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I invited her into my life because I need to know what she's investigating.

Thirty days.

Access.

Information.

Control.

That was the plan.

Then she walked out of a fitting room looking like every filthy fantasy I didn't know I had, and my first thought wasn't about Garrison.

Or her investigation.

Or the fucking plan.

It was mine.

One primitive, possessive word.

And that's a problem.

Because I could take Layla to bed.

Jesus, I want to.

I've been thinking about it since the moment she accused me of trying to flirt her out of a story. Maybe before that.

But wanting her naked isn't what has me putting distance between us now.

It's what comes afterward.

Because I know myself. I know obsession when I feel the first edges of it.

And if I get Layla Hawthorne into my bed, once isn't going to be enough.

One night won't be enough.

One weekend.

Thirty days.

Fuck, I already know I'm going to want more.

Her laugh in my apartment.

Her shoes beside mine.

Her ridiculous commentary during dinner.

Her laptop abandoned on my couch.

Her questions.

Her temper.

Her fucking adorable pastry calculations.