”

Myrna looks at her phone. Then at me. Then back at Layla. Her expression makes my stomach tighten.

“Right now, she's a sports broadcaster.”

Fine.

“But she's also an investigative journalist.”

Fuck.

Every trace of warmth that had started somewhere low in my body turns instantly to ice.

Of fucking course.

The first woman to catch my attention in—Christ, I don't even know how long—is a goddamn reporter.

Not just a reporter.

An investigative journalist.

Because apparently the universe not only has a sense of humor, it's a sadistic motherfucker.

I look at Layla again.

And now I see her differently.

The way she's watching people.

The constant scanning.

The concentration.

That brief uncertainty I mistook for discomfort before she shoved it aside and kept moving.

She's working. The realization should kill my attraction.

It doesn't.

That pisses me off even more.

“Is that her?”