Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

Chapter 1

1

KAIRA

“ S o glad this weighs eight thousand pounds.” I grunted and shoved a ridiculously heavy box toward the open door of the van. “Does anyone look at me and see a dainty woman? No. What do they see? A donkey. Someone meant for hard labor.”

Talking to myself was so normal for me I barely knew I did it. If I didn’t talk to myself, I would spend most of my days in silence.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. I had Carla, my roommate, to talk to. But she wasn’t always there by my side to indulge my chatter.

“Move, bitch!” I shouted at the stubborn box.

The thing finally moved, sliding toward the ramp. That would be another challenge, getting it on the dolly and down the ramp without squishing myself in the process.

When I took this job out of sheer desperation, I didn’t know I’d be the mule. I envisioned myself serving champagne and mingling with the rich and powerful. I imagined I would be blowing up balloons and setting up tables and putting finishing touches on floral arrangements. At the end of the night I thought I’d be getting praise and compliments instead of boob sweat and lower back pain.

But this gig? It was so not the vibe.

I was the sucker in charge of toting all the shit into the venue and my boss and coworkers were the ones inside making things look pretty. It was a temporary gig, so I shouldn’t be surprised. I wasn’t one of the cool kids. I had zero experience with event planning. I had taken the job because I needed one, but I had no clue how much physical labor it would require.

I paused to slump against the box and catch my breath. Blowing a strand of sweaty hair off my forehead, I leaned forward and braced my hands on my knees.

“Pro?” I muttered to the asphalt beneath my feet. “Possible weight loss. Con? Thousand-dollar orthotic insoles. Super sexy.”

I’d spent the last fifteen of my twenty-nine years trying to achieve a slimmer physique. Spin classes had resulted in dizzy spells, vomiting, and the humiliating experience of a hot paramedic handing me a bottle of water and gently telling me I wasn’t made for spin class.

That one stung for a while.

I’d tried lifting weights to great protest from all my joints and my bank account. Gym memberships were no joke these days and canceling mine had been so frustrating, it would have been easier to burn the place down.

I’d done every diet under the sun, tried every weight loss tea, and even succumbed to wearing a corset to try to “reshape” my waist. Lunacy.

Maybe all I really needed to drop the extra pounds and softness was this backbreaking job.

“This is it,” I said with a laugh. “This will be the thing that finally works.”

I lifted another box with a grunt and carried it to the back.

“Unless I just end up so buff I look like a female Hercules. That would be my luck.”

I leaned against the van, panting, and surveyed the mountain of boxes still waiting to be unloaded. Each one seemed larger and more intimidating than the last. A bead of sweat trickled down my spine, racing straight for my butt crack. I pressed my shirt to my skin to soak it up but it was too late.

The little bastard had already disappeared into the dark crevasse, tickling me in an unpleasant way.

So much for my break. I loaded up the dolly with more boxes and wrestled it down the ramp, each bump threatening to topple the precarious load. Inside the venue, voices echoed across the large, ornate hall that was slowly transforming into tonight’s event arena. I didn’t stop to take in the sights. My arms were screaming at me, so quickness was key.

I wheeled the empty dolly back outside and groaned when I looked toward the open door of the van. Boxes of brochures, centerpieces, and every random object needed for the evening’s fundraiser were stacked haphazardly, daring gravity to send them toppling.

“Come on,” I muttered, my breath puffing out in the cool night air. “Muscle up.”

It wasn’t much of a pep talk but it got me moving. And my old personal trainer, Marshall, used to call me “uncoachable.”

Suck an egg, Marshall.

I climbed back into the van and got back to work. It wasn’t just the manual labor that had me so frazzled. It was The Kelly Hotel . I couldn’t help but stare every few seconds at the towering beauty of the seventy-five-year-old building. It was like something out of a storybook—ornate stone carvings framed massive arched windows and soft golden lights glowed from inside.

I’d always thought the place was romantic, somewhere two soulmates could find each other and start their happy ever after. I could almost see two young lovers coming together for a blazing kiss, swept away in each other.

To my dismay, the woman in my little daydream wasn’t me. Even in my fantasies, love like that was for some other lucky girl. Never for me.

Still, as an aspiring romance writer, it would be a great setting for a book.

“Kaira! Move your ass! You’re on the clock!”

The sharp bark of my manager’s voice shattered my musing. I jumped, nearly tripping over the dolly, and yanked myself back into reality.

“Right, sorry!” I called, scrambling to stack another load.

I pushed through the back entrance and into the kitchen, struggling. The rest of the staff moved like a well-oiled machine. They weaved around one another as plates clinked and voices rose over the hum of industrial appliances. The air smelled faintly of butter and rosemary and my stomach rumbled like a famished lioness. Easy, girl.

I hustled through, careful not to bump into anyone, and emerged into the grand ballroom. And oh, what a ballroom it was.

The chandelier was breathtaking, a massive cascade of crystals catching every glimmer of light and refracting it across the marble floors. The ceilings soared three stories high, and the entire far wall was made of glass. Beyond it, the landscaped gardens sparkled with twinkling lights in the cool, dark evening. It was pure magic.

For a second, I forgot I was sweaty and awkward and out of breath, feeling like maybe I’d stepped into one of my own stories.

But then the dolly hit a crack in the marble and the boxes wobbled. I lunged forward to steady them. The event planner, a sharply dressed woman with a clipboard that seemed permanently attached to her hand, glanced my way.

Her eyes narrowed as she took in my near disaster. “Keep it moving, Kaira,” she said briskly, her voice carrying the sharp edge of authority and impatience. “These boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, wincing at the stiffness in my back.

I quickly unloaded the dolly and rushed back out to get the next haul. Each trip from the van to the ballroom felt longer as fatigue set in, my muscles pleading for reprieve. I stole moments, brief seconds to breathe in the beauty of the Kelly Hotel’s majestic architecture and the event slowly taking shape within it. Tables draped in rich velvet cloths were arranged meticulously around the room, each one crowned with elaborate floral arrangements bursting with colors—deep red, pink, and gold.

I wondered if this was like a pre-Valentine’s thing. I was noticing a trend in the colors and there was a shit ton of heart-shaped everything.

I was not a fan of the Hallmark holiday. Maybe I would be if I had a Valentine or any hope to find one. Valentine’s Day was all about singling out the poor souls who were all alone. It was like the universe’s way of saying, “Look at all these happy couples! Isn’t it too bad you’re not one of them?” Or, in fewer words, “loser.”

The ballroom transformed before my eyes. The setup crew had moved to positioning elegant golden chairs around the tables. Giant heart-shaped balloons were being affixed to the walls, and strings of fairy lights added a magical touch to the scene.

By the time the van was empty, my back ached and sweat stuck my hair to my neck. I snatched a bottle of water and gulped it down, although I was tempted to pour it over my head. It wasn’t hot out, but after that kind of physical labor, it felt like it was a hundred degrees. In reality, January in LA was pretty comfortable. The parts that weren’t on fire, anyway.

After dabbing away the sweat and adjusting my uniform so I didn’t look like a total slob, I made my way back inside to see what else they needed me to do. The event would be starting soon. I would probably be dismissed and rushed out of the place.

My manager waved me over. “Kaira, if you’re done with the van, help out with the lighting adjustments. They want a more romantic vibe, some kind of dim ambiance. I guess it’s easier to fall in love in the dark.”

“Got it,” I replied, though the very idea of tweaking mood lighting felt miles above my pay grade.

He pointed me toward a tech guy who was fiddling with a control panel bristling with sliders and buttons.

“You know how to work one of these?” he asked without looking up.

“Not really,” I admitted, “but I can follow directions.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Just go stand there on the stage so I can get the lighting right.”

I shrugged. “I think I can handle standing.”

I climbed up on the stage and stood on the tiny white X that had been placed on the floor. Suddenly, bright light blasted me and I immediately shielded my eyes.

“How about now?” the lighting guy called out.

I opened my eyes, but all I saw were stars. And red, shiny hearts. The lights were much dimmer now. I blinked a few times and gave him a thumbs-up. For the next fifteen minutes, he had me moving around the room like I was a pawn in a chess game.

When it was done, I escaped back to the kitchen and found a spot with a great view of the ballroom. The string quartet played and the lights twinkled like distant stars. The space had been transformed into something spectacular.

The balloons bobbed gently in the air currents stirred up by the bustling event staff. Servers dressed in black and white began circulating, bearing trays of champagne flutes and bite-sized hors d’oeuvres.

The guests arrived in a parade of living art—impeccably dressed, glowing with confidence, and utterly out of my league. My practical work clothes, black on black, only made me feel more invisible. My fingers twitched at my side. If I were them—if I had even a fraction of their poise and beauty—what would my life look like? Would every night be this glamorous?

“Kaira!” My manager again. He was at my elbow before I could turn, clipboard in hand. “We need you to cover for Sarah.”

“Who is Sarah?” I asked, suddenly wary. I wasn’t a server. There was no way I was coordinated enough to balance a tray of champagne flutes, especially after lugging boxes around all night. My arms were dead.

“She was supposed to wrangle the billionaires backstage for the auction.”

I blinked. “Wrangle the what?”

He gave me a look like I was a particularly dense piece of furniture. “Do you not know what’s happening here tonight?”

“No one told me,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

“Well, it’s a fundraiser. For Valentine’s Day, they’re auctioning off dates with the three billionaires. You know, for the Children’s Cancer Society?” He handed me a note card with a bunch of writing on it. “Those are all the details. All you have to do is fetch them, bring them backstage, and review the stuff on that card with them. Easy.”

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Three men.

“Who?”

He gestured to a table. My eyes followed until I was looking at the men I was supposed to “wrangle.” I didn’t even know what that meant. Isn’t that what cowboys do?

I sized up my cattle. Or would they be steers?

The first was a man in his fifties with a round face and kind eyes. He looked like someone’s indulgent uncle. Second, a wiry man with sharp features and hands heavy with rings, his posture impeccable. And then… him .

Roman Kelly .

I’d known his name before I’d even known this job would bring me here. His family owned The Kelly Hotel and half the skyline of Los Angeles. He was tall—insanely tall—with broad shoulders that carried an air of absolute authority. His suit, dark as midnight, looked as though it had been poured over him. His chiseled jaw was lightly shadowed. I had a feeling he was one of those guys that would have to shave three times a day to avoid the five o’clock shadow.

He was looking down at his phone. He looked bored, like he wanted to be anywhere else but at that table.

My stomach flipped.

I couldn’t do this.

“Kaira,” my manager hissed, nudging me with his clipboard. “Get wrangling.”

I swallowed hard and adjusted my shirt. With every ounce of courage I could muster, I approached the first billionaire. He followed me with a smile, chatting to his assistant as we walked backstage. The second man was a little more aloof, but he followed without issue. And then it was time.

Roman Kelly was standing now but still engrossed in his phone. For a moment, I just stood there, frozen, trying to figure out how to form words with my mouth. My hands clenched at my sides.

I raised one, hesitated, and finally tapped him on the shoulder. He was so damn tall I had to practically go up on my tiptoes to do it. The moment my finger brushed the fabric of his jacket, he turned and I was hit with the full force of his gaze. He had to look down—way down—to meet my eyes.

“Yes?” he asked.

Dear God yes.

“Uh,” I stammered. My voice felt too small. “I need you.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Do you?”