I grab the railing, since I nearly fall backward.
Which is not something I normally do, thanks to my catlike reflexes. It’s literally my job to react in a nanosecond.
Trouble is, I’m stunned speechless by the beauty in front of me.
The dress clings deliciously to her body. Some kind of soft, flowy material shows off her arms, hugs her hips, and reveals her legs.
“You look incredible.” My voice sounds huskier than it should.
Smokier.
I swallow roughly, trying to get past the dry patch in my throat.
But I don’t know if I want to. All I want is to drink her up, gawk at her.
Memorize how she looks in purple.
“You clean up okay too,” she says, bright and chipper, the tone a reminder that we are friends.
Right.
Yup.
I should not be staring at her like I want to discover what her lipstick tastes like.
This is not a date. It won’t even be a real date if she wins me. We’re going as friends, and friends only.
But fuck me.
Friends are not supposed to look so good in sexy, slinky dresses.
What was I thinking, asking her to bid on me? How the hell am I going to make it through tonight without telling her I want to toss her over my shoulder, take her home, kiss the hollow of her throat, then work my way down her lush body? That I want to savor the taste of her skin and adore the feel of her curves?
I cycle back, realizing that words have come out of that sexy mouth. Words that need a response. What were they?
Ah, yes. I clean up okay.
How would someone not be dumbstruck by her reply?
“Thanks,” I say.
Wow. Well done, brain. That was just brilliant.
“Want to see something cool?” she asks from where we still stand outside her door. I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the top step.
“Sure,” I say, gritting my teeth, telling myself to stop lusting after my friend.
Friends are off-limits.
That’s my goddamn mantra.
“I practiced my lines for tonight. Check this out.” She thrusts her right arm high in the air and declares, “One million dollars!”
That does the trick. Her humor. Her lightness. It settles the tension in me so that it falls away and I can talk again, move again.
I gesture to the steps, and we walk down to the sidewalk. “I love charity, but I don’t have that kind of jack.”
She frowns. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Hmm. Okay, how about this?” She clears her throat, lifts a finger daintily, and affixes a most serious expression on her face. “I bid two dollars on Ransom North.”
As we walk toward Madison, I laugh. “Try somewhere in between, King.”
She nudges my arm with her elbow. “Don’t you worry. I’m going to nab you tonight. I’m determined.” She rubs her palms together, and we review the bidding plan. That helps center me too, underlines the definition of who we are.
When we finish, she asks, “So why this charity?”
Funny that I’ve known her for months but the question has never come up before. This is a good enough time to talk about it, since it isn’t a deep, dark secret. “My older sister, Luna . . .”
“The pretty blonde? The one who’s married?”
“How do you know she’s blonde?”
Teagan rolls her eyes. “Hello? Social media strategist here. I’ve seen pictures of your family at your games. During the playoffs, you posted a pic on Instagram of your parents and your two sisters cheering you on. There was a dog in the shot too. Well, a dog face.”
I laugh, a little embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. Well, there is that.”
“Also, I’m not a stalker. But I happen to have a thing for dog photos.”
I nod exaggeratedly. “‘I’m not a stalker’ is what everyone who’s a stalker says.”
She pats her chest. “Dog-lover, Ransom. I’m a dog lover. Anyway, continue.”
“Luna lost most of her hearing when she was younger—around two or three—so my whole family knows sign language. She’s also the reason I want to raise the most money. Because companion dogs are awesome, and my sister’s Lab helps her every day. That was Angela at the game—the Lab.”
“Her dog’s name is Angela?”
“Yes.”
Teagan brings a hand to her heart. “I love her already.”
I furrow my brow. “The dog or my sister?”
“Both. I love human names for dogs.” Teagan beams, a big, warm smile. “Also, I think that’s amazing.”
“That she has a service dog?”
She shakes her head. “No. That you want to do this for her, raise more for a charity that matters to her and her life. To your family. That’s cool. Also, hello, hidden talent.” She flashes me a smile. “You know another language.”
“True. That is another of my hidden talents,” I say.
“Thank you for sharing that with me.” Her tone gentles as she says it, her smile soft and inviting. “I assume it’s not a secret, but I also know sometimes it’s hard to share details about our families. I appreciate it.”
