Page 35

Through all of it, I know exactly where Layla is. I'm tracking her without consciously trying. And she's doing the same thing to me.

Except she hasn't found me yet.

There's something deeply satisfying about that.

Layla Hawthorne came here hunting Mitchell Knight.

She doesn't realize her target spotted her first.

By the time she finally looks my way, my plan is firmly in place.

Get close.

Find out what she knows.

Protect Granddad.

It’s all very simple.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I take a fresh drink from a passing tray and close the remaining distance between us.

Because getting into bed with the enemy is supposed to be a metaphor.

One look at Layla Hawthorne, and I'm beginning to think I might be willing to take it literally.

Chapter 4

Layla

First, I’m waylaid by a billionaire.

Now I’m sitting across from him inside his private limousine on the way to⁠—

Shit.

I never asked where he was taking me.

That realization should probably concern me more than it does.

In my defense, Mitchell Knight asked if I wanted somewhere quieter to talk, and my journalist brain immediately translated somewhere quieter into exclusive interview.

With Mitchell freaking Knight.

The man who doesn't give interviews.

The man I’ve spent weeks trying to get in front of.

The man who, less than ten minutes ago, had his arm wrapped around my waist while looking at my mouth like he was considering whether kissing me would violate some obscure billionaire code of conduct.

So, yes, I got into the car.

Sue me.

Mitchell has been on his phone for the last six minutes, and I'm not familiar enough with Consequence, North Carolina, to have the slightest clue where the heck we are.

Streetlights slide past the tinted windows.

Then fewer streetlights.