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“Nice try, Mr. Billionaire.”

Because if Mitchell Knight thinks I'm moving into his house to swallow whatever carefully curated version of himself he decides to feed me?

He has seriously underestimated me.

I'm going in with my eyes wide open. And I'm going to watch every fucking move he makes.

Chapter 7

Mitchell

The door to my office finally opens.

And there she is.

Layla Hawthorne walks into my office carrying a leather tote under one arm and enough attitude to fill the other.

Half sass.

Half hunger.

Not the kind I was hoping for last night.

Professional hunger.

I recognize it immediately.

She's here for the story. And that realization makes my teeth grind.

Which is fucking ridiculous considering I'm the one who offered it to her.

Still, something about seeing that determined gleam in her hazel eyes reminds me exactly why she's here.

Not because she couldn't stop thinking about me. Not because she spent half the night replaying what I said before putting her in the car. Not because she wants to find out whether I was serious.

She's here because she smells a story. And apparently, so do I. Because I can't stop looking at her.

Fuck me.

Yesterday, it was a snug black gown. Today, she's wearing navy slacks and a white blouse. And I think it might be worse.

It’s nothing flashy. Nothing overtly sexy.

Work clothes.

Except Layla Hawthorne apparently has the unique ability to make professional attire feel like a personal attack.

The slacks hug her hips.

The blouse skims over generous breasts before disappearing into the waistband, and when she steps into the sunlight pouring through my windows, the white fabric turns just translucent enough to reveal the faint outline of lace beneath it.

Black.

Her bra is black.

Jesus Christ.

My gaze lingers half a second too long.