Page 71 of The Auction
And I try—really try—not to think about tearing down that pillow wall and pulling her into my arms to see what her lips feel like on mine.
Jaxon has been holed up in the largest of his extra bedrooms for days. I’m still not sure what he’s doing in there, but it’s loud. Things keep getting carried in and out. There’s drilling. Cursing. The occasionalthunkthat sounds like he’s dropped something heavy enough to dent the floor.
The guest room I flooded—or heflooded, depending on who you ask—is still being demoed, so whatever project he’s working on has taken over this space instead. His tech rooms.
Right now, I’m at the table with my iPad, sketching while he takes apart something that looks…expensive. Cables and shiny metal guts are spread across the table like he’s dissecting a robot. Music plays low from his playlist—one of my favorite songs comes on—and before I even realize it, I’m smiling.
He’s singing. Quiet, almost under his breath. But he’s good. Not in a trained, perfect way, but in a deep, easy way that slides under your skin. His dark hair falls slightly in his eyes as heworks, brows drawn together in concentration, tongue caught at the corner of his mouth.
God, he looks cute when he’s focused.
I must be staring, because he glances up and hits me with one of those panty-soaking smirks that should be illegal.
“What?” His voice is low, teasing.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, forcing my eyes back to my screen even though my cheeks feel warm. I keep the smile, though. I can’t help it.
He watches me a moment longer, like he’s debating whether to call me out, then goes back to work. A minute later, he’s humming again. Then singing. Softer this time, almost mumbling like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. I never knew he liked to sing. I wonder if he actually does… but I don’t press.
The room he’s working in is making me jealous. The windows are massive, flooding the space with the kind of light that would make painting here a dream. I keep imagining a giant easel in the corner, canvases leaning against the walls, the smell of turpentine instead of soldering metal.
He walks past carrying another armful of tech, disappearing into the next room when my phone chimes and kills my mood in a second.
JONATHAN: Someone’s coming by the house to grab something this afternoon.
CASSIDY: Who? And what are they “grabbing”?
A few minutes with no reply I send another.
CASSIDY: Hello?
Who is coming by the house and what are they supposed to be getting? Some details would be nice.
Still no reply back. Like I’m not worthy of one. Like the specifics don’t matter.
I debate inviting Jaxon along but there’s just some family secrets that need to stay in the family. This is one of them.
I push my chair back. “I’m going to check on Mom. I’ll be gone for a while.”
His head pops out of the doorway. “You’ll be back for dinner?”
“Yeah,” I promise, grabbing my bag.
His mouth quirks like he’s about to say something, but instead he just nods and disappears back into his mystery project.
Mom’s feeling good today—one of those rare, bright afternoons where her energy holds steady—so we decide to walk down to the stables together. The sun’s warm, the breeze carries that mix of hay and sweet grass, and for a little while, it almost feels normal.
We’re giving Grace some extra oats when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I wipe my hands on my jeans and pull it out.
JONATHAN: They’ll be there in 5.
I frown, reading it twice like maybe I missed something.They?My stomach knots. I fire back immediately.
CASSIDY: Who is “they”?
Three dots never appear. I’m already typing again before I can think.
CASSIDY: Jonathan. What’s going on?
