Page 149 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
A pause. A hush, almost.
Then, from the back of the room, clear and calm, “Ten thousand.”
The crowd gasps. Heads turn, trying to see who dared throw down that kind of money.
The spotlight swivels, landing on her. A woman in a flowing crimson dress, mask of red and black lace that hides every inch of her expression except the tilt of her mouth. Cool. Confident. Unmoved by the attention.
The announcer milks it, slapping his hand against the podium. “Ten thousand! Ten thousand to the lady in red! Going once—going twice—”
He draws it out, but no one dares to top her.
“—and SOLD!” He slams the gavel down with theatrical flair. “To the woman in the red dress and the mysterious red-and-black mask!”
The crowd erupts in applause, Luca bowing deeply, grinning from ear to ear as though he’s just been drafted all over again. The woman in red doesn’t so much as flinch. She simply raises her champagne glass, as though she’s been planning to win him all along.
When Luca strides off stage, blowing kisses and bowing like he’s just scored the winning goal, the room is still buzzing from that ten-thousand-dollar finale. The announcer is practically giddy, the women in the audience starry-eyed, champagne flutes clinking in approval.
I should be relaxed. I should be used to this—eyes on me, the spectacle, the attention that’s followed me my whole adult life.
But I’m not.
Because I know who else is in this room.
“Up next, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer crows, “A true legend. Father to one of the fiercest women I’ve ever met, a man whose presence commands every room and instantly claims hearts—Mr. Grant Mills!”
Applause erupts, echoing off the ballroom’s high ceilings. I paste on a smile. The one I’ve worn for decades. The easy grin, the confident swagger. The old Grant.
I step into the lights, give a small wave, the grin never slipping. I look like I’m enjoying this, but inside, I feel tight. Restless. Because somewhere out there in the sea of glitter and velvet, Eslin Saunders is watching. And the last thing I want is for her to think this is who I am. That I’m still just a man parading himself for random women.
Then I catch Marlow at the edge of the stage. She’s clapping, radiant, her eyes shining with pride. My girl asked me to do this, and I’ll be damned if I won’t give her a show. So I push the nerves down, raise my arms a little higher, and wink at the crowd.
“All right, let’s start the bidding at one thousand for Mr. Mills,” the announcer calls, voice slick and quick.
Hands shoot up immediately.
“One thousand—yes, thank you. Fifteen hundred? Two? Twenty-five hundred?”
The numbers climb faster than I expect. Three thousand. Five. Seven. Ten.
I arch a brow, laugh lightly, leaning against the podium as though this is all a game. And then it changes.
The energy sharpens.
Two women are locked in a duel. Their hands shoot up before the announcer can finish, voices slicing through the air.
“Fifteen thousand!”
“Seventeen!”
“Nineteen!”
And then I see her.
Malina Matthews.
Even under the red and black mask, I know that profile, the stubborn set of her jaw. She doesn’t just bid—she attacks. Like winning me is the prize she came here for.
But why? After the disaster of that night—me bolting for the bathroom mid-date, leaving her to sip wine alone—I figured she’d never want to lay eyes on me again. Yet here she is, dropping money like it’s nothing. Malina knows what she wants. And clearly, she still wants me.
