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“It wasn't two yet.”

“Oh, well, that changes everything.”

“We just talked.”

“At his mansion.”

“Yes.”

“Alone.”

“Mostly. I assume there was staff somewhere.”

“Layla.”

“What?”

“Did you get some dick?”

“OH MY GOD!”

Her laughter explodes through the phone. I flop backward against the couch.

“This is why I don't tell you things.”

“This is exactly why you tell me things.”

“We did not kiss or touch or have any kind of sex.”

“Disappointing.”

“I was working.”

“Sure.”

“He made me an offer. Had a contract and everything.”

Her laughter stops. And there she is. My editor.

“What kind of offer?”

“Thirty days.”

“Thirty days of what?”

I hesitate. Because now that I have to say it out loud, it sounds even crazier.

“I live with him for thirty days.”

Silence.

Then—a scoff. A laugh. And finally an actual snort.

“That man wants to fuck you.”

“What? He does not!”

“Layla.”