Page 45

“At least you're self-aware.”

I take the chair across from his desk. Mitchell doesn't sit behind it. Instead, he settles into the chair beside mine.

Closer than necessary.

He takes a sip of scotch.

“So, Miss Hawthorne.”

Finally.

I reach into my bag. His hand lands over mine. Every nerve ending in my body lights up. I freeze.

“Not yet.”

My gaze drops to his hand. Then lifts to his face.

“Excuse me?”

“No recorder. No notebook.”

“You said we'd talk.”

“We will. But this isn't an interview.”

I pull my hand free.

“Then why am I here?”

His eyes hold mine.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Oh, hell.

“No.”

His lips twitch.

“You haven't heard it.”

“You're a billionaire. It's after midnight. I'm sitting in your private office, and you just told me you have a proposition.”

“When you put it like that⁠—”

“How else would I put it?”

“Fair.”

I stand.

“Thank you for—whatever this is.”

“Thirty days.”

I stop.

“What?”