Bachelor 3: The Obsessive Ex-Military (The Lovesbury Valentine’s Day Auction #3)

Chapter 1 – Silas

The mountains around Lovesbury are quiet this time of year, thick with snow, wrapped in the kind of silence that makes a man think too much. I've been here three months, and I still can't decide if the quiet is healing me or slowly driving me insane.

"No," I say before he can speak.

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Don't need to. That look on your face? Nothing good ever follows it."

He grins, completely unrepentant, and leans against the workbench. "Remember how I said I'd help you integrate into Lovesbury? Meet people, get involved in the community?"

I straighten, wiping my hands on a rag. My left leg aches, the steel rod the surgeons put in protests the cold, but I ignore it. "Vaguely. Why?"

"Well, I may have... facilitated that process."

The way he says it makes my jaw tighten. "Jonah. What did you do?"

"Signed you up for the bachelor auction. You're number three on the roster. Evelyn's already got your photo on the promotional stuff." He says it fast, like ripping off a bandage.

For a moment, I just stare at him. "You did what?"

"Before you threaten to kill me… which, given your special ops background, is a legitimate concern, just hear me out.

" He holds up both hands. "The veteran's center needs money.

The roof's literally caving in. You've been volunteering there every week since you got here, so I know you care.

This auction's going to raise enough to fix it. "

He's not wrong about that. The Lovesbury Veterans' Center has become the one place in this town where I feel like I belong.

John, Red, Eddie, they don't ask questions about my discharge or why I limp or what happened overseas.

They just deal cards, talk shit, and let me exist without expectation.

But that doesn't mean I want to be put on display like a prize bull.

"There are other ways to raise money," I say, my voice dangerously quiet.

"Sure. But Evelyn's calendar went viral, man. Women are coming from all over to see if Lovesbury's really full of 'rugged mountain men.'" He makes air quotes, still grinning. "The auction's going to be huge. And whether you like it or not, you fit the bill."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Silas. You're six-three, still hit the weights like you're deploying next week, and you've got that whole 'I could kill you with a spoon but I'm choosing not to' vibe. Women eat that up."

I glare at him. Jonah Mercer has been my best friend since we were kids, met at some godforsaken summer camp, bonded over being outsiders, stayed close through everything. He's one of maybe three people in the world who can talk to me like this and live to tell about it.

Doesn't mean I have to like it.

"I'm not doing it," I say flatly.

"You're already signed up. I may have forged your signature on the consent form."

"You forged—" I take a breath. Count to five. Violence is not the answer, even when your best friend is an idiot. "Jonah."

"Look, you've been here three months and the only people you talk to are me, Mabel when she corners you at the diner, and the guys at the center. You're becoming a hermit."

"I like being a hermit."

"Bullshit. You like hiding." His voice softens. "Man, I know the last year's been hell. The injury, leaving the service, losing the only identity you've had since you were eighteen... I get it. But standing still isn't the same as healing."

The words hit harder than I want to admit. I turn away, focusing on the engine in front of me like it holds all the answers.

Twenty-one. That's how long I served. Enlisted at eighteen, made captain by thirty-two, led teams through more operations than I can count. It was my whole life, the only thing I knew how to be.

Then one mission went sideways. Shrapnel, surgery, months of recovery. Medical discharge. Suddenly I wasn't Captain Northwood anymore. I was just... broken.

"The auction's tomorrow," Jonah continues.

"One weekend with whoever bids on you. All proceeds go to the center.

And yeah, it's uncomfortable and yeah, you'll probably hate every second of it.

But maybe, and I know this is crazy, maybe you'll actually meet someone.

Have a conversation that doesn't involve carburetor specs or PTSD triggers.

Remember you're more than what the Army made you. "

I want to argue. Want to tell him he had no right to volunteer me for this circus without asking. But deep down, I know he's right. I have been hiding. Existing but not living.

"One weekend," I say finally.

"One weekend. Could be nothing. Could be something. Either way, you'll have helped the center."

"You're still buying my drinks for the next year."

He whoops and claps me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stagger. "Deal! You won't regret this."

"I already regret this."

Twenty-four hours later, I'm backstage at the community pavilion, surrounded by men who look various degrees of uncomfortable. The space is cramped, smells like cologne and nerves, and I'm trying very hard not to think about what I've agreed to.

Through a gap in the curtain, I can see the pavilion filling up. There are more people than I expected, women from town and beyond, some in groups, some solo. There's a cluster of older ladies in the front row wearing matching pink scarves and holding what look suspiciously like wine thermoses.

Bachelor One is a guy named Maverick Rodgers—tall, broad-shouldered, and quietly imposing. Bachelor Two, named Gil Pruitt, gets the crowd even more worked up. I watch with the detachment of someone observing a nature documentary about a species I don't quite understand.

Then Evelyn Hartwood takes the microphone, and I know my turn is coming.

I've only met her a handful of times, but it's enough to know she's a force of nature. Sharp, sparkly, terrifying in the way only small-town power brokers can be. She's wearing pearls and a smile that could cut glass.

"Ladies, are you ready for Bachelor Number Three?" Her voice carries across the pavilion, and the crowd erupts.

This is happening. Actually happening.

"This one's special," Evelyn purrs into the mic. "Ex-military. New to town. Tall, strong, and deliciously grumpy. He works hard, protects harder, and those eyes?" She fans herself dramatically. "You'll want to get lost in them. Give it up for Silas Northwood!"

I step into the spotlight, keeping my expression neutral. Military bearing, shoulders back, chin up, face controlled. Years of training kick in automatically, even though this is the last place I ever wanted to use it.

The lights are bright. Too bright. I scan the crowd out of habit, the way I used to assess terrain and threats. Counting exits, noting the layout, cataloging faces.

And then I see her.

She's standing near the back, partially hidden by the crowd, wrapped in a blue coat the color of high-altitude sky.

Light brown hair falls in soft waves around her face, and when our eyes meet, I feel it like a physical impact.

Something shifts in my chest, locks into place with an almost audible click.

She looks startled, like she's been caught doing something she shouldn't. Her lips part slightly, and even from this distance, I can see the flush creeping up her cheeks.

I can't look away.

There's something about her, the way she's watching me, not with the hungry interest of most of the crowd, but with something softer. Curiosity. Maybe even concern, like she can see past the carefully constructed walls to the mess underneath.

For a second, everything else fades. The crowd, the auction, all of it, none of it matters.

There's just her.

Then Evelyn's voice cuts through. "Alright, ladies, let's start the bidding! Who wants a weekend with this gorgeous specimen?"

"Fifty dollars!" someone calls.

I force myself to look away from the woman in blue, scanning the rest of the crowd. A few women are watching me with interest, others are whispering to their friends. I keep my face impassive. This is just another mission. Get through it, complete the objective, extract.

"Seventy-five!" another voice.

"One hundred!"

My eyes snap back to the woman in blue. But it's not her, it's her friend, a brunette practically bouncing in her seat, whose hand shot up. The woman in blue looks mortified, grabbing her friend's arm, clearly protesting.

"One-fifty!" someone else calls.

"Two hundred!"

The bidding continues. I watch the two women arguing in hushed tones.

The brunette is grinning, the woman in blue shaking her head emphatically.

But her eyes keep darting back to me, and every time they do, I feel that connection pull tighter, like a rope drawing us together across the crowded room.

There's a pause after two hundred.

"Do I hear two-twenty-five?" Evelyn calls out. "Two-ten? Anyone?"

Silence.

I should care about the money, it's for the center, after all. But all I can think about is the distressed look on her face, like the thought of someone else winning bothers her as much as it bothers me.

"Going once..." Evelyn tries to inject excitement into her voice.

The woman in blue's hand trembles at her side. She's fighting with herself, I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way she's biting her lower lip.

"Going twice—"

Her hand shoots up.

"Two-fifty!" Her voice carries across the pavilion, stronger than her small frame would suggest, and she's looking directly at me.

Not at the crowd, not at Evelyn, not at her friend. At me. And in her eyes, I see the same startled recognition I felt when I first spotted her. Like she's just made a decision that's going to change everything.

"Two-fifty! Do I hear three hundred?" Evelyn's voice is bright again.

Silence.

The woman keeps her hand raised, her gaze locked on mine, and I do something I haven't done in months. I smile. Just a small one, barely there, but her eyes widen and that flush deepens.

"Going once... going twice... Sold for two hundred and fifty dollars to the lovely woman in the blue coat!"

The crowd applauds, and I'm still staring at her. She's being hugged by her friend, looking flushed and like she can't quite believe her own audacity.

She bid on me. Jumped in at the last second, raised the stakes when she clearly hadn't planned to. Rescued me from an awkward silence and a disappointing take for the center.

Why?

I need to know why.

I move off stage as Bachelor Number Four takes his place. I didn’t catch his name, but it sounds like he’s a firefighter. Jonah finds me immediately, grinning like he's won the lottery.

"Well," he says.

"Don't."

"I was just going to say she's cute. That's Iris Whitfield. Elementary school teacher. Volunteers at the center, you've probably seen her on Tuesdays when she does the literacy program. Sweet as they come."

Iris. The name fits, delicate but resilient, beautiful but strong. I would remember her if I’d seen her at the center. But I don’t usually go in on Tuesdays.

"Where is she?" I ask.

Jonah blinks. "What?"

"Where. Is. She."

"Uh, probably in the crowd somewhere? There's supposed to be a meet-and-greet thing in about—"

I'm already moving.

The crowd is thick, people milling around, congratulating the bachelors and their winners. I navigate through them with the efficiency of years of tactical training, my eyes scanning for that blue coat, that light brown hair.

There.

She's standing near the refreshment table with her brunette friend, looking flustered and lovely. Her friend is talking animatedly, hands gesturing, but Iris keeps glancing around, clearly searching.

Searching for me.

I approach from the side, and her friend sees me first. Her eyes widen, and she elbows Iris, who turns.

The air between us crackles.