Chapter 3 Christmas Carol Torture and Other Winning Bids
CHRISTMAS CAROL TORTURE AND OTHER WINNING BIDS
ROWAN
Good thing she walked away. If Isla had stayed around any longer, some of her niceness might’ve rubbed off on me. Can’t have that happening.
But I do need to track her down later. Apologize for my rude comment about the matchmaking package, even though I didn’t know that was her company. Though, probably to her, the crime’s the same—dissing love.
For now, though, her walking away gives me the chance to check out her ass, which looks phenomenal with that black pencil skirt hugging her curves just right.
Her chestnut hair spills down her back in glossy waves, and there’s a spring in her step.
Of course. She’s unrepentantly upbeat even as she disappears into the crowd, a sea of sparkly dresses and sleek black suits swallowing her up.
Once she’s out of sight, I figure it’s time to track down my friends.
Rolling my shoulders, I shake off the lingering effects of my interaction with the sexy-as-sin sister of my best-friend-slash-agent, who picked me up and made me get my act together when my life went sideways. As I cut through the crowd, my phone pings with a text.
I pull it out, hoping it’s Mia. She’s spending the evening with my mom, but she likes to text me cheesy dog and cat jokes.
Last night, she cracked herself up with: Why did the Chihuahua bark at the stranger? It needed a break from barking at the lamppost.
But instead of my daughter’s, Jason’s name flashes on the screen. Shit. Does he know I was admiring how good his sister looks in that skirt?
No, you idiot, he can’t read your mind.
Still, I click open the message cautiously.
Jason: Checking out the auction catalogue and I decided you have to bid on the Christmas train ride in Evergreen Falls.
I scoff. Does he really think I’d do that? Before I can type a snarky reply, another message pops up.
Jason: One, it’s one of your hometowns. Two, Mia will love it.
Jason: Just try to prove me wrong.
He’s fast, shooting me down before I can shoot him down, even though I wouldn’t call Evergreen Falls one of my hometowns.
I just happen to own a cabin there. Still, he’s right that Mia would love that.
She’s into all forms of transportation—ferry rides are a favorite.
But Mia also understands that Christmas isn’t exactly a big deal for me, so she totally gets why that would never happen.
Rowan: Nice try, but my kid’s smart enough to know Santa’s not real, and life’s better when you’re realistic.
Jason: Santa’s not real?! Great, now you’ve crushed my dreams too. Bid on the damn train ride, Scrooge.
Rowan: Is that an order from my agent? Because I was thinking of the women’s hockey tix. Gotta support the ladies we share the ice with.
Jason: Here’s a novel idea—bid on both. And yes, that’s an order.
We’ll see about that. I tuck my phone away, smooth a hand over my dark gray shirt, and scan the room for Miles and Tyler.
I find them chatting with their partners—Miles with Leighton, who’s got a camera slung around her neck and is snapping pics, and Tyler with Sabrina.
Behind them, in a corner, I spot more of my teammates.
Looks like the whole gang’s here. Still, they’re Christmas-ing it up, goofing around and posing for pics on a Santa-style grand red chair, so I’m not particularly tempted to hang out with them.
Which means…I’m free to pop in my earbuds.
I check the time. I’ve got a few minutes before the bidding starts.
But just as the smooth, warm voice of the host of The Competitive Edge podcast begins talking about the psychology of elite performance, Leighton waves at me, waggling her camera.
Ah, hell.
I turn off the podcast and weave through the crowd, nodding politely at sponsors in their fancy suits and sequined dresses. By the time I reach my friends, Leighton’s ready.
“Picture time,” she announces.
Before I can protest, Miles raises a hand. “I know pics at galas are on your annual grievances list,” he says.
I shoot him a what gives look. “I don’t have a list.”
Miles snorts. “Right.”
“I don’t!”
“Rowan has a hate list?” Sabrina asks eagerly.
“Of course he does, babe,” Tyler says to her.
“I need to know more,” Sabrina says. “Every detail.”
“Don’t feed the animals at the zoo,” Tyler tells her.
Leighton laughs, but she shoots me a supportive grin as she addresses the group: “I’ll say this in his defense—Rowan’s always been good at posing for pics.”
Ha. There. “See?” I tell my teammates. “I’m a goddamn ray of sunshine.”
Leighton motions for me to stand next to Tyler and Miles. She snaps the shot, and Tyler chimes in, “We’ll need that shot for posterity.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Before and after,” he says cryptically.
My Spidey senses tingle, but before I can pursue the topic, the auctioneer raps her gavel, signaling the start of the auction.
I turn my attention to the stage. The head of the team’s charitable endeavors steps up, explaining how all proceeds from tonight’s annual Nutcracker Auction will benefit animal rescue organizations, local libraries, and the children’s hospital.
Servers circulate with drinks, and I opt for a punch as she starts listing the auction items. Some are downright horrifying, like Christmas cookie-baking lessons and front-row seats at the Evergreen Falls Christmas Ice Show.
But Christmas carolers for hire? Now, that’s a dastardly idea.
I could send them to serenade the New York defenseman I hate when he’s in town to play us next month.
Imagine a baritone belting out “Good King Wenceslas” outside his hotel room late the night before a big game.
Yeah, grabbing the paddle from my back pocket, I bid on that one, making my nefarious dreams come true with the top bid.
The next item is a night in a festive cabin—complete with twinkle lights and hot tub access.
That one stings, dragging me back to the plans I once made for Mia’s mom five Christmases ago.
But I shove the thoughts of the worst day of my life far, far away.
I’m not that guy anymore—the guy who believed in happily ever after.
I’m a practical guy, a responsible guy, one who looks out for his teammates and his family.
When the women’s hockey tickets come up, I place the winning bid. I’ll take Mom and Dad, the rest of my family, and of course, Mia.
And when the Christmas train ride comes up?
I raise my paddle and bid, winning that too.
There. I’ve done my part. Jason should be thrilled with my generosity, and Mia will be ecstatic about the train. That’s all that matters.
I down some punch—it’s unexpectedly decent. But it’s not a huge surprise that Isla would have the perfect punch recipe in her back pocket.
Just as I’m about to relax, the auctioneer introduces the next item: Find your mistletoe love.
I scan the room, spotting Isla’s shiny chestnut waves at the front of the crowd.
The auctioneer introduces the item, going on about Cupid Confidante’s success, about how the popular dating podcaster used her platform as a springboard to bring love to so many others.
Yeah, I was kind of an ass for saying this auction item was pointless, but I still don’t know who the hell would want a holiday romance that’ll turn to ashes quicker than the Yule log.
“Do we have an opening bid?”
A smug smile creeps onto my face as only a couple paddles go up. A woman bids five hundred dollars. Another bids a thousand. Bet it doesn’t go any higher.
Yup, love will bite you in the ass like a spider monkey, and everyone here knows it.
Then, in the lull after the last bid, a very familiar voice calls out:
“Ten thousand dollars.”
I whip my head to stare at the man next to me, holding up his paddle. As in, Tyler. What the hell? He’s here with Sabrina. His mom’s happily married too. Why would he want this package?
Then, Miles chimes in, telling the auctioneer, “The bid is from both of us.”
So…maybe it’s a gift for someone, like their sister? It has to be.
The auctioneer glances around the room. “Can anyone top ten thousand?”
Silence. No one lifts a paddle.
She bangs her gavel with finality. “Sold to Miles and Tyler Falcon!”
“Who’s that for?” I ask them. “Charlie?”
They shake their heads, laughing softly and looking way too pleased. Those knowing grins are back, amplified by a thousand. No. By ten thousand.
Miles looks like he just nailed a game-winning goal and claps a heavy hand on my shoulder as Leighton comes up next to him, lifts her camera, and snaps a pic.
“You, Rowan,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement. “It’s for you.”
I’d be less stunned if Santa himself slid down a chimney right now.