“I don’t belong with anyone, and you know that,” I say, sharp but clear. Because I’m not a one-person-or-bust kind of girl.
She sighs. “I know. I know. But maybe someday.”
“Doubtful.”
“So, why are you out of sorts?”
I roll my shoulders, trying to let go of the worries skating through me. “Eh, it’s just momentary nerves. Ransom is so competitive, and he wants to win this, and I want to win this. For the foundation, for his fundraising. That’s all.”
She’s quiet at first, then she asks, “Are you sure it’s not for any other reason?”
A reason like I really dig the guy? Yes, I’m sure that’s the reason. I’m positive. I’m damn positive, especially after that kiss comment, because I want to lay one on him and kiss him all night long. And maybe, just maybe, he wants that too. But then what would happen tomorrow?
“Just momentary nerves. Silly little things. Bye-bye, nerves.”
“Let me know how it goes.”
“I promise. Love you.”
“Love you.”
I end the call. Good thing she reached out. Talking to her reminds me what matters most.
My friends. Our friends. The whole family we’ve made in this city. These fluttery feelings aren’t worth jeopardizing that.
So, I leave them all behind and head into the auction.
It’s time.
I’m in the ballroom with hundreds of other dolled-up women and some spiffy men too. The Yankees shortstop is one of a few openly gay major league baseball players, and he’s notoriously single too, so I’m not surprised the men are lining up to bid on him.
I survey the crowd, assessing the competition, trying to glean an idea of who might be vying for Ransom tonight.
Maybe that brunette in the red dress? She’s studying a program for the night, and from where I sit, it looks like the page is open to the hockey players—three from Ransom’s team.
Or the blonde with her hair in a sexy-messy bun? It looks like she has hockey sticks as nail art, which shows some serious commitment.
Nerves skitter across my skin, but I try to rid them with a healthy dose of determination.
I draw a breath, steeling myself.
It could be anyone. Could be a guy too. But whoever is gunning for the forward, I’m going to run the table.
That’s the plan.
I’m going to get my man.
I’ll make the biggest bid for Ransom. I have no control over what anyone else goes for, but I can do my damnedest to win him for a kiss.
I mean, for a cause.
Win him for the cause.
I repeat that over and over in my head.
Don’t want to forget why I’m here.
The hostess—a polished and poised sports reporter from Las Vegas—strides across the stage.
“What a thrill to see so many of you here ready to bid on New York’s finest men! I’m Lily Nichols, and I couldn’t be more honored to host this year’s charity auction,” she says in a voice I know from her on-air reports. “We have quite a lineup tonight, so let’s get started with some of the New York Giants.”
She introduces the running back from the team, who strides onstage, flashing a smoldering smile and filling out a suit quite nicely. The audience hoots and hollers for the man as Lily rattles off Leon’s attributes. “Leon loves to sing in the shower, spend time with his grandparents, and try new cuisines. Let the bidding begin.”
After some heated back-and-forth bidding, Leon goes for four digits, and some of the other football stars net a bigger payday before Lily segues to the NBA.
After she works her way through a handful of hoops players, she’s on to the Yankees, talking up Jose Carnale.
I tap my toe, wishing the hockey guys were next.
“Jose Carnale loves to dance, run you a bubble bath, and hear about your day.” Lily shoots the catcher an approving look. The strapping Bronx Bomber wiggles a brow. “My God, could this man be any more perfect?”
A determined Lucy Liu look-alike calls out, “He’s mine!”
Time proves she is, indeed, determined. She wins him for a high four figures.
Next up is the team’s shortstop, and the bidding war is fierce, with a smoldering man in a suit winning him, and all I can think is they’d make a smoking-hot couple. I hope their date turns into the real thing because I wouldn’t mind checking out some cute couple pics from those two.
Purely as a social media strategist, of course.
“And now, we have The Tree, also known as Adrian Martinez, the star closer for the New York Yankees. An avid feline fan, every night he’s in town, he goes home to his two cats, Puss and Boots.”
The woman in front of me squeaks. The woman next to her gasps.
Understandable. Those are adorable names for kitties.
“He loves to cook for you, play Scrabble, and indulge in candlelit dinners.”
Part of me wants to call bullshit. I mean, who really likes all that? But the marketer in me is impressed. Adrian—or his press person—has made himself seem like quite a prize.
