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I don't know the woman across the room. She could be the reporter trying to dig through Granddad's life for all I know.

Hell, that's why I'm looking for her.

So why the fuck does hearing Myrna reduce her to the size of her body make me want to bare my teeth?

“Myrna.”

She must hear something in my voice because some of the smugness disappears.

“What?”

“You know exactly what.”

Her eyes flick toward the woman again. A petty little movement.

“She is considerably overweight, sir.”

“That is none of your business.”

Myrna's eyebrows rise.

“Surely you noticed her in that dress?”

My gaze flicks to the woman. To the only woman here worth a second glance.

Oh, I noticed.

Every soft, lush inch of her.

That's not the fucking point.

“I asked you who she is. I didn’t ask for your opinion on her fashion sense.”

Myrna's lips thin.

For one ridiculous second, I want to remind her that the woman standing across this ballroom is fucking gorgeous.

That those curves are one of the first things I noticed about her.

That calling her fat like it's some kind of insult says a hell of a lot more about Myrna than it does about her.

I don't.

Because defending a complete stranger's honor to an employee who's jealous I'm looking at her would be insane.

Almost as insane as the protective anger still simmering beneath my skin.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Myrna glances down at her phone.

“Her name is Layla Hawthorne.”

Chapter 3

Mitchell

Layla.