Page 49
I lean back.
“So this isn't access. It's PR.”
“No.”
“It sounds like PR.”
“PR would give you three supervised hours, a prepared biography, six approved photographs, and a list of questions you're not allowed to ask.”
Fair.
“This gives you thirty days.”
He leans forward.
Those icy blue eyes hold mine.
“You want to know what I do when cameras aren't around?”
Yes.
“What I spend my money on?”
Definitely.
“Why I bought the Rovers?”
My heartbeat stutters.
There.
He knows.
Somehow, he knows exactly where to aim.
“Who I trust. What I care about. What my life actually looks like when nobody's watching.”
His voice lowers.
“Thirty days, Layla.”
The use of my first name does something warm and dangerous to my insides. I ignore it.
“You live with me. You observe. You ask questions.”
“And you’ll answer my questions?”
“You can ask anything.”
“That wasn't my question.”
His mouth curves.
“I know.”
Asshole.
“And after thirty days?”
