Page 41 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

She studied me for a moment. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“John Soto,” I said immediately, thinking that would earn me a few gold stars if I ever told Ari about this. Or whatever the Circle of Trust was handing out on that particular day.

I personally would have asked for more information, a lot more, but she’d reached the desperation stage. Assholes like Tyler Miller could get you there fast. She walked back inside without a look back, and I stayed there for a minute before I followed her inside to where Miller had somehow managed to get even more drunk while we’d been outside.

I slid into my booth again, watching as she moved to Miller’s side of the bar. I couldn’t see her hands, but I did see her hesitating for a second—right before he opened his asshole mouth once again and sealed his fate.

“So, do you like to be fucked in public, or am I going to have to take you to my room?” he slurred.

That same look I’d seen in her eyes outside, the one that said she was sick and tired, came back, and her movements were sure and determined after that. A few seconds later she was handing him another glass.

“Here you go,” she said, her voice neutral.

Miller didn’t hesitate for a second. He grabbed the glass, downed half of it, and slammed it back on the counter. The bartender shot me a glance, her expression a mix of satisfaction and wariness. I nodded, raising my glass in silent thanks before I grinned and slid out of the booth.

Miller was about to be very incapacitated…and now, it was time to try and find Sloane.

I wandered through the lobby, trying to come up with a plan to get her room number, when I saw her.

Sloane was sitting at a table in the corner of the hotel restaurant, looking like she’d stepped off a runway. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, the kind that hugged her body just right, accentuating her curves without being too obvious. Her legs were crossed, one foot lightly tapping the floor in rhythm with the soft jazz playing in the background. Her hair was perfectly styled, waves falling just past her shoulders, but it was the red lipstick that caught my attention—a shade she’d been wearing both nights, that somehow made her look both powerful and untouchable.

She was fucking perfect.

And evidently there were a lot of people who agreed with my assessment.

Everyone was watching her. Men at the bar kept sneaking glances, some of them even standing up from their chairs, preparing themselves to talk to her. Ipreparedmyself to escort them out of the restaurant if they tried.

Luckily for them, they either had no balls, or they realized that she was so far out of their league it wasn’t worth trying, and they sat back down each time.

Sloane didn’t seem to notice any of it. Her eyes were downcast, staring into the glass of wine in front of her as if it held all the answers to life’s problems. Her fingers gently traced the rim of the glass, her posture perfect but somehow distant, detached, like she was in her own world.

She was lonely; it hung around her like a veil, hidden beneath the sophistication, the perfect appearance. She looked elegant, yes, but there was something else. Something deeper. Something broken.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Before I could overthink it, I was walking to her.

“Hi,” I said, sliding into the chair across from her, acting like I had every right to be there.

Because I did. She was mine.

Her head snapped up, her eyes widening in shock. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice low but tense.

I smiled softly, my eyes greedily taking in her face. “Just passing through. Saw you sitting here alone.”

“You were passing through the hotel where Tampa’s staying?” she asked incredulously.

I shrugged. “Or maybe I was trying to find you.”

She looked stunned at that statement, visibly swallowing her shock.

“Do you always look this serious when you’re drinking, or is it just because I wasn’t here?” I teased, leaning across the table and feeling like I was high from being this close to her.

She glanced up, one brow arching in perfect disinterest. “Are your pickup lines always this bad?”

“Not always,” I said, shrugging. “But I figured I’d start slow. Give you time to fall in love with me.”

Her lips twitched, almost a smile, and it felt like a victory. “Charming.”

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