Chapter 1 #2
I head to a booth that smells like cinnamon and heaven.
A donut stall is set up under a striped awning, the air around it sweet and warm. The woman behind the counter smiles and hands me a powdered donut in a paper bag.
“Three fifty,” she says.
I lift my phone and tap to pay. I am not about to open an envelope bursting with cash in the middle of Heartstone Square.
I step aside, take a bite, and powdered sugar dusts my lips. The warmth of the donut and the bite of the cold air clear my head for half a second.
Then a voice booms from inside the pavilion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Lovesbury’s Valentine Day Auction!”
The crowd shifts, energy turning toward the stage. I follow the flow.
Inside, the pavilion is warm and bright, windows fogged from bodies and laughter. Rows of chairs face a small raised stage.
On stage stands a woman who looks like she came out of a small-town power fantasy.
Camel wool coat, cinched with a black belt. Pearls at her collarbone. Blonde hair glossy and perfect. Red lip gloss that catches the light when she smiles.
And her smile says she is about to meddle at a professional level.
“Thank you all for coming,” she says, hands spread wide. “I’m Evelyn Hartwood, the mayor’s wife.”
She pauses like she’s letting that settle.
“And before you look for him, yes, my husband is here too. Somewhere. Possibly hiding.”
The crowd laughs.
“As you know, our festival supports the veterans’ center. We need to fix that roof, and I, for one, refuse to let our heroes sit under a leak.”
Cheers ripple through the room.
In the back, a cluster of older men in coats stand shoulder to shoulder like a jury. They look amused. One nudges another and says something that makes them laugh.
The bench squad. The veterans.
The woman on stage beams. “In December, we convinced a handful of our bachelors to pose for a community fundraiser calendar.”
More cheering.
“With puppies,” she adds, like that’s the real scandal.
The crowd loses it.
She lifts her chin, satisfied. “And when a few behind-the-scenes photos went viral, we realized something.”
Her eyes sweep the room like she’s choosing victims.
“People want to visit Lovesbury.”
Laughter.
“So,” she says brightly, “we’re doing a bachelor auction.”
My heart thumps hard.
There’s movement at the side of the stage. A line forms. Men step up, one by one, and the room’s energy jumps like someone tossed a match into gasoline.
Whistles. Claps. A woman in the front row fans herself with a pamphlet like she might faint.
I barely notice any of them.
Because then he steps out.
The man that caught my attention on the flyer.
He looks like a hero ripped out of one of those mountain man stories. The kind who chops wood with his bare hands and only speaks in grunts.
Except his expression is pure grumpy scowl, like Valentine’s Day personally insulted him.
He’s the first bachelor to step out, and the pavilion reacts like someone rang a dinner bell.
He stops at the front of the line, arms crossed, shoulders tense, looking like he would rather wrestle a bear than participate in this.
My stomach flips anyway.
Because I am still a woman with eyes.
And that man is… a lot.
The auction host glides toward him like she’s approaching a dragon she raised herself.
“And now,” she says, voice turning syrupy, “we have a very special man. Maverick Rodgers. He grunts a lot, but I promise you, under that scowl is a softie.”
Maverick’s jaw tightens. He looks mildly murderous.
The crowd laughs like they love it.
“He builds cabins,” she continues. “Repairs them. Helps half the town for free. Served our country. And has the kind of shoulders that make women forget their own names.”
A whoop rises.
Maverick’s stare deadens, like he’s gone to a mental place where none of this exists.
My eyes meet his for the first time.
It’s quick. A glance.
But it hits like contact.
His gaze is sharp, assessing, and it lands on my face like he’s clocking something he didn’t expect.
My skin prickles. Heat pools low in my stomach in a way that feels unfair and inappropriate for someone in survival mode.
I take another bite of donut like it will help.
It does not.
“All right!” the woman claps. “Bidding starts at one hundred dollars!”
A hand shoots up immediately.
“One hundred!” a voice calls out.
It’s one of the wild old ladies in front. Pink lipstick, sparkly scarf, and a grin that says she’s here for entertainment, not love.
“If I was younger,” she announces loudly, “I’d climb him like a tree!”
The pavilion explodes with laughter.
Maverick’s expression does not change. He stares straight ahead like he’s willing the floor to swallow him.
Another woman calls out, “One fifty!”
This one has a fuzzy hat and a thermos that definitely contains something stronger than coffee.
The pink-lipstick lady waves at her. “Ruthie, don’t you start!”
Ruthie blows her a kiss.
My heartbeat climbs into my throat.
This is insane.
I am actually considering doing this.
My fingers curl around the auction paddle someone shoved into my hand at the entrance, and my palms sweat.
I look at Maverick again.
He looks like the kind of man who could keep a door locked against a storm. The kind of man who would notice if someone tried to sneak up on me. The kind of man who would stand between me and danger without being asked.
I need that.
Just for a weekend.
Before I can talk myself out of it, my arm lifts.
“Two hundred,” I call.
The room shifts. Heads turn. I feel a dozen eyes land on me like spotlights.
My cheeks burn.
Maverick’s eyes snap to mine.
This time he holds the stare.
My breath catches.
His gaze flicks over my face, my coat, the way I’m standing too rigid, like I’m bracing for impact. And something in his expression tightens, subtle but real.
The pink-lipstick lady squints at me. “Well,” she says loudly, “look at you.”
I pretend I didn’t hear that.
The host’s smile sharpens, delighted. “Two hundred! Do I hear two fifty?”
A woman near the front raises her paddle with an ease that makes me want to throw mine into the snow.
“Three hundred,” she says, voice smooth.
The host tilts her head. “Oh! And for anyone curious, this lovely lady has had her eye on Maverick for years.”
The woman beams like that’s a compliment.
Maverick looks like he hates every single person and object in the room, including the ceiling.
My pulse hammers.
I swallow.
“Three fifty,” I say, and my voice wobbles just a little.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
Maverick’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. His jaw flexes once.
The woman in front lifts her paddle again immediately. “Three seventy-five.”
My stomach drops.
Three seventy-five is… a lot. It’s more than I should be spending on anything right now, including safety.
But the thought of stepping back outside alone, of being found, makes my skin crawl.
My hand lifts again.
“Four hundred,” I say.
The room goes quiet for half a beat, then erupts.
The host’s eyes widen. She looks between me and Maverick, and something knowing sparks across her face.
Maverick goes very still.
Not angry still.
Alert.
Like the mountain in front of me just realized the ground shifted.
The other woman’s mouth opens, ready to counter, but the host lifts her hand, calm as a queen.
“Sold,” she announces, drawing it out like it’s the best word in the English language. “To our mysterious newcomer for four hundred dollars.”
She points directly at me.
Laughter erupts again.
My pulse trips over itself.
For a second, it feels like every person in the pavilion turns toward me at once, like I’m lit up from the inside.
I keep my eyes on the stage, because if I don’t, I’m going to bolt.
Maverick steps forward slowly, like he’s conserving energy for something that matters.
He stops at the edge of the stage and looks down at me.
Up close, he’s even more intimidating. Bigger. Rougher. His eyes are the kind of blue that feels like winter lakes, deep and cold and dangerous.
He doesn’t smile.
Of course he doesn’t.
My mouth goes dry.
I lift my chin anyway because I refuse to shrink. Not after what I just survived.
“Hi,” I manage.
His gaze flicks over me again, like he’s reading a story I’m not telling out loud.
Then his voice rumbles, low and rough.
“You sure?”
Two words.
No teasing. No judgment.
Just a question that hits me right in the ribs.
Am I sure I want to spend a weekend with a man who looks like he could snap me in half?
Am I sure I’m not making everything worse?
Am I sure I can trust a stranger when the person I trusted most just proved he never deserved it?
No.
Absolutely not.
“Yeah,” I say, voice shaking only a little. “I’m sure.”
His jaw tightens, like he’s swallowing something hard.
Then he gives a short nod, once, like a decision.
“Okay,” he says.
And something inside me loosens a fraction.
Because whatever else he is, he doesn’t look like a man who breaks his word.
The host claps again, delighted. “Perfect! Paperwork in the back, people! And Maverick?”
He glances at her.
She smiles sweetly. “Be nice.”
He grunts.
The crowd laughs.
My heart pounds. My hands shake.
I follow him toward the back of the pavilion.
Toward paperwork.
Toward a cabin in the snow.