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She freezes. It's barely a hitch in her stride, but I notice.

Of course I notice.

I notice every fucking thing about this woman.

“Women,” she repeats.

Something about her tone makes me look down at her.

“That's generally how it works.”

“Of course.” She waves a hand. “You probably know them all.”

There's a bite beneath the teasing. Jealousy? Maybe.

I should enjoy that. If Layla is jealous, I could use it. Encourage it. Let attraction loosen her tongue and blur the lines between journalist and subject.

That's the plan, isn't it?

Get close. Find out what she knows about Granddad. Use whatever leverage presents itself.

Except suddenly, I don't want her thinking about other women. I don't want her wondering how many there have been. And I sure as hell don't want to use whatever that flash in her eyes was against her.

“Hardly.”

She gives me a skeptical look.

“Please.”

“What?”

“You're Mitchell Knight.”

“I'm aware.”

“Billionaire. Playboy. Reclusive genius. Isn't that how the articles describe you?”

“Some of them.”

“So you're telling me the women part is fabricated?”

“No.”

Her eyebrow lifts.

“Thought so.”

“But I'm also not keeping a catalog, Miss Hawthorne.”

“Too busy cataloging companies?”

“Something like that.”

She laughs again. And I forget what the fuck I'm supposed to be doing.

I forget about reporters. Investigations. Granddad. Thirty-day strategies.

All I see is Layla walking beside me with sunlight catching the light brown and gold in her hair—a unique dark honey blonde I swear I’ve never seen except for her—and that smile still lingering on her lips.