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Black tuxedo.
Long legs stretched comfortably into the space between us.
One hand resting on his thigh while the other holds his phone.
His expression has changed completely from the ballroom.
No teasing.
No devastating smile.
No flirtatious billionaire making my pulse behave like I've never seen an attractive man before.
This Mitchell is sharp.
Focused.
Speaking German like he was born doing it. And isn’t that just sexy as hell?
Dammit.
I eat another bite of my chocolate.
Professional boundaries, Hawthorne. Remember those?
The call finally ends. Mitchell lowers his phone.
“Sorry about that.”
“You speak German.”
“I do.”
“Any other languages? Fluently?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.”
His eyebrows draw together.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. How many?”
“I speak English, German, Italian, Spanish, a little French, some Russian, and Mandarin.”
“Wow. Impressive.”
“Funny, you don’t sound so impressed,” he says. Then he leans over and takes a bite of my chocolate—finishing it.
“Hey!”
“What? I thought we were sharing.” He says after he finishes chewing.
“You thought wrong.”
“Are you always this judgmental during an interview?”
