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I scoff.

“As if.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

“Thirty days is a long time.”

“I'm a professional.”

“He's hot.”

“I've interviewed hot men before.”

“Who didn't invite you to live with them and announce their plans for what they'd do if they got you into bed.”

My face heats all over again.

“That doesn't mean anything.”

“Sure.”

“It doesn't.”

“Okay.”

“Stop saying it like that.”

“Good night, Layla.”

“Cat—”

“And maybe pack condoms.”

She hangs up. I stare at my phone.

“I hate you.”

My empty apartment offers no sympathy. I drop back onto the couch and look at the NDA.

Thirty days.

Living with Mitchell Knight.

Watching him.

Studying him.

Figuring out why one of the most private men in America suddenly wants an investigative journalist close enough to see behind the curtain.

This could be the story of my career.

I just need to remember that's all Mitchell Knight is. A story.

No matter how gorgeous he is. No matter how those icy blue eyes somehow make me feel like I'm the only woman in the room. And definitely no matter what he said about what would happen if I was in his bed.

I flip through the NDA.