Page 118 of Traded

All for a good cause, though.

“I think we can do better than that,” Ronnie says coyly. “Any more for our lovely lot seven?”

Honestly. I feel like a warehouse package.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand!”

My mouth gapes open, certain I’ve misheard. Ronnie does the same, her mouth flapping comically before she recovers. “I’m sorry—was thattwo hundred and fifty thousand?”

Jesus, Katie.

Except Katie’s voice is… not that low. My girl can reach heights only dogs can hear when she’s excited.

The churning in my stomach eases off. Carter. Has to be. Better late than never, I guess.

“That… is confirmed!” Ronnie shoots me a strange look before she swallows and stares down at the sheet in front of her. “Any… more for Rosie?”

My smile spreads as I shade my eyes, trying to see.

“All right, then. Going!”

Wait.

My table… is still empty. My eyes swing from place to place, searching the crowd. I don’t see Carter anywhere. But I find someone else instead.

“Going…” Ronnie sounds like she’s stalling.

Boone holds my gaze, his jaw tight and an auction paddle gripped in his raised hand.

No.

This… cannot be happening.

“Sold!” Ronnie sounds like she’s choking. “Dinner with Rosie Johnson goes to… Boone Mercer! For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—uh, that’s a record, folks.”

Silence wipes out any noise from the stunned crowd.

Nobody more so than me.

Chapter thirty-four

Carter

I’m flying.

After months upon months of unending, relentless pain—always there, never giving me a single moment of peace—there’s nothing at all. Only a peaceful, muted sensation, as if I’m floating above the tables watching everybody else.

And it’sfucking glorious.

A laugh catches on my tongue as I reel away from a table. “Shit—sorry.”

“You good, man?” A face I vaguely recognize weaves in and out of my vision. I rack my brains. Definitely familiar. Red hair.

“Fucking perfect.” I slide past him. The room is beginning to spin. All of the bottles behind the bar blur together, and I back away from them as my stomach starts to churn. Itching at my neck, I turn toward the sign for the bathroom.

“I’ve got you.” A hand slips under my elbow. “Come on.”

“Benj.” Even my voice feels lighter. “I don’t feel great.”