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Her gaze drops. Straight to my mouth.

There.

She wants me too. The knowledge hits low and hard.

For one reckless second, I almost close the distance. No calculated seduction. No wondering what she knows about me and my grandfather.

I just want to kiss her.

Which is precisely why I don't.

“Nice try, Mitchell.”

She steps away. Cool air fills the space where her body almost was.

And I fucking hate it.

“Worth a shot,” I manage.

She shakes her head as though the whole thing was nothing but banter. Maybe that's what she needs to believe.

Then her lips twitch. And there it is again. That fucking smile.

I'm in so much trouble.

Because that wasn't part of the plan. I was supposed to use the attraction between us to figure her out.

Instead, for thirty seconds on a Manhattan sidewalk, I forgot there was anything to figure out.

I just wanted her.

Not Layla Hawthorne, investigative journalist. Not the woman potentially digging into Garrison Knight's past.

Layla.

And that's a distinction I can't afford to start making.

Ten minutes later, we step into a boutique so discreet there isn't even a name over the door.

Layla stops.

“Where the heck did you bring me now?”

I look down at her.

“Trust me.”

“Those are terrifying words coming from you.”

“I'll try not to be offended.”

“You should probably try harder.”

I open the door for her.

“After you, Hawthorne.”

She walks past me, bringing another whisper of wildflowers and vanilla with her.