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“Catherine.”
My patience is ebbing.
“Steve the Dweeb was what? A year ago?”
“Fourteen months.”
“Jesus, Layla.”
“He wasn't a dweeb.”
“He alphabetized his spice rack.”
“That's called being organized.”
“He alphabetized it by the Latin names.”
Okay. That was pretty weird.
“He was a botanist.”
“He was an accountant.”
Right. I forgot about that.
“Whatever. This is not about Steve. Or any other man! At least, not in the sense that I am sleeping with said man.”
“Then I'm hanging up.”
“Oh, no, you don't.” I suck in a breath. “Mitchell Knight agreed to let me interview him.”
Silence. I smile.
“Cat?”
Nothing.
“Did you fall asleep?”
“He did what?”
“You heard me.”
“Mitchell Knight?”
“Yes.”
“Knight Global, owns-half-the-fucking-world Mitchell Knight?”
“He does not own half the world.”
“The Carolina Rovers Mitchell Knight?”
“Yes.”
“The Mitchell Knight who has ignored every interview request we've sent him?”
“Technically, he’s ignored every interview request anyone has ever sent him.”
