Chapter 2 ***WRONG FLORA***

Flora's POV

The sound of my phone notification drew my gaze from the blurry road to the screen. It was a text from an unknown number. Unknown Number: Hey, Flora. I can't stop thinking about you, especially in those tight skirts you wore to work. It's a pity you got fired. I'm going to make you an offer. Be my side chick, open those pretty legs whenever I want, and I'll pay your debts. —Dan Mr. Dan. I cringed at the thought of those wrinkled hands touching me or those dry lips. I'd rather work four shifts a day than let Mr. Dan touch me.

Go to hell, you asshole.

I hit send and quickly blocked him.

It's been three good days since the worst day of my life.

I hadn't cried again, at least not since the past four hours. But I'd kept texting Sean. He never answered even after viewing them. Instead he posted a picture of him and his girlfriend on snap.

I'd turned the radio off twice on the drive to the airport.

And here I was now after a very exhausting five-hour flight to Chicago with exactly one agenda. One simple, non-negotiable agenda. Get back the BMW I gifted Sean so I can sell it and pay back my debt.

"Baby, tell me you ate something before you boarded the plane." My dad's voice came out calm through the phone.

"Dad, I'm fine—"

"You know how your body gets when you fly on an empty stomach. Remember the ivory trip? You were pale for days—"

"I was nine, Dad, and besides I'm off the plane now, nothing happened—"

"Flora." My mother's voice cut in from the background, sharp and incredibly annoying as always. "I hope you packed good underwear and not the torn, raggedy ones you think I don't know about?"

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the taxi window and stared at the buildings sliding past.

"I don't know what you're talking about Mom," I said, rolling my eyes backwards.

"The peach ones with the loose elastic—"

"Mom—"

"I'm just saying, you never know who'll want to get down with you—"

"Leave the child alone." My father interrupted, as if he had read my mind at the moment. "Baby, you're sure you're okay? After everything that happened with that boy—"

My chest tightened. "Dad."

"I never liked him." My mother said even though she was the one always making comments and urging me to go for him. What a quick change of stance. "I said it from the beginning, that boy is trouble."

"You literally asked him for an autograph." I pointed out, heat flooding my veins as I spoke.

"For your cousin, Van." I heard her scoff in the background.

"Flora." My father's voice dropped. "You call us as soon as you get settled. Okay?"

"Okay, Daddy." I said and hung up.

I let out a long sigh, then turned to face Lucille.

She was already facing me, both eyebrows raised so high they were practically in her hairline, lips pressed together, chin slightly tilted. The very expression she always wore whenever she was about to mock me.

"Don't." I said, shooting her a stern look.

"I didn't say anything." She replied, pouting her lips like a lost puppy.

"You were about to."

"Your mom said get down with someone." She broke out of character immediately, slapping my arm. "Flora she said, ‘get down.’ Your fifty-something year old mother told you to find a man and get your back blown out and you're here being fixated on a car—"

"It's not just a car Lucille, it's the only thing that can save me from ending up behind bars right now—"

"Oh c'mon Flora. We'll definitely get it back, liven up." She threw her hands up. "I mean. Look outside." She pointed at the window with full dramatic commitment. "Chicago, we are in Chicago. Do you understand what that means?"

"That we're approximately nine hundred miles from home." My eyebrows rose as I spoke.

"No…no silly…It means we are in the same city as the Hershey Bears." She stared at me, her eyes gleaming in amusement. "The finest collection of large, athletic, specifically-built-to-ruin-your-life men in the entire country. Sean Ferrars is one small, terrible, ungrateful little piece of that puzzle." She grabbed both my hands.

“Hmm—”

"All I'm saying," Lucille continued, releasing my hands and settling back, "is that the best revenge at this point is we dress you up, we go out, some six-foot-something guy with a pretty face looks at you like the stars shine out of your ass and Sean sees it on your story and realises what he's lost.

She paused for a moment letting that settle. "That said—" She continued, already reaching into her small carry-on bag with suspicious purpose, "—you'll be wearing my red blouse."

I felt the smile that just started to crawl up my face fade immediately. "The one with the cutout at the back?"

"Yes." She pulled it out and held it up like an exhibit. "This one exactly."

"No fucking way I'm wearing that, Lucille." I protested.

"Yes fucking way, Flora." She threw it at me. "Loosen up. We are about to have the best nights of our lives."

The taxi pulled up outside the stadium and I understood immediately why people talked about it with gleaming eyes. It was very tall and beautiful, with the Hershey Bears logo carved above the entrance.

I climbed out, tilted my head back, and stared up at it.

"Okay I need a moment." Lucille declared, both hands pressed to her chest, staring up at the building like it was her personal lord and saviour. "This is majestic."

"Can we go inside —"

"I need a moment, Flo—"

I pulled her inside before she could complete the statement.

We were barely three seconds through the entrance when Lucille gasped. “OH my flipping gosh.”

I followed her eyeline.

A group of players had just crossed the far end of the lobby with their practice gear, moving like artworks that were meant to be admired and Lucille was doing more of drooling than that.

"I need to take a tour." She said finally, her lips stretching into a mischievous grin.

"We need to sort our accommodation first —"

"I'll be back." She was already moving. "Go sort the keys, babe, I trust you!"

And then she was gone, weaving through the lobby, leaving me standing alone with both our bags and absolutely no idea where to go.

I dragged everything to the seating area near the front desk and sat down.

I crossed my legs, planted my hands in my lap, and stared at the front desk and tried not to think about Sean.

A woman in a sharp blazer stepped into the lobby from a side door after what seemed like ten minutes, with a file tucked under her arm, eyes scanning the seated area.

"Who's Flora Morgan?" She asked, her gaze sweeping the room.

I looked up.

That must be her—the person who was supposed to assign us to our room keys.

I raised my hand. "That's me."

"Come with me, please." She said and I grabbed my bag and followed behind her.

She led me past the front desk, then past the corridor that I assumed led to the rooms.

We went through another door, then down a shorter hallway before we got to a bright, mirror-lined room where two women were waiting with brushes and a ring light on.

I stopped in the doorway. "I think there's been a—"

"Sit here, please." One of them gestured to the chair in front of the mirror.

"I was just here for room—"

"We'll be quick."

I sat in the chair and watched them transform my face into a better version of what it was two minutes ago.

I have genuinely never needed this much makeup just to collect a room key, I thought, watching the woman blend my cheekbone.

When they were done, the woman in the blazer reappeared, looked me over, gave a small nod, and gestured toward a door at the back of the room.

"Right through there."

I stood, looked at my reflection one more time still confused about what was happening, then I pushed the door open and walked through.

Instead of a room, it was an office, with someone standing at the window, his back to me.

He was shirtless, grey joggers sitting low on his waist, with a short towel draped around the back of his neck.

The tattoo wrapped around his left arm caught the light as he turned slightly. My gaze followed it up his forearm and past his elbow.

Then he turned around, and my eyes widened.

Holy freaking airball.

I knew that face. I'd seen it countless times—on billboards, on television, even in newspapers.

Tyler Sinclair. The Devil on Ice.

The man the entire internet had collectively decided was a deity.

His dark, messy hair fell over his forehead. And those eyes... God. He was...

No. Hot wasn't the word.

The same Tyler I'd seen in photos and swiped past without a second thought didn't look like this.

The photos had flattened him.

We stared at each other for a moment, neither of us saying a word.

I waited for him to explain why I was here but his eyes were just hovering over me like I was something he wanted to purchase.

"Don't you speak?" He said finally. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink, not bothering to look at me.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

He tilted his head, studying me even further. "You look different from what I imagined."

He paused. "Not as pretty, at least…but that works."

"What—" I stopped, my mind reeling in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

“I don't have time for long conversations.” He moved toward the desk, settled into the chair behind it, and put his feet up on the desk. “Here's my offer. Fake-date me for three months.”

I stared at him, my eyebrows raising slightly. "I don't—I'm sorry, I don't understand, I was just here for—"

"You attend dinners with my family." He continued, as though I hadn't spoken. "Sit in the stands during games, act like you're deeply in love with me."

He pulled his legs off the desk. "My parents are in town for the season, they're arranging a fiancee, I need them to believe that position is taken. In return—"

"I genuinely don't understand what's happening right now—"

"— fifty thousand dollars, per month, for three months—"

"I came here to get my room key —"

"—one family dinner per week, you'll be expected to—"

"I don't understand —"

"—maintain a visible social media presence, nothing excessive, and arrive on time to—"

"STOP."

The word came out louder than I expected.

Tyler Sinclair stopped talking and looked at me, his eyes widening in a way that suggested that he wasn't accustomed to being interrupted.

"What," I said, pressing my fingers to my temple, "are you even going on about?"

He stared at me for a moment, as if he hadn't heard a word I'd said. “I see. The pay is too small for you?”

I opened my mouth.

The door flew open.

The woman in the blazer stood in the doorway, file clutched to her chest, her eyes widening in surprise. She looked at me, looked at Tyler then looked back down at her file.

"We got the wrong Flora Morgan, sir."