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My body reacts before my brain can remind it that she's potentially the enemy.

Jesus Christ.

Thirty days of this.

I fall into step beside her as we head toward the private elevator.

I’m wondering if this is a good idea. Because, yeah, the reporter I can handle. It's Layla I'm starting to worry about. There's a balance here, and in order to maintain it, it's going to be a hell of a lot trickier than I anticipated.

I need her close enough to figure her out. Close enough to learn what she knows. Close enough to make sure Granddad's memory stays protected.

But every glimpse of the woman beneath the journalist makes me want things that have absolutely nothing to do with my plan.

Protect her.

Touch her.

Find out what makes those sharp hazel eyes soften.

Find out what made them uncertain when I said black tie.

And that's precisely the kind of shit I can't afford.

I need to remember what she is.

A reporter.

A potential threat.

A variable I haven't figured out yet.

Not the soft curves moving beside me. Not the wildflowers and vanilla filling my lungs. Not the woman I already know I'd rather see wearing that black lace bra without the white blouse covering it.

Fuck.

My baser instincts are going to be a problem.

The elevator doors open. Layla steps inside and turns to face me.

“Well?”

I glance at her.

“What?”

“Are we going to New York, or are you planning to stand there staring at me all day?”

There she is. Reporter shark. Sharp teeth and all.

I step into the elevator.

Much safer.

“New York, Miss Hawthorne.”

The doors slide shut behind me.

Thirty days.