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Cashews.

Pumpkin seeds.

Protein bars.

Something involving chia that looks deeply unpleasant.

I glance toward him. He catches me. One dark eyebrow rises.

I immediately close the compartment.

“Hungry?”

He's still listening to whoever is speaking rapid-fire German in his ear.

“No.”

A beat.

“Maybe.”

His mouth twitches. He reaches over without looking and opens a different compartment.

It’s chocolate.

Good chocolate.

The expensive kind with writing on the wrapper I can't pronounce.

I stare at it. Then him. He gestures. So, I take one.

For research purposes. Obviously.

He goes back to German.

I unwrap the chocolate. I bite. And I have to physically stop myself from moaning aloud.

Okay, that's fantastic.

This asshole would have sinfully delicious chocolate in his limo.

I look around again. Everything about this vehicle tells me something about Mitchell Knight.

He works constantly. He's prepared for everything.

He travels enough to make this car an extension of his office. He apparently considers roasted almonds an acceptable snack, but keeps emergency, gourmet chocolate hidden in a separate drawer.

And despite the playboy-billionaire reputation attached to his name, there isn't a minibar anywhere.

Interesting.

My fingers itch for my notebook. I don't have it with me—not in this dress, anyway. Besides, this isn't technically an interview.

At least, I don't think it is.

It’s a chat. He said so. I steal a glance at him and quietly catalog what I see.

Dark blonde hair.