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Fine. Two tops.

Then I climbed on.

Obviously.

Because what the hell else was I supposed to do? You don't put a rolling ladder in a library and expect a woman who loves books not to take that baby for a spin.

So there I was, one hand gripping the rail, the other stretched dramatically toward the ceiling as I pushed off and glided a whole three feet down the shelves like Belle in Beauty and the Beast.

“Miss Hawthorne.”

I nearly fell off.

Carl stood in the doorway—he’s Mitchell's butler.

Because apparently the mansion, private jet, fifteen corporate buildings, professional rugby team, Central Park West penthouse, and almost-photographic memory, and a cock worthy of a porn star weren't quite enough to complete the billionaire package.

He needed a butler, too.

Carl is somewhere in his sixties, impeccably dressed, unfailingly polite, and possesses the unique ability to communicate entire paragraphs with one raised eyebrow.

At that particular moment, the eyebrow said:

The woman currently sleeping with my employer is riding the library furniture.

I climbed down with as much dignity as a thirty-five-year-old investigative journalist caught playing on a rolling ladder can muster.

“I was testing it.”

“Of course, Miss.”

“For safety.”

“Naturally, Miss.”

“It's very smooth.”

“So I've been told, Miss.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. He raised that eyebrow again.

Then he said, perfectly straight-faced, “The wives do it too.”

That stopped me.

“The wives?”

“The Rovers' wives.”

Ah. Now that got my attention. Turns out the women connected to the Carolina Rovers have a book club.

And Mitchell lets them use his library.

Regularly.

That little nugget of information lodged itself directly into my journalist brain. Because I've spent the last week looking at the Rovers from Mitchell's perspective.

Owner.