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“I don't know how long I'll be.”

“Mitchell.”

“What?”

She holds up her laptop.

“Go away. I have work.”

Right.

Of course she does.

I step toward her anyway. Then stop. We're in the middle of my office suite. Employees nearby. Myrna watching.

Two weeks ago, that would've mattered.

It doesn't now.

I bend and kiss Layla.

Brief.

Easy.

Because hello and goodbye kisses are apparently something I do now.

With her.

Only her.

“Don't steal anything.”

She smiles against my mouth.

“I'm a journalist. We call it research.”

“That's not reassuring.”

“Go save capitalism, Mr. Billionaire.”

“I'll be back.”

Her eyes soften.

“I know.”

Something about those two words follows me all the way to the conference room.

I know.

Like she trusts me to return.

Jesus Christ.

I really am fucked.

But I can’t focus on that now because it’s time to work and there are thousands of people who depend on me.