Page 103
My stomach does something stupid. The designer glances at him.
“You know?”
“That's what I told her.”
I look between them.
“Oh, good. Now there are two of you.”
She laughs.
“I like her.”
“Yes, I'm beginning to as well.”
Everything inside me goes still. Mitchell seems to realize what he said at exactly the same moment I do.
Our eyes meet. And—oh boy. There's no teasing in his expression.
No billionaire arrogance.
No smug smile because he managed to make the reporter blush.
He just looks at me. And for one strange, suspended second, I forget what we're doing.
I forget about Garrison Knight.
The Rovers.
The story.
The NDA sitting in my laptop bag.
I forget that Mitchell Knight is supposed to be a subject I'm studying. Because right now he doesn't feel like a subject.
He feels like a man.
A gorgeous, complicated, irritating man who remembered my favorite hot dog from some random interview.
Who noticed I was uncomfortable about a black-tie event.
Who walked into that department store, heard someone treating me like I didn't belong, and got so quietly furious I thought the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
A man who looked at my body like there wasn't a single fucking thing about it he'd change.
And I liked it.
God help me, I liked it.
Not the defending. I can defend myself.
It's the seeing.
Mitchell sees things. That's becoming increasingly clear. And I'm starting to wonder what else he sees when he looks at me.
Worse? I'm starting to care. The designer clears her throat.
Shit.
