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There's the sass.

Good.

Except now I know what's underneath it. And damn if some protective instinct I have no business feeling doesn't start clawing at me.

“I wasn't suggesting otherwise.”

“It sounded like you were.”

“I was asking a question.”

“Well, stop.”

My eyebrows rise.

“Stop asking questions?”

“About my clothing, yes.”

“You're the journalist. Isn't it sacrilegious to tell someone to stop asking questions?”

“You said it yourself. I’m the journalist. It's different when I do it.”

“Obviously.”

She turns toward the door again. I watch her for a second longer. I don't know what that moment was, and it’s driving me crazy.

Money? The clothes? The event itself?

Maybe she hates black-tie functions.

Maybe she doesn't have anything with her she considers appropriate for whatever she's imagining I've planned.

Or maybe it's something else entirely.

All I know is that I really want to know.

That's a goddamn problem. Because I don't know which Layla Hawthorne I need her to be.

The reporter is easier. The reporter is a threat. A professional shark circling my family, looking for blood in the water.

I can deal with a reporter. I can study her. Even outmaneuver her. Feed her enough access to keep her satisfied while I figure out exactly what she's found on Granddad.

But the woman who just looked vulnerable for half a second?

She's considerably more dangerous. Because I already want to fix whatever put that expression on her face. And I don't even fucking know what it was.

That's unacceptable.

She walks out. I follow. Close enough to catch her perfume as she passes through the doorway.

Wildflowers with a hint of something warmer beneath it. Vanilla, maybe.

Light.

Soft.

Feminine.