Page 50 of Protected By the Sinner

“Would you rather I lied?”

“No. I’ll always choose the truth.” She rolls to the side, putting some distance between us. “Okay, I’ll tell you something if you promise to tell me something too. But you can’t cheat, or I’ll never tell you anything, never again.”

Does she realize that by sayingnever again, she’s placing us in some kind of long-term category?

And more importantly, why doesn’t that assumption set off alarm bells in me?

In the past, I’ve ended things with women for way less.

“Then we have a deal,” I say.

“This feels too easy to be real. You’re not exactly the type to give in quickly, Beau.”

“I’m the one who asked you to share something. I’m invested in closing the deal.”

“Oh, so I’m a deal now?” she asks.

I don’t have an answer for that, so I deflect. “If you were, you’d be one hell of a complicated one.”

She gives me one of her rare smiles. “I like that, Mr. Carmouche-LeBlanc. Something tells me that before I showed up in your life, everything was way too easy. This whole thing with women throwing themselves at your feet must get exhausting.”

“You’re a smartass.”

“Just the right amount.”

“Don’t bail on our deal, Amber.”

“Okay. You said anything, and this is going to sound silly, but...I don’t like flowers. Except daisies.”

I watch her, unsure how to take that.

This woman never stops surprising me. Of all the things I imagined she might say, flowers weren’t on the list.

“You said no cheating,” I say. “Talking about flowers doesn’t sound very personal.”

“I’m not done yet. Roses remind me of death. When my mom died, her casket was covered in them. So I don’t care what the romantics say—I hate them.”

Nope, nothing about Amber is simple. In a seemingly casual conversation, she’s given me more than I ever expected.

“Why daisies?”

“They’re my goal.”

I reach out and turn on the bedside lamp. “I don’t get it.”

“Simplicity. My goal is simplicity.”

“Your life doesn’t seem simple, at least not to me. I’ve got homes all over the globe, but I can’t imagine having to move every six months. I might not sleep in the same one more thantwo nights in a row, but they’re mine. I can always go back to them.”

“Maybe you’re lucky and haven’t even realized it.” She sounds like she’s talking to herself, but I won’t pretend I didn’t hear.

“Because I’m rich?”

She shakes her head. “No. Because you have somewhere to go back to.” But the very next moment, maybe realizing she’s revealed more than she meant to, she adds, “And about me moving all the time, don’t forget, I’m a Romani.”

She tries to make light of it, playing off what I called her when we first met, but I don’t buy the act. I know what Amber just shared was a part of herself probably no one else knows.

I cup her chin and make her look at me. “No, you’re not. That’s exactly why you want to become a daisy.”