She was hired to be a fantasy. A call girl. An escort. A debutante. A beautiful accessory in someone else’s life.
He saw the woman underneath—and refused to let her disappear.
In the glittering illusion of Las Vegas, Andi Platorez knows how to play a role. Dressed in designer heels and flawless armor, she’s paid to be polished, discreet, and unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. Clients want Andrea—the fantasy. No one asks for Andi.
Until Caleb Harris does.
Caleb isn’t looking for a trophy, a transaction, or a night he’ll forget by morning. He’s rich enough to buy anything he wants—and smart enough to know that doesn’t mean much if no one ever really sees you. When he recognizes Andi for who she truly is, a dorky, guarded, secretly soft woman hiding behind performance, everything shifts.
What begins as a booked night in Vegas unravels into something reckless and real: greasy burgers instead of room service, laughter instead of scripts, connection instead of control. Andi is forced to confront a terrifying possibility—what if she’s worth more than the version of herself she’s been selling?
The Wrong Kind of Right is a sensual, emotionally rich romance about consent, choice, and the quiet intimacy of being chosen without a price tag. It’s a story about unlearning survival, about the difference between being wanted and being known, and about finding something honest in a city built on illusion.
Sometimes the right love doesn’t come with a contract.
Sometimes it just shows up—and refuses to let you go unseen.
Excerpt from “The Wrong Kind of Right”
“You are… something, Caleb.”
He sat down on the edge of the couch, hands in his lap like a kid waiting for a parent-teacher conference.
“Honestly, I didn’t think I’d get this far,” he said. “I figured you’d walk in, I’d say your name, and you’d turn around and leave.”
“I almost did.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” she admitted slowly, crossing her arms. “Because I was too confused.”
He grinned again, just enough to be charming.
“I’ll take confused. That’s a win.”
“Okay,” Andi said, arms crossed, expression skeptical. “Let’s say I was at the concert a few nights ago. Let’s say I was with a guy. How would you know he wasn’t my husband?”
Caleb snorted. “Really? That was the easy part.”
“Oh, do tell.”
“No way that guy was your husband. You were way out of his league.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“And,” he went on, “he was wearing a $40,000 Rolex. Your bag was a $60 knockoff Gucci. Maybe $40. If he were your husband, you’d have the real thing. Probably three.”
Her jaw tensed. “It’s not a knockoff.”
He grinned. “See? You’re not even good at denying it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re walking a very thin line, Caleb.”
He nodded, unfazed. “Besides, the guy couldn’t stop looking at your ass. And when he talked to you, it was exclusively to your boobs. No married guy does that to his wife. Trust me. I kind of do this for a living. I’m really good at spotting patterns.”
She stared at him for a beat. “Okay, fine. Cyber creeper. Let’s say you cracked the code. But there were probably a hundred other girls at that concert with married men. If that’s your thing, why me?”
Caleb shrugged. “Oh, that’s not my thing.”
He leaned forward slightly, that same playful look in his eye. Not smug. Just sure of what he saw.
“You’re my thing.”
Andi blinked.
“I thought you were gorgeous,” he said simply. “But more than that? You looked like a complete dork trying—and totally pulling off—being glamorous.”
Her mouth opened, then shut again.
“No one ever catches that,” she said finally, her voice quieter.
He grinned. “I saw you take a selfie in the hallway mirror. You tried three poses before settling on the one that looked spontaneous.”
“I was checking my lipstick.”
“Sure you were. And that anime keychain on your phone? That was not just for decoration.”
She glanced at her bag—dammit, she’d forgotten to switch it.
He lifted his palms. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe. But it was the moment I saw that little keychain swinging in the hallway light that I knew—this girl’s a nerd. Wrapped in Valentino and heels, but definitely a nerd.”
Andi stared at him.
And for once… she had no comeback.
“I’m pretty sure you at least like me,” Caleb said, leaning back.
“Oh really?” Andi asked, cocking her head.
He nodded. “You haven’t walked out. You haven’t freaked out. You’re trying to keep the conversation civil. And…” He glanced at her legs with zero shame, “you’ve still got your dress hiked up a little higher than it needs to be. Like when you sat down.”
She blinked. Then laughed—sharp and amused. “That’s pretty cocky of you, Caleb the Cyberstalker. Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment to drug you and take your wallet.”
He grinned. “Unlikely. I’m willing to bet you’re not dangerous.”
“No?”
“You don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said plainly. “You just want to be left alone until someone sees the version of you that’s not wearing lashes and fuck-me heels.”
Andi sat still. Too still.
Then he shifted—just a bit softer now, less teasing.
“But look. I want to be courteous. Really.”
His voice leveled out, no longer playful. “If I’ve made you uncomfortable, if any part of this felt off—I’ll call the agency right now. Pay for the full night. Forty percent tip. No hard feelings. I’ll tell them I had a wonderful evening and all my desires were satisfied.”
She stared at him, blinking slowly.
“You really rehearsed that one, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “Nah. I’m just a big fan of enthusiastic consent.”
Andi let the silence hang for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then she crossed her legs the other way—slowly. Deliberately. The hem of her dress slid even higher.
“Well then,” she said, voice velvet-smooth. “Let’s make sure you get your money’s worth.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t lean in. Just smiled.
“Oh, I already am.”
“Okay,” she said, brushing invisible lint off her thigh. “Let’s go have some fun.”