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Firecracker.

The nickname appeared in my head and apparently decided to stay there. Just like she is starting to.

That's the danger.

Not getting Layla into my bed. Letting her out of it.

Because if I make her mine—even temporarily—I have the increasingly uncomfortable suspicion I'm not going to want to give her back.

To her apartment. To her old life. To another man.

Especially not to another fucking man.

My jaw locks.

There.

That.

That is precisely the kind of thought I need to get under control. I stop beside the congressman and accept his handshake.

“Knight. Good to see you.”

“You too, Congressman.”

My voice is perfectly normal.

Excellent. Apparently, decades of self-control haven't completely deserted me.

He starts talking. I listen.

Mostly.

After a few minutes I hear voices rising behind me.

Her voice.

I recognize it immediately. My attention snaps toward the sound before I can stop myself.

I find her immediately.

Layla.

Just looking at her, thirty days suddenly feels like a very long time to keep my hands off her.

And nowhere near long enough to have her.

Then I notice the small crowd forming around her.

My eyes narrow.

What the fuck?

Layla is standing near the hors d'oeuvres table exactly where I left her, but she's not alone anymore. Several people have gathered around, and the blonde woman directly in front of her is leaning in with the particular posture of someone spoiling for a fight.

I know that blonde.

Fuck.