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Not literally.

That would be a serious design flaw.

But I've checked for the damn thing approximately forty times since leaving the house this morning.

Layla almost caught me twice. Once when she walked into the closet while I was moving it from the safe. And once when I apparently reacted suspiciously to her reaching into my jacket pocket for my keys.

She called me weird. I told her I was eccentric.

She told me that was billionaire code for weird. Then she kissed me. And I almost proposed right there.

Patience has never been my strongest virtue.

“Mr. Knight?”

Fuck.

Reporter.

Right.

“Yes?”

“You’ve said what’s next for the Carolina Rovers, but what about for you?”

I look past her again. This time Layla catches me.

Those hazel eyes meet mine across the distance. She smiles. My fucking heart turns over.

“The future is next.”

The reporter follows my gaze.

Her expression changes.

She knows.

Or suspects.

And it’s time for me to go.

“Thank you.”

I don't wait for another question.

I walk away. My phone buzzes with a text message.

Dane:

Ready.

My pulse jumps.

Excellent.

Because apparently owning fifteen buildings, negotiating billion-dollar deals, and acquiring entire companies doesn't prepare a man for asking one woman one question.

I head for the field.