Chapter 3
THREE
CORD
From the wings, I had a clear view of the chaos: rows of folding chairs packed elbow-to-elbow, all facing the stage like it was the damn Grammys.
Women of every age laughed, gossiped, and waved numbered paddles like they were about to bet on thoroughbreds.
A few already had drinks—sparkling cider in plastic flutes.
No alcohol license this year, which meant the flirting would be loud, but the bidding might stay tame.
Still, the energy was pure sugar rush.
I tugged once at the collar of my dress blues, rolled my shoulders, and took a breath. Showtime.
I stepped onto the stage to a wall of cheers.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said into the mic, smiling like I meant it, “welcome to Huckleberry Creek’s Annual Firefighter Bachelor Auction!”
That earned whistles, whoops, and at least one very enthusiastic “Take it off!” from the back row. Probably Lola Taggert. Woman had the spirit of a Vegas emcee and the instincts of a matchmaking sniper.
I paced the edge of the stage, giving them my best grin as I shrugged out of my jacket and draped it over the mic stand. Someone let out a dramatic gasp. My T-shirt—tight enough to hug in all the places women seemed to notice—earned a flutter of raised paddles and a burst of applause.
I spread my arms wide. “This isn’t just about finding dates for these brave men. Every dollar raised tonight goes toward new equipment for our fire department.”
That part actually meant something. We weren’t padding some charity CEO’s bonus. We were talking new turnout gear, updated rescue tools, real upgrades that would save lives. That’s why I always said yes to this gig. That, and I didn’t mind making a fool of myself if it helped someone else.
The crowd roared again. I could feel the hum of it in my chest. Let it build. I gave it another beat, let the noise crest, and then leaned in with the smile they all expected. “Let’s get this party started.”
More cheers.
God, they were ready. Hungry for spectacle. Hungry for something.
I didn’t mind giving it to them. I was good at playing the part.
Hollywood. That’s what they called me back at the station. And out here, in a room full of perfume and paddle cards, I could see why.
They didn’t want messy or real. They wanted a fireman with a nice smile who’d flex and flirt and make them laugh. And I could do that all night.
I adjusted the mic and took a slow step forward, letting the crowd noise rise again. It was like riding a wave. Timing mattered. Too soon and you wiped out. Too late and you missed it.
“Now, I know what you’re all here for,” I said, voice light, eyes sweeping the front rows. “Auction meat. Grade A. Fully certified. Hydrated, mostly house-trained. And—if we raise enough money—possibly available in sleeveless T-shirts.”
That got a full round of laughter and a few paddles popping into the air just for the hell of it.
I smiled and shrugged as if to say, who, me?
“Seriously, folks. New extrication tools don’t pay for themselves. So someone better make it rain.”
More laughter. Another shout of “Take it all off!” I scanned the room again, soaking it all in. This was tradition, and if nothing else, Huckleberry Creek clung to its traditions with both hands and a church bake sale flyer.
In the front row, I spotted Meghan Garcia fanning herself with her paddle, already laughing like she knew this was about to become chaos in five acts.
Not far behind her, Dorothy Bishop lounged in her folding chair like a Roman empress ready to hand out roses.
She caught me looking and raised a brow. I winked back.
I filed her under the heading of “Dangerous,” though I knew she’d been working her wiles on pairing up her grandson, Gabe, so maybe I was safe for now.
I kept my posture easy, my tone playful, my grin locked in place. But under all that—under the applause and the jokes—I could feel it. A flicker of something cooler pressing against my ribs.
Because no matter how many times I did this, no matter how many cheers or catcalls I caught, there was always a moment. That shift when the laughter faded, and I saw the way they looked at us.
At me.
Not bad. Not unkind. But like we were a prize to win. A list of surface traits: hot, tall, charming, looks good in turnouts.
I was good at being that. I’d had years of practice .
But some quiet, stubborn part of me knew how easy it was to disappear behind all that shine.
The crowd was still laughing when I brought the mic back up.
“All right, ladies,” I said, letting the smile tip a little cocky. “Let’s see what a slightly over-caffeinated firefighter with decent teeth and marginal impulse control goes for these days.”
That earned another wave of laughter. A few paddles twitched in anticipation.
I pointed to myself. “Bidding starts at fifty. Do I hear fifty dollars?”
A paddle went up instantly from somewhere on the left.
“Do I hear seventy-five?”
Two more shot up.
I gave the front row a slow turn, threw in a wink over my shoulder, and added a little flex for good measure. Not my best work. Okay, maybe I leaned into it with a deliberately awful dance move that made one of the teenage girls squeal-laugh like I’d just done something TikTok worthy.
“C’mon now,” I teased. “Don’t let me go cheap. We need new jaws of life, people. You want to explain to your grandma you lowballed the rescue guy?”
“Two hundred!” someone shouted.
“Three!” another called, waving her paddle.
“Four fifty!”
“Five hundred!”
Okay, now we were cooking. I paced the edge of the stage, milked the spotlight a little longer, just until?—
“Seven fifty!”
The voice cut clean through the noise. Confident. Commanding. Absolutely not playing.
I blinked and scanned the crowd for the bidder .
And then I saw her. Steel-gray hair. Lipstick that could cut glass. A glint in her eye that said she didn’t bluff and didn’t lose.
Mrs. Henderson.
Oh no.
I was ready for a cougar. A soccer mom. Maybe even a wildly drunk twenty-something waving her bestie’s paddle like a dare.
I was not ready for someone’s actual grandma.
“Eight hundred!” someone else shouted—sounded like Sarah from the bank.
Mrs. Henderson didn’t even blink. She turned, lifted her paddle with absolute finality, and said, “One thousand dollars.”
The room gasped. Loud enough that it echoed. Someone in the back muttered “damn” under their breath.
I swallowed hard.
One thousand dollars.
For me.
And not in the fun, somebody-wants-to-kiss-me-behind-the—food-tent-at-a-barbecue way. In the someone’s-knitting-me-a-scarf-and-asking-about-my-mortgage kind of way.
I pasted on my best pageant smile. “Sold,” I said into the mic, voice steady even though my brain was skidding. “To the lovely lady in the back. Come on up and claim your prize.”
I was half-joking, but she didn’t hesitate.
Mrs. Henderson made her way down the aisle with surprising speed, hips swinging like she owned the joint.
Which, to be fair, she kind of did. This was Huckleberry Creek—everyone knew her, and more importantly, everyone knew not to cross her.
The woman had connections, opinions, and a killer poker face.
As she reached the stage, I extended my hand gallantly. She ignored it completely, patted my cheek like I was a good boy who’d finally brought home a decent report card, and leaned in close enough for me to catch a whiff of lemon verbena and subtle menace.
“Relax, sugar,” she said, voice low and velvet-smooth. “I didn’t buy you for me.”
I blinked. “I—what?”
She grinned. “I bought you for my granddaughter.”
“Your granddaughter…” I asked, trying to keep my voice low and respectful and maybe just a little panicked, “She’s, uh… legal, right?”
Mrs. Henderson snorted. “She’s twenty-five.”
Twenty-five.
Not a teenager. Not fresh out of college and collecting crystal cats. Just… young. Younger than I’d expected, sure, but also adult. Adult enough to know what she wanted. Maybe.
I didn’t know anything about her. Didn’t have a name, a face, or even a hint of what I was walking into. But suddenly I wanted to.
Twenty-five could mean bright eyes and big dreams and a sense of humor that hadn’t been ground down yet by too many tax seasons or HOA meetings. Twenty-five might still like late nights, spontaneous adventures, and bad ideas that turned out great.
Or she could be the exact opposite. Quiet. Serious. Looking for something… real.
That last thought flickered through me like a breeze under the collar. Uncomfortable in a way I didn’t want to look at too closely.
I was good at the shiny stuff. The first impression. The flex and grin and flirt. But something about being “bought” for someone else… it wasn’t the usual kind of auction-night chaos. It felt like the beginning of something else. Something I hadn’t signed up for .
Mrs. Henderson gave my arm one last squeeze, entirely confident. “You’ll meet her soon enough.”
And then she turned and vanished back into the crowd, leaving me standing under the lights with a question I hadn’t known I wanted answered.