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And Layla doesn't know that.

She thinks I offered the thirty-day arrangement because I wanted some control over the article.

True. But it’s not all of it.

She doesn't know I had people investigating her. She doesn't know I was trying to figure out who sent her digging into Garrison Knight. She doesn't know that when I invited her into my house, part of me considered seducing her a perfectly viable method of getting close enough to find out.

That part makes me feel particularly fucking vile now.

Because Layla isn't a target.

She's my⁠—

I stop.

My what?

Reporter? No.

Guest? Definitely fucking not.

Lover? Technically.

But the word feels inadequate.

Girlfriend? That’s not enough.

Jesus Christ.

I'm forty-three years old and apparently incapable of identifying my own relationship.

Fantastic.

“You okay, boss?”

I look up. Dane is watching me now. The amusement is gone.

That's worse than his ribbing.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Careful. I sign your checks.”

“And I know what you look like when you're working through a problem.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

He glances toward the others. They've quieted too.

Wonderful.

Apparently I've wandered into an emotional intervention conducted by professional rugby players.