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“You know what I mean.”

“I really don't.”

“Layla.”

I turn off the faucet. Carolina turns toward me.

“I worked for him for years. I've watched women throw themselves at that man in every conceivable way.”

“That's a lovely visual.”

She laughs.

“Sorry.”

“No, you're not.”

“Not really.”

I grab a towel.

“He's dated.”

My stomach does something stupid. But it’s nonsense. Of course he's dated.

The man is gorgeous, rich, brilliant, and irritatingly good in—nope.

I am so not thinking about Mitchell's previous sex life in a public restroom.

“But I've never seen him like this,” Carolina continues.

I look at her.

“Like what?”

“Happy.”

One word. It hits harder than it should.

“He's happy with you.”

My throat suddenly feels tight.

“You can't know that.”

“I know Mitchell.”

“I want to know him too.”

The words come out before I can stop them.

Carolina smiles. Not triumphant. Not teasing. Just warm.

“You know something,” she says softly. “I think maybe you already do.”

I look down at the towel in my hands.

“You must be special to him, Layla.”