Chapter 18 Harrison
Harrison
“The auction is over, Hannah,” I say.
She nods, entirely too calm. “I know.”
“Then why am I still here?” I look down at myself. “I’m still shirtless. A walking warning to any man stupid enough to agree to be auctioned.”
“I promise it won’t be much longer.” She checks her phone and smiles. That is never a good sign. “You just have to, um, wait.”
As a matter of fact, I do have to wait. Mostly because my not-so-innocent sister hid my phone and wallet. Even though she denies it.
“Can I at least get a shirt?”
“The venue is rented. For events,” she reminds me. “Brian and Zac searched high and low.”
“No, they didn’t.”
She snorts. “No. They didn’t. They like you like this, and I quote, ‘in all your manly glory.’ Apparently, you’re deficient in female attention.”
I cross my arms over my bare chest, suddenly hyperaware of every wandering eye in a five-mile radius as three women stroll past. One of them openly purrs.
“Great,” I mutter. “While we wait, how about you tell me what, exactly, we’re waiting for?”
She lifts one finger. The universal sign for just a second, I’m stalling.
“Hannah.”
Nothing.
“Hannah!”
She hides behind her phone.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “Give me a hint. Are we waiting on funds to wire? A check to clear? A ceremonial goat sacrifice? I feel like context matters.”
Finally, she makes eye contact. Then comes the look. The same one she wore before telling me she’d loaned my truck to her high school guy of the month.
Who totaled it.
She exhales slowly, and I brace for impact. “The woman who won the bid…” she starts.
My stomach tightens. “What about her?”
“She insists on meeting you. And starting your date tonight.”
What? I blink at her. “I can’t meet her like this.”
“Yes, you can. She sort of insists.” Hannah pockets her phone. “And apparently, she’s very camera-shy. So, we’re waiting until the paparazzi clear out.”
“Camera-shy?” I mutter. “I’m the one who should be camera-shy.”
Right on cue, two women slide in close and snap a selfie, giggling as my bare chest becomes their wallpaper.
I shut my eyes. “I’ve been reduced to an Instagram prop.”
She gives me a sweet, pitying look. “I am sorry about your clothes.”
Yes. Because while I was generously taking one for the team, someone stole my jeans and flannel shirt. My favorite flannel shirt. And what kind of deranged lunatic steals boots?
I wouldn’t put it past Zac and Brian, though they swear they didn’t. And I’d hate to sugar their gas tanks if they’re actually innocent.
It is also entirely possible that Hannah did it, which is worse. My ultra-reliable babysitter is untouchable. And she knows it.
I need an exit strategy. Now.
“Look, sis,” I say casually, scanning for the nearest exit, “since mystery woman will be a while, I’ll just run home and change. Twenty minutes. Tops.”
Both her hands clamp around my arm. “We both know if you leave, you’re not coming back.”
True. “Yes, I will,” I say as convincingly as I can.
“Ten minutes,” she begs.
“Not a second longer.” I make an exaggerated spitting noise into my palm and hold it out. “Deal?”
She laughs, then fake-spits, too. “Deal. And you’re disgusting.”
So, I stand there.
And stand there.
And stand there.
Forty-five minutes later, after numerous bribes from Hannah, which involved kid-watching, dinners, and her dangerously good cakes, the last reporter finally wraps his interview and packs up his cameras.
Finally.
I’m also secretly wondering if all this time, the elusive Pix was behind it. I’m not sure if that’s wishful thinking or a small piece of my brain finally snapping, but when Hannah finishes a text and gestures toward the door, my pulse kicks up.
“Your lady awaits.”
Does she? Is that why everyone’s been acting so weird?
“And be polite,” Hannah whispers. “This incredible benefactor paid fifty thousand dollars for just a few hours of your time.”
I straighten my tie, suddenly confident Pix came through. “She can have all the time in the world.”
Hannah exhales in relief. “I’m so glad to hear you say that.” She leads the way.
I follow.
We slip through the door, and she turns back with a smile that is entirely too pleased with herself.
“Harrison,” she says sweetly, “may I present Ms. Bernadette Chowderly.”
Dear God.
My face falls as the much older woman steps closer, her big gray eyes shining.
Her sweater is a rainbow of knitted cats.
Kittens climbing, kittens pouncing, kittens doing yoga. An entire sanctuary’s worth of them.
And judging by the amount of fuzz clinging to it, I’m not entirely convinced the sweater wasn’t spun directly from the fur of the eight or nine cats she probably owns.
Or eats.
“I can’t wait to start our date,” she says with a soft smile.
Hannah elbows me in the ribs. Hard.
“Me, too,” I manage, mentally chanting my new mantra.
Fifty.
Thousand.
Dollars.
For a damn good cause.
Her face brightens even more. “Do you like cats?” she asks, all dreamy and hopeful.
“Not as much as you,” I reply.
She beams. Absolutely delighted.
I swallow a groan.
She squeezes my bicep. “Oh, my. Aren’t you just the Man of Steel.”
My eyes fly to Hannah. Help me.
Hannah’s shoulders begin shaking as she stifles her laughter. To the point of tears.
“Don’t you worry,” the woman croons. “I’ll take very good care of you.” Her voice goes soft and wobbly, like she’s talking to a toddler seconds away from shoving a fork into an electrical socket.
I don’t need a fork. Really. Just an outlet and my tongue would do nicely right about now.
She clings closer. My skin starts to itch. “Well?” she asks brightly. “Shall we go?”
“Go?”
“For our date, silly.” She hooks onto my arm like a python around a rabbit. “If you’re cold, I have an extra sweater in my bag.”
The bag that screams tuna chips and pooper scooper. I lift a hand. “I’m good.”
I flick my glare straight to Hannah.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “You two have fun. There’s a car waiting for you outside.”
Before I can form a protest, Nana Bernadette latches on and starts hauling me forward with alarming strength.
Outside, a sleek black car idles at the curb. The driver glances at me, judgment clear in his eyes.
But he does not get out.
Bernadette looks up at me expectantly.
I sigh and open her door.
She slides in with a pleased little hum, like she’s already picked out our future curtains. “Such a gentleman. Hurry and get in.” She pats the seat beside her.
I briefly consider crawling into the trunk.
“Come on,” she urges, firmer this time. “It’s obvious you’re cold.”
Am I?
Why? Because the Man of Steel’s nipples could cut glass.
Resolved to get this over with, I slide in beside her.
I will not embarrass the charity.
I will behave like a rational adult.
If she says her favorite movie is Misery, I’m out.
Drop and roll from a moving car? Not a problem.
I have three kids who routinely use my body as a crash test dummy and dragged me to twelve escape rooms in a single month.
Trust me, I’m fucking ready.