Chapter 2
Wyatt
The mansion house where the auction is taking place isn’t what I expected. It looks like a luxury hotel and a country dance hall had a love child.
Valet attendants in black coats direct sleek sedans and SUVs under heated lanterns.
Mud-splattered ranch trucks with dented bumpers and hay sticking out of tailgates are parked right beside them.
I pretend I belong here, but the truth is I feel like a stray mutt in a room full of pedigrees until the ranch hands remind me this place isn’t about polish—it’s about purpose.
Tank steps out of his truck, eyes sweeping the scene. “Well, damn. Smells like money and horseshit.”
Tex adjusts his jacket like he’s about to charm a senator’s wife. “Smells like opportunity.”
I grunt. “Smells like regret.”
Tank claps my back. “That’s just you, bud. You wake up disappointed and build from there.”
I ignore him. Mostly because he’s not wrong.
We move toward the entrance. Men in tailored suits stride across the walkway with practiced confidence, polished shoes, expensive cologne, and an ‘I’ve never held a shovel’ posture.
Right behind them, cowboys in worn boots stroll as if they belong here too—and honestly, they do. This place was designed to be accessible: second chances for anybody, no matter their bank account or their brand of boots.
Tank nods at a group of ranch hands heading inside. “See that? Equal-opportunity matchmaking.”
Tex smirks. “We’re about to witness a socioeconomic crossover event.”
“Stop narrating like this is a nature documentary,” I mutter. “Makes it weird.” But I can’t deny it; the place is gorgeous.
Soft lighting spills from the glass awning. Marble steps gleam as if they’ve never seen real boots. Inside, a chandelier glitters like a suspended constellation.
And in the middle of it all? Cowboys. Ranchers. Men who came here hoping for a clean start.
Tank elbows me. “Relax, Saint. You’ll blend in.”
“With who?” I ask. “The CEO brigade or the cattlemen?”
“Yes,” Tex replies cheerfully, not answering my question
I shake my head and follow them inside, where money, hope, nerves, and cologne all mingle in the air.
One woman. One bid. That’s all this is supposed to be.
So why does my chest already feel tight?
We find seats in the back—exactly where I like to be. Tank and Tex immediately start whispering commentary on the décor, like two judgmental aunties.
“Those tablecloths are lavender,” Tank murmurs. “Is lavender romantic?”
“No, but that chandelier is,” Tex says. “Makes my skin look radiant.”
I close my eyes. “Why am I here?”
Then the auction starts.
The first woman walks onstage. She looks nervous and shy. The bidding is respectful. She’s matched quickly with a kind-eyed rancher.
Good. This is what Henry meant. This is why Shay asked.
“Next on stage… Jessie!”
A tall redhead with freckles everywhere steps out, freckles scattered across her face and down arms that her strappy blue dress leaves bare.
Tank’s jaw drops. His pupils blow wide. His gaze goes soft—too soft for a man built like a siege engine. Tank doesn’t do soft.
His fingers tighten around the paddle like his body just made the decision for him. “Holy mother of God,” he whispers.
“The freckles?” I ask.
“The attitude,” he breathes.
The woman plants her hands on her hips, chin up: Take it or leave it.
Tex whistles. “You’re screwed.”
“I am,” Tank says reverently.
Bidding starts.
Tank raises his paddle immediately.
Another man tries to counter. Tank shoots him a look that could curdle steel.
Ten seconds later…
“Sold! To bidder number three!”
Tank sinks back, stunned. “Jessie,” he says like it’s a prayer.
I clap his shoulder. “Mountain man found his mountain woman.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Then—
“Up next… Jane!”
The room brightens with energy even before she appears.
Jane saunters onstage, curvy, bold, and sparkling with mischief—sunshine wrapped around dynamite.
Tex goes still. His soul leaves his body long enough for me to see the vacancy.
“Oh, no,” I mutter.
“Oh, yes,” Tank snickers.
Jane waves like she owns the place, but there’s a flicker behind her eyes—something a survivor would recognize.
Tex rises so fast his chair skids.
Bidding starts hot.
Tex almost tears his shoulder as he launches his paddle upward.
Another man bids. Tex answers before the guy finishes breathing.
“Sold! To bidder number seven!”
Jane beams at him.
Tex sits down slowly. “What the hell just happened?”
“You got leveled by a hurricane named Jane,” Tank says. “Congratulations. You’re doomed.”
I fold my arms. “Unbelievable.”
Tex elbows me. “What?”
“You were supposed to be support. Instead, two battle-hardened SEALs got poleaxed by women who didn’t even try.”
Tank snorts. “Just wait. You’re next.”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”
Three more women appear. Sweet. Nervous. Brave. Good matches.
None of them is Shay’s friend.
None of them… does anything to me.
I relax—prematurely.
The announcer steps forward. “Our final participant tonight joined us at the last minute through Marlie’s Angels, looking for a fresh start. Gentlemen, please welcome… Sadie.”
My neck prickles.
Tank and Tex both turn toward me, sensing imminent cosmic bullshit.
The spotlight shifts.
She steps onto the stage.
And the world tilts.
She isn’t dressed to seduce.
Soft teal thrift dress, tugged into place. Cardigan that belongs in a late-night study session, not on a stage. Dark hair catching the light, as if it remembers being touched gently once.
Her eyes sweep the exits before they sweep the room. Survivor eyes.
She stands as if fear is a weight she’s learned to carry without showing strain.
And something in me—something buried—locks on.
Tank whispers, “Well. Shit.”
Tex mutters, “You’re done for.”
My chest goes tight. My fingers twitch. Every instinct sharpens. Not want.
Recognition.
Mine.
She shifts nervously. The bidding starts. She flinches.
I lift my paddle.
Her gaze hits mine—and holds.
The room disappears. Two ghosts. Same frequency.
Another man bids.
Jealousy hits like a lightning strike—too hot, too fast.
My hand rises again. This isn’t obligation. It’s instinct. This is stepping between her and whatever hunts her.
Her eyes soften. Slightly. Barely. But enough.
“Sold,” the announcer says.
And it feels like a beginning.
Sadie leaves the stage, and I sit there, pulse unsteady, pretending my world hasn’t tilted. Tank and Tex wear identical smug expressions that make me want to commit crimes.
Tank nudges me. “You good?”
“Yes.”
“Liar,” Tex singsongs.
I ignore them and stand, needing air. Space. Something.
The auction hall buzzes with soft conversation, hopeful tension, and champagne glasses clinking. Men head toward the meeting area to greet the women they’ve bid on. Some are nervous. Some excited. Some reverent.
I’m… none of those things. I’m something I don’t have a name for.
Tank and Tex flank me as we move toward the exit corridor, each of us heading toward whatever future we just walked into blindfolded.
“Don’t bail,” Tex warns. “You’re not allowed.”
“I didn’t sign anything,” I mutter.
Tank snorts. “You bid. That’s the signature.”
“That’s not how signatures work.”
“It is tonight.”
I want to argue, but the truth is simple: I don’t want to leave. Not until I see her up close.
We reach the corridor where the women will come out one by one. A staff member nods at us, checking numbers and directing men to their meeting rooms.
It’s Tank’s turn first. Jessie appears, freckles glowing, chin set like she’s ready to wrestle fate itself. Tank freezes, then softens into something I’ve never seen on his face.
Tex’s turn. Jane bursts out like a sunbeam in boots, spots Tex, and grins like he’s dessert.
Both men are gone, absolutely done for.
I’m up next.
My heartbeat kicks hard, once, twice—then stutters.
She steps into the hallway.
Sadie.