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“We're agreed to the revised terms.”

“Naturally.”

“I maintain my own notes.”

“Yes.”

“I can ask whatever questions I want.”

“You can ask.”

Her eyes narrow.

“You really enjoy that distinction, don't you?”

“Immensely.”

“And at the end of the thirty days, I write the piece.”

“Within the parameters of our agreement.”

“You don't get to rewrite my conclusions.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm offended.”

“No, you're not.”

She's right about that.

Most people spend a tremendous amount of energy pretending to believe me when they know I'm full of shit.

Layla calls it out before I finish the sentence.

I should find that irritating. I don't. Instead, I find it curious. Dangerous even.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Yes.”

She places both palms on my desk and leans forward. Terrible decision. For me, anyway.

Because the blouse shifts. A hint of lace appears again. And my concentration follows it.

“I'm not here to be your personal PR machine.”

“I know.”

“You don't get to parade me through thirty days of carefully selected meetings and staged photo opportunities and expect me to write some glowing billionaire profile about how you eat protein bars and personally remember the janitor's birthday.”

“I don't know the janitor's birthday.”

“Good.”

“Just kidding. His name is Mark Henries, and his birthday is May seventeenth.”