Page 148 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
So I lift my glass, a silent toast across the crowd, like it means nothing. Like she’s just anyone.
But I know she isn’t.
And worse—so does she.
“Daddy! Perfect timing! You’re almost up!”
“Perfect timing for what, and what exactly will I be up for?”
Marlow beams at me. “Remember I told you about the auction? We’re auctioning off key players and members of the front office for dates to raise money for charity.”
I vaguely remember something about that. But if memory serves, that was the same night Eslin decided to test her skills as a back-alley chemist and slipped me a magnesium cocktail strong enough to take down a horse. So if I’ve blocked out parts of that conversation, it’s with good reason.
“The auction,” I repeat slowly, taking a sip of my drink like it might help me survive whatever fresh hell my daughter has signed me up for. “Yes.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” I add.
“Yes, I am.” She grins. Then she grabs my arm, tugging me toward the front of the ballroom where a curtain conceals the chaos backstage. “Now come on! Let’s go pimp my dad.”
I sigh, because only Marlow could make human trafficking sound like charity.
***
The ballroom hums with anticipation as the velvet curtain parts, and Luca Chidubem strides onto the stage. Even in a black suit and gold mask, this kid radiates swagger—the kind that makes the women in the audience sit a little taller, lean a little closer, fan themselves with their programs.
The announcer, a wiry man with a booming voice and the speed of a New York auctioneer, claps a hand on Luca’s shoulder. “Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on tonight’s next prize! Six-foot-five of prime athletic power, a smile that melts ice, and commanding field presence you’ve all seen on the highlight reels—give it up for Luca Chidubem!”
The crowd roars. Luca throws a playful wink and waves like he’s already won MVP.
“All right, let’s start the bidding nice and easy. One thousand dollars for a private dinner with Mr. Chidubem. Do I hear one thousand?”
Hands shoot up instantly.
“One thousand—yes, thank you, front table. Do I hear fifteen hundred?”
Another hand. Then another.
“Fifteen hundred—yes, thank you, back row in the sequins. Two thousand now, who’ll give me two?”
A brunette in the second row raises her hand. The announcer points like a man possessed.
“Two thousand to the lady in sapphire! Do I hear twenty-five hundred?”
The bids come faster, the numbers climbing like they’re nothing but pocket change. Luca lifts his arms and flexes just enough to send another ripple of laughter and cheers through the room.
“Five thousand! Yes, thank you, ma’am in the gold shawl. Five thousand on the table, do I hear six?”
“Six thousand!” another woman calls.
“Six! Do I hear seven?”
The room is alive now, women shouting numbers, laughter bubbling, the announcer’s voice ricocheting through it all.
“Seven thousand! Yes! Eight, do I have eight?”
“Eight!”
“Nine?”
