Fifteen #2
Ryker whistles low as the limo pulls away. “Ten bucks says they don’t make it to the hotel without fogging up the windows.”
My head jerks toward him. “What?”
He just smirks and shrugs. “You saw them.”
Tarryn elbows him hard. “Gross. That’s our brother, idiot.”
Ryker grins like a man who lives for stirring the pot. “Still true. ”
Elise shakes her head, her lips twitching. “My date’s meeting me there. You two coming?”
She nods toward her own limo, and the three of them—Elise, Ryker, and Tarryn—head off together, chattering about appetizers and dance cards like they’ve done this a hundred times.
That leaves Beckett and me.
Our limo door opens smoothly, and he gestures for me to go first. I slide in carefully, trying to keep the slit of my dress from showing too much thigh. Once I’m seated, Beckett follows, sealing us inside the quiet, dimly lit space.
The cabin smells faintly of leather and something earthy—probably Beckett’s cologne—and I swear the temperature rises the second we’re alone.
“You really do look stunning,” he says.
I wave a hand like it’s nothing, though my face instantly warms. “You’ve said that.”
“Yeah, and you still didn’t say thank you.”
I glance at him, caught off guard.
“You should,” he adds, eyes on mine. “It’s the truth.”
I hesitate, then murmur, “Thank you.”
His lips twitch like he’s holding back something more. “That blush…”
“What about it?”
He leans in just enough to make my skin prickle. “I’d love to see where it goes.” He peeks down at my vast cleavage before winking at me.
I blink, speechless for a half second too long. “Behave.”
He lifts both hands in surrender, his grin unapologetic. “Just an observation.”
I exhale and shift slightly in my seat, trying to steer the conversation to safer territory. “So…they sent out a teaser about the silent auction. I’ve seen the goods, but do you have any idea what you’re bidding on?”
He stretches one arm across the back of the seat, his fingers brushing the ends of my hair. “I haven’t looked at the list yet. ”
“You should. There’s a spa weekend at Whistler, a wine-and-dine helicopter tour around Vancouver Island, and a cooking class with a celebrity chef.”
“That last one sounds like punishment.”
I laugh. “There’s a trip to New York City too. Includes a Broadway play and hotel near Times Square.”
“That actually sounds fun.”
“If I had money,” I say wistfully, “that’s the one I’d bid on.”
Beckett studies me for a second. “I can picture you in New York.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Bold, brave, fast-talking—”
“I prefer being here in a small town. I only like to visit the city. It’s too claustrophobic because there are so many people. Plus, I’m not fast-talking.”
“You are when you’re nervous.”
I shove at his shoulder, and he chuckles, but his gaze drops again—to my leg, to where the slit of the dress parts slightly, showing smooth skin and the glint of my shoe.
I pull the fabric across my thigh, suddenly unsure. “Is this dress too much?”
His voice drops an octave. “It’s not enough.”
My breath catches.
Before I can form a reply, the limo slows, turning toward a circular drive.
The Grand Delta Hotel rises before us like something out of a movie—glittering windows, elegant arches, and staff lined up with tablets, earpieces, and practiced smiles.
The driver opens the door, and I glance across the seat.
Beckett smirks. “Ryker called it. Greyson and Trinity didn’t beat us here.”
I step out, my heels clicking against the polished stone. I’m still reeling from everything he said, but I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and let the confidence from earlier in the afternoon find its way back into my bloodstream. Hopefully I’ll not be tripping over my own feet.
Let’s do this.
A server offers us flutes of sparkling wine as soon as we check in. I take mine with a quiet “thank you,” nerves fluttering as we step into the grand ballroom.
The lighting is golden and warm, and the hum of voices wraps around us like velvet.
I make a beeline for the silent auction.
When I left this morning, it was a large room with tables, and the plan was to place the Harley Davidson motorcycle my dad’s best friend donated in the center.
He threw in a Harley Davidson gift basket, which has a leather jacket, shirts, mugs, glasses, pens, and tons of other things, all with the Harley Davidson Paradise logo.
I talked him into donating anything the items bring in over their cost. In return he offered me a job, though I’m not sure I’m ready to sell motorcycles.
We walk into the auction room, and I stop short.
It looks amazing.
The items I picked up all week—gift baskets, vouchers, bottles of rare wine, getaway packages—have been arranged on linen-draped tables with handwritten signs and soft lighting. Everything looks intentional. Elevated. Like it belongs in a glossy magazine spread.
Vicky appears beside me, smiling wide. “Isn’t this great?”
I nod, still taking it in. “All these things were in the back of the Jeep,” I say with a laugh. “I can’t believe what they look like now. I just hope people actually bid on them.”
Her hand lands gently on my arm. “Wander through. I think you’ll be surprised.” She gives me a squeeze, then drifts away to greet someone.
I glance at Beckett, who lingers close, his eyes sweeping across the tables like he’s casing a very elegant potential crime scene.
I walk through the displays, fingertips brushing the edge of a sign here and there. The bid sheets are already filling up. Every few steps, someone stops Beckett to say hello. He knows everyone—or they know him—and when they turn to me, curiosity in their eyes, he always says the same thing.
“This is my friend, Sadie Calloway.”
Friend . I don’t know why that makes me a little woozy, but it does. And not in a bad way. Just…it matters that I’m not only Caleb’s sister.
At one point, a couple Beckett knows from the hospital stops to chat, and as I try not to fidget, his hand finds mine. It’s warm and sure, and the moment his fingers wrap around mine, my breath steadies. I hold on.
He keeps moving through the auction like it’s second nature, bidding on a Whistler spa weekend, a vineyard helicopter tour, and—because of course—an absurdly expensive week-long yacht charter.
I trail behind him until we stop in front of the New York trip. Four nights at the Plaza Hotel. Tickets to a Broadway play. Dinner at a swanky rooftop restaurant.
I stare at it a little too long.
“That one?” he asks quietly.
I shrug. “If I had the money.”
He doesn’t say anything, just studies me for a beat. I can feel the weight of his gaze, but I don’t look up.
A moment later, the lights in the ballroom flicker, and someone calls for guests to move into the dining room.
Beckett sets his champagne flute down and offers his arm.
I take it.
Together we walk toward the next part of the evening with my hand tucked in his. I’m still not sure how I ended up here, but I’m grateful that I did.