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“All right. Somebody tell me about the Jersey Devil cowboy.”

Five women start talking at once.

And for the first time since I walked into this library, I stop feeling like the reporter in the room.

I'm just Layla.

And I kind of like it.

Chapter 22

Mitchell

I don't know what I expect when I walk into my library with half my fucking team trailing behind me.

An interrogation, maybe.

Layla cornered by five women who have collectively made grown professional rugby players tremble.

Possibly bloodshed.

What I don't expect is laughter.

A lot of fucking laughter.

The kind that carries into the hallway before we even reach the doors.

I slow. So do the men behind me.

“What the hell?” Tank mutters.

We walk in. And stop.

Five women are gathered around one of the massive tables in the center of my library with Layla right in the middle of them, laughing her ass off.

Not polite laughter.

Not that careful little social chuckle people use around strangers.

Full-body, head-thrown-back laughter.

Her cheeks are pink. Her long hair is loose around her shoulders. And Dani is holding up a notebook containing what appears to be a drawing of⁠—

What the fuck?

I squint.

A stick figure.

A male stick figure.

With wings.

A tail.

Horns, maybe?

And—