Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I have to laugh at that.
“I’ll think about it,” I say with a smile, even though I know I won’t.
Then, across the ballroom, I see it, suddenly: Trevor’s eyes on me, sharp and so blue they almost hurt. He’s staring, jaw tense, lips just a line. The woman in red is still talking, oblivious. But Trevor is locked on me, and for two seconds the whole world shrinks to just us. We stare at one another, my heartbeat thunder in my ears.
I look away first, and then down at the floor.
Evan follows my gaze, then glances back, expression a little more serious now. “That guy’s going to be a tough act to follow,” he says, almost to himself.
I don’t answer.
A bell sounds, and the room starts to shift, women gathering their things, the bachelors lining up near the side doors. Evan stands, draining the last of his champagne. He holds out his phone. “Can I get your number? For business purposes. Or, you know, someone to call if a fake eyelash lands on my hand.”
I give it to him because obviously, Evan’s handsome, funny, and nice. Maybe I should go out with him just to prove to myself that I can because within five seconds, Trevor made me lose myself again.
But Evan’s smooth. He smiles, saves my number, then leans in and kisses my cheek, soft and just barely lingering. “Wish me luck,” he whispers.
I do.
And then the blonde man’s gone, swallowed by the crowd and the noise and the anticipation.
I sit there for a while, clutching my paddle, the gardenia in my lap, my body angled toward the stage.
But my eyes are already drifting back to the place where Trevor was standing, and my heart is slamming so hard I’m scared someone will hear.
The auction starts with a thud. The emcee—some former local weatherman in a shiny navy suit—takes the stage and does the kind of jokes that only land if you’re drunk or desperately hoping to look like you belong. Every woman has her hand gripping a paddle and a drink at her elbow, and every conversation feels like it grows louder by the second. But then, the lights go dim, and the stage gets its own spotlight: a little square of illumination in a city of shadows.
Stella leans over, gardenia tucked behind her ear. “Get ready,” she whispers, “this is where the magic happens.”
I want to laugh, but my mouth is dry. My paddle feels like a weapon in my hand.
First up are the “fun” bachelors—the pro hockey player, the guy who owns a chain of vape shops, the one who looks like he’s been working out for this moment since puberty. Each one walks onstage to a cheer that’s equal parts irony and predation. The emcee does a little intro, lists their “hobbies” and “hidden talents,” and then the bidding starts, usually slow but rising in increments of five hundred dollars. The winner gets a “date” (the fine print says this can be anything from dinner to a full spa weekend to running a 5k together-ugh!).
It’s a circus, but an interesting one. The crowd is well-behaved but boisterous: clapping, cheering, pausing to let the numbers settle before going higher. Some of the women are fierce, raising the paddle as if it’s a saber, some of them coolly flicking their wrists and watching the bids climb. At our table, Stella is in her element, offering whispered commentary on every guy: “That one’s on steroids.” “That one’s gay, trust me.” “That one, I’d eat with a spoon.”
I’m halfway into my third glass of champagne when I realize I’ve been staring at the entrance for several minutes, waiting for the only thing that really matters.
But it doesn’t happen quite yet because Evan Fine is called to the stage, and he strolls up like he was born to it. He’s charming, a little self-mocking, one hand in his pocket, eyes never quite meeting the crowd’s gaze, but you can tell he’s loving it. The emcee reads his stats—Real estate broker, thirty-three, ran the Twin Cities Marathon for cancer research, enjoys outdoor sports and “quality time with friends and family.” Honestly, that stuff could describe any guy just about.
Bidding opens at $1,000 and climbs in a lazy, sinuous way, almost like the room is testing him. By the time it hits $4,000, three different women are in play: a petite redhead in a feathered mini, a tall blonde who looks like she eats women like me for breakfast, and a woman in her forties with a severe chignon and a black silk dress that looks painted on.
The chignon wins. She doesn’t blink as she raises the paddle to $6,000, and the other two fold instantly, glancing at each other with silent, mutual understanding. Evan bows, gives the crowd a little salute, and is ushered offstage by a volunteer in pearls.