Faking it with the NHL'S Golden Boy

Flora's POV

The woman in the blazer looked like she had sprinted the entire length of the building to get here. Her chest was heaving, file clutched, her eyes wide like she had just seen a ghost.

Tyler's gaze shifted to her, his face contracting into a frown.

"What are you talking about?" His voice dropped, disappointment very evident in his tone.

The woman sucked in a breath. "I didn't—the one contracted for the arrangement was Flora Gina Morgan, not—" she gestured at me with her file, briefly and unapologetically, "— this one."

"Well." I raised my hand slightly. "That's certainly not me."

"Exactly." She nodded, grateful someone was helping her explain. "The confusion was caused by the matching names, and the hair—they're both blonde and of similar height. Except—" She glanced at me, then back to Tyler. "The other Flora is more—" She shaped something vague in the air with her hand.

"Curvy." She finished.

I stared at her. "I'm sorry, did you just —"

"They looked alike too at first.” She glanced at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. "Though looking at her again, she does look rather different from the other Flora. A bit dehydrated, honestly."

Tyler made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. He pressed two fingers to his mouth, eyes briefly bright with something could be mistaken for amusement.

"The real Flora Morgan," the woman pressed on, "called twenty minutes ago. She's been in an accident. She's been hospitalised and won't be able to continue with the contract." She straightened her file. "I'm deeply sorry for the confusion, Mr. Sinclair. I'll reach out to the agency to source an alternative—"

"Get out." Tyler said.

The woman blinked. "Sir—"

He raised two fingers toward the door without even looking at her.

She went out, and the door clicked shut leaving just the two of us. Tyler's eyes moved to me slowly, and honestly in that moment, I felt like I was standing in the same room as a predator.

I crossed my arms. "Well…this has been a very weird afternoon. I'm going to go find my room now—"

"SIT DOWN." His voice echoed through the room.

"I'd really rather—"

"SIT. DOWN." Something in his tone pulled at the back of my knees in a way I deeply resented.

"You," he said, leaning back in his chair and looking at me with his chin slightly lowered, "are going to take the offer."

I let out a short laugh. "I really, genuinely am not—"

"I've already told my parents what my girlfriend looks like." He continued, as if he had already made a decision and was just filling me in. "Blonde, light eyes." His gaze moved over me briefly. "You share enough physical similarities to pass as her." He tilted his head. "And you're already here."

"I'm here because I thought I was going to get my room key, I didn't sign up for whatever this is—"

"Are you always this dramatic?"

"Are you always this insufferable?"

"You're stubborn," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It thrills me.”

"And you're a jerk, but here we both are." I picked up my bag from the floor. "I appreciate the very strange afternoon, Mr. Sinclair but I'm leaving now."

I crossed the room quickly, and when I got to the door, I stopped and turned back. "By the way—I don't even find you attractive." I said, glancing over him. "So whatever you think you're doing with the whole—" I gestured vaguely at him, "— this. It's not working, you're not my type."

Something shifted in his expression and he stood up. He came around the desk without any urgency whatsoever, crossed the room, and stopped directly in front of me.

The heat came off him in waves, and it was like I was standing next to a furnace that had been running for years and had no intention of cooling down.

His scent hit my nose a half second later.

He raised his hand, the back of his fingers touching my jaw. He dragged them along the line of my face, tracing down to the curve of my throat.

I made a particularly embarrassing sound, low and wanting in a way that bypassed every sensible thought I had ever had.

His eyes followed his hand the entire time. The heat from him was everywhere now. My fingers were trembling against my bag strap and I could feel my pulse increasing with every passing second.

I still didn't move, I stood there and let him trace the line of my body like I had forgotten every reason I had for being unmoved by men with pretty faces—

His hand dropped and his eyes came back up to mine, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile.

"Not your type." He said softly, a mischievous grin on his face. "Indeed."

I jerked back so fast I nearly knocked into the chair behind me. I took a full step backward, straightened my bag on my shoulder, and turned toward the door, my heart pounding loudly, while my gaze dropped again for the umpteenth time to the irresistibly huge bulge on his joggers.

"Auren Beauty." He said and I stopped dead in my tracks. "One of the top three cosmetics brands in the country. I'll get you a twelve month modelling contract on top of the monthly payment." He paused for a moment. "Which remains at fifty thousand."

I stared at the door in front of me.

Auren Beauty. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, but somehow I couldn't get myself to agree.

I heard him move, then something landed softly in my open bag. I looked down, it was his card.

"You have two days to decide." He said, turning back to his desk.

I stared at the card sitting in my bag.

I thought about what it would mean to come back from this—on the arm of the most recognizable face in the NHL, with an Auren campaign behind me and enough money to clear my debt and rebuild everything from the ground up.

I thought about Sean seeing it, then I remembered his face, denying me and kissing that girl in front of the whole world.

But I was done, done being moved around by men with pretty faces, done making myself useful to people who had already decided what I was worth before I walked through their door. Tyler Sinclair could keep his fifty thousand dollars and his Auren contract for all I care.

I tossed the card and I walked out.