Chapter 9 #2
But as the doctor drones on and I remain stationed beside her, my focus shifts from the dress to concern. She’s weirdly jumpy tonight, vibrating with nervous energy. When a waiter squeezes past us and my arm brushes against hers, she flinches as if I’ve just pressed a live wire to her skin.
I lean in, dropping my voice so only she can hear. "You alright, Ace?"
She nearly chokes on her rosé again, her eyes finally snapping to mine with a wild look. "Yes. Why—why wouldn't I be?"
I shrug. "I dunno. You just seem a bit rattled, is all."
"Oh, well," she says. "Large crowds, the gala expectations... it’s just a lot to coordinate, you know?"
I nod slowly. I've seen her flustered before, mostly during our disastrous first meeting, but normally she's the sort of person who can navigate any social minefield.
Our full team briefing last week was a circus, half a dozen big personalities all trying to talk over each other, every department with its own agenda.
Margot held the whole thing together with a clipboard and a gracious smile, and every person in that room walked out feeling like they'd been heard.
But tonight, she seems entirely out of sorts.
Fuck. Maybe she's uncomfortable around me. I've been flirting with her pretty relentlessly, and maybe it's finally crossed a line she's been too polite to draw.
I lean in closer, dropping my voice. "Look, have I done something? Because if I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry and you just say the word and?—"
"No." She cuts me off, her eyes wide "God, no, Cillian. It's nothing you've done, I swear. I'm just having an off night."
Her eyes hold mine, and I nod and let the obvious lie stand, giving her a reassuring smile that she returns before turning her attention back to the group.
"And then, of course," the doctor is saying, sounding impressed with himself, "you understand the demands of the practice."
"Oh, certainly," the tech bloke interrupts. "Though I’d argue that the startup world has its own unique intensity. It’s a similar high-stakes environment, in its own way."
"Hardly comparable," the doctor counters, puffing out his chest. "When you have a life on the table, there is no margin for any error."
Miriam tries to interject. "It’s funny you say that, my grandson is actually?—"
"It’s not even about the hours," the doctor continues, cutting her off. "It’s about the weight of it. The lives in your hands."
What kind of fucker interrupts a sweet old woman? Who raised this shithead?
I open my mouth to say something, but Margot is already leaning forward.
"I’m sorry, Miriam,” she says. “What were you saying? I think you were interrupted."
She says it pleasantly enough, but both the tech bloke and the doctor look momentarily ashamed, and I hide a small smile as Margot directs her full, warm attention back to Miriam.
Miriam beams, seemingly oblivious to the slight as she looks at the group. "Well, my grandson is in medical school, and I just find it so courageous, what these young people do."
She continues on, and I watch Margot listening with her whole heart, nodding and smiling at Miriam while the doctor and tech guys are firmly put in their place.
I'm not sure I've ever met anyone so genuinely kind.
"Alright, and now for our marquee lot," the auctioneer booms, his voice echoing through the ballroom as every eye in the room swings toward me on stage.
"A private candlelit dinner for two, featuring a curated tasting flight from Solstice Estates...
and, of course, the company of Mr. Cillian O'Rourke.
NHL forward for the San Francisco Renegades.
If you've ever wanted to spend an evening with this Irish charmer, now is your chance. "
I give the room a small, photographable smile and try not to think too hard about the term Irish charmer.
With every gaze fixed on me under the glare of the stage lights, I do my best to look like I'm worth the hype.
The auction has been underway for what feels like a small lifetime, and the crowd is sufficiently lubricated by now that the bidding has turned aggressive on even the minor lots.
Earlier I watched two men nearly come to blows over a small boat, and given they both look like they have more money than God, I'm not sure why they were carrying on like it was a matter of life and death.
People are fucking strange. Rich people especially, though I guess I'm one of them now. It never fully feels like it though, since I grew up in a family that always had to keep money in mind. Sometimes I think a scrappier upbringing is essential to building any real character.
"Let's open the bidding." The auctioneer's eyes sweep the room. "We have an opening bid already on the boards from a phone bidder at fifteen thousand."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. I somehow resist the urge to shake my head at the absurdity. I'm so not worth that kind of money, but hey, if they want to pay. The family group chat has been merciless since I found out Vivian's putting in a bid. Keeping me humble.
A paddle goes up near the front of the room. An older blonde woman, country-club polish and dripping in diamonds, lifts hers with a confident snap.
"Sixteen thousand from the lady in the front. Do we have seventeen?"
"Eighteen from our phone bidder," the staffer on the phone calls out, raising her own paddle.
"Twenty," the blonde says, calm as anything, as if she's merely ordering another round of tea.
The crowd lets out an appreciative noise.
My stomach drops a full inch. I glance toward the edge of the stage and there she is, Margot, half-hidden behind a pillar and watching the stage with an intense, unreadable expression.
She catches my eye for half a second before determinedly looking anywhere else.
Come on, Vivian.
"Twenty-two," the staffer calls.
"Twenty-five," the blonde says, her paddle lifting again without hesitation.
A brunette nearby joins the fray. "Twenty-six."
I'm trying very hard to keep my face arranged into something resembling delighted appreciation while my actual internal monologue is somewhere closer to oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
No offense to these women, but I'd so much rather a date with Margot than what appears to be a few cougars who would likely want to eat me for dessert. Fuck Derek for this idea.
"Twenty-seven from the phone."
"Thirty," the blonde says.
A ripple of genuine shock goes through the crowd this time.
Thirty thousand dollars for the privilege of sitting across a table from me.
The blonde's smile is the patient, predatory smile of a woman who has never lost a bidding war in her life.
The staffer murmurs into her headset as the phone bidder pauses. The silence stretches uncomfortably.
I find Margot again. She's not looking away anymore, and I think we're both holding our breath at the same rhythm, except I'm reasonably sure we're hoping for opposite outcomes.
"We have thirty-five from the phone," the staffer says, her voice perfectly even.
A gasp goes through the room. The blonde's smile thins as she raises her paddle once more. "Forty."
Holy hell!
The staffer presses her hand to her earpiece, listening intently. The auctioneer is grinning like all his Christmases have come at once. Derek, somewhere in the crowd, is presumably about to weep tears of joy directly into his champagne flute.
"We have," the staffer says slowly, "fifty thousand from the phone."
The room goes quiet.
The blonde looks down at her paddle. Looks at me.
Looks back at her paddle. For a second I think she's going to raise it anyway.
Then she sets it down on her lap with a sharp sigh of resignation.
Apparently she's decided fifty thousand dollars is more than even she is willing to spend on a hockey player she's never met.
"Fifty thousand, going once." The auctioneer's voice rolls through the room. "Going twice."
I find Margot's eyes again. She looks every bit as horrified as I am elated.
"Sold, to phone bidder Vivian Ashford, for fifty thousand dollars."
The gavel comes down with a sharp crack and everyone breaks out in applause.