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Myrna looks up.

“The one asking about Granddad?”

“We don't know yet, sir.”

“Myrna.”

“She is on the list we're looking at.”

Cold settles in my gut.

There it is. The reminder I apparently need. She's not some beautiful woman across a ballroom. She's potentially a threat.

Someone is digging into Granddad's past. Asking questions about a dead man who isn't here to defend himself.

Looking for what?

Scandal?

Money?

Some ugly little secret they can attach to the Knight name?

And Layla Hawthorne may be the person doing it.

My jaw tightens.

Good. Attraction solved.

Except my gaze returns to her. Again.

Fuck.

She's moved a few feet closer. Still searching. And suddenly I have a very good idea who she's searching for.

Me.

“What do you know about her?”

Myrna taps her screen.

“Layla Hawthorne. Sports broadcaster. Investigative journalist. Does long-form features and exclusive interviews.”

“With whom?”

“People who usually don't give interviews.”

I almost laugh.

“Cute.”

“She apparently thinks so.”

My gaze slides toward Myrna. There's that tone again.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, sir.”