Page 50 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

The only problem…it didn’t seem to be working properly. I was trying to be numb, but I kept feeling things.

I had to remind myself that he was just like all the others who’d hired me. No matter what connection I’d felt when we’d locked eyes…when he’d kissed me…when he’d asked me out at the bar…

None of it was real.

I had to remember…this was just another job. He’d made sure of that when he hired me.

Except when I opened the hotel door and saw him standing there, he was holding a bouquet of red roses.

No one had ever brought me flowers before. You didn’t do that when the girl was a sure thing. Expensive gifts. Alcohol. Lingerie. Sure.

But not flowers.

The red roses were perfect, fresh, like they belonged in some romantic movie. Not inmylife.

What was he playing at?

I tried to keep my face neutral, not wanting him to see the swirl of emotions hitting me all at once—shock, disbelief, and something else I couldn’t name. I couldn’t even bring myself to reach for them.

He frowned, his eyes searching mine. “Why do you look so upset?”

I swallowed hard, shaking my head. “I’m not upset.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “All right,” he said slowly, stepping into the penthouse and pressing a kiss on my lips like it was second nature, like we’d been doing that for a lifetime.

I froze, my lips unmoving. It took a second for me to kiss him back, and when I did, it felt like there were ants crawling across my skin. We weren’t supposed to be like this. I didn’t kiss my clients like they were my boyfriend.

He pulled away, studying me for a second. “Youareupset. What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” I snapped petulantly, turning away and trying to get a hold of myself. I wasn’t supposed to snap at myclients.

But when I turned back around, there the roses were, the bright red petals taunting me.

“Then what is it?” he said soothingly, reaching out and trailing his fingers across my cheek. I blinked, too much emotion slithering under my skin, and I couldn’t stop staring at those stupid roses.

The crazy thing was, Iwantedto tell him what I was feeling. I wanted to give him a reminder about what this was between us.

It was just that the words felt too heavy to say. Finally, I whispered, unable to look at him, “Whores don’t get flowers.”

The silence after I said it was thick. I braced myself, waiting for him to pull back, to realize what he was doing—to see me the way I really was.

It wasn’t like my clients were waiting at the door, desperate to woo me. Fancy hotel rooms rented for the night under a pseudonym so that no one knew what they were up to didn’t play well with romance.

But instead, he stepped closer, his face hardening with something I didn’t expect. He shook his head slowly. “Don’t,” he said, his voice firm, almost like a warning. “Don’t ever call yourself that again.”

My throat tightened, the shame I tried to keep hidden now out in the open. I looked down, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. I didn’t know how to explain it—how could I? It was the one thing I was certain about.

“You hired me, did you not? And just so we’re clear,hundredsof other men have hired me too.”

He flinched, and my teeth clenched.

“By definition, I think that makes me a whore.”

Logan wasn’t having it. He tipped my chin up so I had to meet his eyes, his touch gentle but determined. “I figured we’d have to have this conversation.”

I tried to shake my head, but he didn’t let me look away. “I hired you because you wouldn’t go out with me. And the thought of anyone else touching you made me want to kill someone. This is my solution.” His voice softened, but the intensity was still there. “But make no mistake, sweetheart, the last thing I think of you is that you’re a whore. I’ll get you flowers every week for the rest of our lives, just so you know who you are.”

“And who’s that?” I murmured, blinking up at him because it felt like I’d entered some surreal universe where beautiful boys turned out to be heroes instead of the object of my worst nightmares.

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