Chapter 4
Four
Pepper
I tugged at the hem of my dress for the hundredth time, trying to convince myself that the scrap of fabric Meghan called a dress wasn’t riding up with every step.
“Stop fidgeting.” Allie linked her arm through mine as she practically dragged me through the community center doors. “You look amazing.”
“I look like I’m trying to advertise more than Meghan’s boutique.” I shot a glare at the woman in question, who walked ahead of us, looking perfectly comfortable in her own stylish outfit. Which was par for the course for the owner of Huckleberry Chic. She always looked like a million bucks.
“That’s kind of the point,” Jess laughed, nudging my shoulder. “Show off the goods while supporting the fire department. Win-win.”
Except I felt a whole lot more like I was showing my own goods off than the dress.
I tugged at the hem again, feeling the silky fabric slip through my fingers like water.
The dress was emerald green—“to make your eyes pop,” Meghan had insisted—and about six inches shorter than anything I’d worn since high school.
The community center buzzed with feminine energy.
Women of every age packed the place, from teenagers giggling in corners to grandmothers fanning themselves with auction paddles.
The scent of perfume hung thick in the air, mingling with excitement and anticipation.
Chairs had been arranged in neat rows facing a makeshift runway, and a table near the entrance was stacked with programs listing the “merchandise” up for bid.
The annual firefighter bachelor auction was one of the social events of the season in Huckleberry Creek.
One I’d studiously avoided for the past three years, claiming I was too busy with the restaurant or making up other excuses that my girls had finally stopped accepting.
“I can’t believe I let you three talk me into this,” I grumbled.
“We didn’t talk you into anything,” Meghan called over her shoulder, her boutique owner’s confidence on full display. “We ambushed you. Totally different strategy.”
“I’m not bidding on anyone,” I insisted as we found seats near the front, close enough to see every firefighter’s face in excruciating detail. Just what I needed.
Allie rolled her eyes, brown hair bouncing as she shook her head. “We know, we know. You’ve sworn off firefighters forever. Been there, done that, got the emotional scars.”
Meghan snagged a glass of bubbly—sparkling cider, not champagne—and passed it to me with a knowing smile. “Here. Have a drink. It might help with that death grip you’ve got on your purse.”
I wished the auction organizers had sprung for an alcohol license as I sipped. Some actual champagne or wine would help dim this flutter under my breastbone. Not that I had any idea whether Rhett would be here. He wasn’t back on duty yet. Probably.
Not that it mattered whether he was. Because I wasn’t bidding. And it hardly mattered if someone else did. We were divorced. He was free. Free to flash that crooked smile at whatever woman had enough disposable income to buy some time with Huckleberry Creek’s most eligible firefighter.
The sparkling cider seemed to boil in my stomach, acid and anxiety mixing into a potent cocktail that no amount of bubbles could settle.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The emcee’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Welcome to Huckleberry Creek’s Annual Firefighter Bachelor Auction!”
The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles.
I sank lower in my seat as I focused on the stage, where I recognized Cord Gaffney—Hollywood to the guys at Station 1—and wondered how the pretty boy had gotten out of being on the auction block himself.
He was a known ladies’ man and usually brought top dollar.
Maybe he’d be auctioning himself off later.
“This isn’t just about finding dates for these brave men,” Cord continued. “Every dollar raised tonight goes toward new equipment for our fire department!”
More cheers. More whistles. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look anywhere but at the stage.
“I need a drink,” I muttered. “A real drink.”
“Here.” Jess pressed a flask into my hand. “Dutch courage.”
I took a swig and nearly choked. “What is this?”
“Does it matter?” Allie grinned.
It didn’t. I took another drink and resigned myself to the longest night of my life.
“Let’s get this party started!” Cord’s mega-watt smile lit up the room as he shrugged off his dress uniform jacket. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. “Who wants to take me home tonight?”
I choked on Jess’s mystery drink. Next to me, Allie fanned herself with her paddle.
“Do I hear fifty dollars?” Cord flexed, his fitted white t-shirt straining across his chest.
“One hundred!” A voice called from the back.
“Two hundred!” Another paddle shot up.
“Ladies, ladies.” Cord prowled the edge of the stage. “I’m worth more than that.”
“Three fifty!”
“Five hundred!” The bidding war heated up as fast as a grease fire.
I watched in fascination as Mrs. Henderson—who had to be pushing eighty—got into it with Sarah from the bank. Back and forth they went, neither willing to give ground.
“Seven fifty!” Mrs. Henderson’s paddle whipped through the air.
“Eight hundred!” Sarah countered.
Mrs. Henderson’s steel-gray hair caught the light as she turned to fix Sarah with a look that could’ve frozen Hell. “One thousand dollars.”
The room fell silent. Sarah’s paddle lowered in defeat.
“Going once...” Cord’s grin stretched wider. “Going twice...”
“Sold!” The gavel cracked. “To Mrs. Henderson for one thousand dollars!”
The crowd erupted in whoops and whistles as Mrs. Henderson made her way to the stage, moving surprisingly quick for someone who’d had a hip replacement earlier in the year.
In the row she’d vacated, I spotted her granddaughter, looking amused.
What was her name? Lena? No, Lucy. She was a teacher at the elementary school.
Up on stage, Mrs. Henderson patted Cord’s cheek. “I’ve got plans for you, sugar. Big plans.”
Cord’s face fell for a split second before his showman’s smile snapped back into place. I wondered if anyone else noted that nervous edge? “Yes ma’am. It would be my pleasure.”
I buried my laugh in another sip from Jess’s flask. The night was already worth the price of admission just to see Hollywood taken down a peg.”
“And now,” Cord recovered smoothly, “let’s welcome our next bachelor, Jarrod ‘Moose’ Sato!”
Moose lumbered onto the stage with his characteristic mix of self-consciousness and charm. Despite his nickname, there was nothing ungainly about him on duty—I’d seen him navigate burning buildings with ballet-like precision. Off duty was another story.
As if to prove my point, he caught his foot on a cable and stumbled, catching himself with a sheepish grin that sent the crowd into appreciative laughter.
“That man is six-foot-four of pure clumsiness, and I am here for it,” Allie whispered. “$250!”
I relaxed a little, sinking back in my chair. This wasn’t so bad. I knew these guys. Had fed them countless times at Kiss My Grits when they stumbled in after shifts, bleary-eyed and ravenous.
Moose’s bidding war topped out at $750 from Paige Ramsey, who blushed furiously when he bounded off the stage to give her a bear hug that lifted her clean off the ground.
“Next up,” Cord announced, “Kyle ‘Twitch’ Russo!”
Kyle bounced onto the stage, already jittering with that nervous energy that earned him his nickname. Despite that—or maybe because of it—he had an eager puppy-dog appeal that had several paddles shooting up before Cord even started the bidding.
“He’s like a human espresso machine,” Jess commented, draining her cider.
I snorted. “Which is why he’s banned from coffee at my place after 2 p.m.”
Twitch went for $600 to Meghan, who winked at me when I raised an eyebrow.
“What? He’s cute,” she defended. “And I need someone tall to reach the top shelves at the boutique.”
“Sure, that’s why you bid on him,” Allie teased.
“And now,” Cord’s voice cut through our laughter, “give it up for Daniel ‘Meatball’ Costello!”
Daniel strode out, his confident swagger a stark contrast to his ridiculous nickname. I’d heard the pasta face-plant story at least a dozen times, usually embellished differently depending on who was telling it.
“Five hundred!” someone called immediately. Probably Jenny Lincoln, his girlfriend, though I couldn’t see her directly from my seat.
Meatball flexed, his firefighter’s physique drawing appreciative whistles.
I found myself genuinely enjoying the spectacle now, the knot in my stomach loosening with each bachelor who wasn’t Rhett. Maybe he really wasn’t participating. The thought brought both relief and a twinge of something I refused to examine.
Meatball’s auction ended with him being claimed by a group of giggling nurses who pooled their money for a cool $850.
“Not bad,” I murmured, surprised by how much fun I was having despite myself.
“And now, ladies,” Cord announced with a dramatic flourish, “a special treat. Back from deployment and making his auction debut this year—give it up for Lieutenant Rhett ‘Tater’ MacAvoy!”
My glass froze halfway to my lips. The room tilted slightly.
Rhett stepped onto the stage, and my heart did that stupid little stutter-step it always did around him.
Damn him. He looked... incredible. The tailored charcoal suit hugged his broad shoulders and tapered down to his narrow waist. His dark hair was shorter than when I’d last seen him, still military-neat, and the scruff along his jawline was new. My hands itched to stroke over it.
But it was the discomfort radiating from him that hit me hardest. Rhett had always hated being the center of attention.
In past auctions, we’d had an understanding—I’d bid just enough to win him, saving him from having to actually go on date with anyone, including the old women who just wanted to ogle him while he did yard work.
A convenient arrangement that had benefited us both.
Now I watched him scan the crowd, his shoulders tight with tension. When his eyes swept over our row, I ducked my head, pretending to be fascinated by the auction program.
“You okay?” Allie whispered.
“Fine,” I lied.
Rhett shifted his weight, his hand unconsciously moving to his left shoulder. The injury. I wondered how bad it had been, how the recovery was progressing.
Not that it was my business anymore. We’d signed those divorce papers three years ago. His injuries, his recovery, his life—none of it concerned me now.
So why did my chest feel like someone had wrapped barbed wire around my lungs?
“Let’s start the bidding at $100,” Cord announced. “Who’ll give me $100 for this fine specimen of firefighting excellence?”
“One hundred!” A paddle shot up near the end of the row.
I wondered if I could sneak out without being noticed. Almost as if they could read my mind, Allie and Jess linked arms with me. Emotional support? Or locking me in place?
Either way, it looked like I was sitting through this travesty, whether I liked it or not.