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“Good night, Miss Hawthorne.”

He walks me down the hall to my bedroom.

My bedroom—which is fucking huge.

King-sized bed.

Sitting area.

Private bathroom.

Closet bigger than the bedroom in my apartment.

Mitchell stops at the door. For one traitorous second, I wonder if he's going to come inside.

Worse? Part of me wants him to.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I shut that shit down immediately.

“Good night, Mr. Knight.”

I close my eyes at how dumb that sounds. But if he notices, he doesn’t comment. Instead, his glittering eyes linger on mine.

“Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

He walks away. I close the door. Then I lean against it.

Mitchell Knight may be hot as fuck, but he is not for me.

He's a source. A story. Possibly a giant pain in my ass.

Nothing more.

I repeat that several times before climbing into sheets that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

Day two starts with more meetings.

And more meetings.

And then, for variety—another long ass meeting.

But sometime after noon, Mitchell surprises me.

“Lunch.”

I look up from my tablet.

“Another conference room?”

“No.”

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing on Broadway holding a Gray's Papaya hot dog and a large orange drink. I stare at Mitchell. Then at the delicious hot dog in my hand. Then back at Mitchell.