Page 21

Then again, that's the problem with good reporters. You usually don't see them coming.

“Find out who.”

“I am.”

“No, you're standing here talking to me.”

She mutters something that sounds suspiciously like asshole and pulls out her phone. I ignore her.

My gaze continues moving through the room.

And stops.

Well, fuck me.

A woman stands near the far side of the ballroom.

She’s alone. And for one, long second, I forget I'm supposed to be looking for a reporter.

Because I'm looking at her.

And she's—Jesus.

She’s beautiful. Genuine. Real.

Not the polished, manufactured, meticulously curated kind of beautiful I'm surrounded by every damn day. I've spent enough time at events like this to recognize the look. Hair sprayed into submission. Faces sculpted and contoured into near perfection. Bodies squeezed, lifted, tucked, and displayed in ways designed to attract attention.

Mine, usually.

There are at least half a dozen women in this room who've made it painfully obvious they'd be happy to help Mitchell Knight celebrate his team's victory in private.

None of them have held my attention for more than a few seconds.

This woman isn’t even trying, and yet I can’t take my eyes off her.

She looks...

Real.

That's the first word that comes to mind.

Warm is the second.

Her hair is dark blonde, thick and glossy, falling around her shoulders in soft waves that don't look shellacked into place. A few strands have escaped whatever she'd intended them to do and curl around her face instead.

I like them.

Which is fucking ridiculous.

I'm standing fifty feet away, and I've already developed opinions about her hair. Then she turns her head. I get a glimpse of her eyes.

Dark.

No.

Hazel.

They’re deep brown around the edges with flashes of gold catching beneath the ballroom lights.