Page 160 of Sin Bin for the Billionaire

And right now? I'm sleeping with one of theirs.

Well.

Technically, Mitchell isn't a player. But he owns the fucking team, so I'm pretty sure he counts.

More importantly, I'm writing about him.

And if I get this wrong? If I turn out to be one more reporter who came into their world, earned their trust, and then twisted what I found into something ugly?

These women will hang my ass out to dry. Frankly, they'd be right to do it.

I glance around the library. Mitchell's library.

The room where I've spent most of the last week digging into his life while spending my nights tangled up in his sheets.

Jesus.

When did my life become this complicated?

My head turns at the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

More than one set.

Female voices follow. Then laughter. Lots of it.

My stomach flips.

Apparently, I can corner a reclusive billionaire at a gala without breaking a sweat, but meeting his rugby team's wives at book club has me considering escape routes.

My gaze slides toward the rolling ladder.

No. Absolutely not.

Carl would never let me live it down.

The library doors swing open. I straighten my shoulders. Lift my chin. And remind myself of something important.

I'm Layla Hawthorne.