Chapter 2
2
DEAN
I never should have agreed to this. The charity gala was supposed to be a one-time thing—a favor to the town, a way to give back without actually having to talk to anyone. But here I was, being auctioned off like a prize bull at a county fair.
It was fucking humiliating.
I needed to focus on the little kids that were going to get better treatment and their parents who would have free hotel stays close to the hospital if they lived out of town or state. If I did that, this didn’t feel like such a high price to pay.
But then I looked into the eyes of some of the relentless women in the crowd. They stared like hungry wolves in the night, and I was the proud stag being encircled. They examined every inch of my body, undressing me with their eyes, before throwing an arm in the air and hollering a higher bid.
I was pretty sure more than one of them was thinking about riding me, as if they were buying more than a few hours of company. But it wasn’t just about their dirty intentions. It was about money, status, and bragging rights. I’d seen it a hundred times before. People didn’t want Dean Jackson; they wanted the billionaire, the motorcycle builder, the guy who’d made it big. They didn’t care about the man behind the reputation.
I was someone they could conquer. To nail down Dean Jackson was like climbing Everest. That was what it was all about these days. A goal. A notch on the bedpost. It was money, material things, and what you could squeeze out of someone else. Genuine connections didn’t seem to matter anymore. People weren’t interested in getting to know each other for who they really were; it was all about status, power, and what someone could offer. Maybe that was always the way of the world, and I had just been too naive to see it before. Either way, I knew better now.
Not that I had ever been the kind of guy to believe in fairy tales or perfect love stories. I wasn’t sappy or sentimental. But there had been a time—maybe when I was younger, maybe when I had less to lose—when I thought relationships could be real. That people could want you for you, not for the money in your bank account or the name that carried weight in certain circles. Life had taught me the hard way that wasn’t true.
Every person who walked into my life wanted something. A favor, a connection, a luxury experience they could brag about later. And after a while, I stopped pretending it could be different. That was why I had sworn off relationships altogether. No attachments. No expectations. No risk of disappointment.
That was the only way to keep my head above water.
So, this auction date? A necessary evil, I supposed, for the sake of the kids. A good cause, a publicity move, a momentary inconvenience. That was all. I had promised myself I’d get through it, shake a few hands, smile for the cameras, and get it over with.
But I sure as hell didn’t have to enjoy it.
The dude who handled my public image thought it was a brilliant idea—show a little charm, do something “fun,” remind the world I was still a person underneath the cockiness. I ran a bike shop—not the kind people pedaled. Motorcycles. The company image had suffered a bit after an incident a couple months back.
And charity was important, especially since I’d been so blessed with success. If someone has the means to help the less fortunate, they should. That was what I believed at least. I just preferred to write a check instead of showing up in person.
But there I was, showing the world the asshole wasn’t a total dick.
Unfortunately, people didn’t see me as a person. They saw me as an opportunity. And that was exactly why I kept my distance.
This so-called date would be the closest thing I had to an actual romantic outing in years. Not that I wanted it. The very idea of sitting across from someone who had bid for the privilege of my company made my skin crawl. It wouldn’t be real. It would be another transaction, just like everything else in my life.
That was the part that got to me the most—the realization that no matter how much success I had, no matter how high I climbed, I would never really know if someone wanted me or just the version of me they thought they could use.
Yeah, love was off the table for me. That ship had sailed, and I had made peace with it.
The auctioneer addressed the audience with theatrical flair, like he was introducing a prize racehorse instead of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. I crossed my arms over my chest, scowling at the crowd. The auctioneer was loving the feeding frenzy and decided to go big. Chum the water a bit.
“Now, Dean here isn’t just your average bachelor. Oh no! He’s the founder and CEO of Jackson Custom Bikes, a company that’s revolutionized the motorcycle industry. Self-made, folks. Built his empire from the ground up.” The auctioneer’s voice was filled with admiration, but I was just uncomfortable with the whole spectacle. People didn’t need to know my résumé. I didn’t need them to know anything about me.
“And let’s not forget his generous contributions to our community—Dean’s been a driving force behind countless charitable initiatives right here in Larkspur Lake.” He paused for effect. I could feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the room on me. It was suffocating. I glanced at the exit, calculating how many steps it would take to get there.
“But let’s get to what you’re all really here for,” he continued. “Dean Jackson is not just a successful businessman—he’s also one of Larkspur Lake’s most eligible bachelors. Standing at six-foot-two with the body of a Greek god, ladies, you know you want the chance to have dinner with this tall drink of water.”
I glanced over at the auctioneer, pretty sure he was hitting on me. If he started bidding on me too, no one would be able to stop me from fleeing out the door.
I kept my expression neutral, my posture closed off, hoping it would deter the bidders. But no. If anything, it seemed to make them more eager. I clenched my jaw, resisting the urge to walk off the stage. This was a mistake. A huge mistake.
Then I looked down toward the front of the crowd and spotted her.
Portia Watson.
Her wavy blonde hair caught the light in a way that made it look almost golden, like she’d just stepped out of the sun. Those green eyes of hers—sharp, expressive, and way too perceptive—were locked on mine. For a second, I forgot where I was. She was standing there with a champagne flute in her hand, her lips curved into a little smirk that made me wonder if she was laughing at me. At this whole damn circus.
Her cheeks flushed the faintest shade of pink, like she was embarrassed, but she didn’t look away. Of all the people in the world, I couldn’t believe Portia was here to watch my humiliation.
She wore a sparkly dress that clung to her in all the right places, just enough to make me notice without trying to. It had been years since I saw her. She no longer resembled that little kid that had always been looking for something to do.
She had spent all her time outside. Her hair always pulled back in a messy ponytail. Back then, she’d been a real tomboy. She certainly grew out of that.
She could have been a super model, all soft and pretty. Her hair sleek and perfectly styled. She looked gorgeous.
Damn. She had grown right the hell up.
I knew her story, of course. Everyone in Larkspur Lake knew Portia. She was the girl who’d left town with big dreams and even bigger ambitions. The girl who’d crashed and burned in the city and came crawling back with her tail between her legs. Or at least, that was what the gossip said. I didn’t pay much attention to town chatter, but even I’d heard the whispers.
What I hadn’t expected was to see her here, at this ridiculous event.
Portia’s eyes widened suddenly, and she leaned forward slightly, her hand flying to her face. She sneezed—a sharp, unexpected sound that cut through the noise of the auction. It was cute, honestly, the way her nose scrunched up and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, her cheeks turning red.
The auctioneer seized the moment before anyone else could react. He slammed his gavel down dramatically. “Sold! To the lovely lady in front!”
The room erupted into laughter and applause. Portia’s eyes went wide with shock, her hands freezing in place in front of her face. She looked at me, then back at the auctioneer. I could see the panic.
“Wait, no—I didn’t—” she started, but the auctioneer was already moving on, gesturing grandly for her to come up on stage.
Portia Watson just won a date with me.
Alexis was laughing while Portia looked around like she’d just woken up in a bad dream. One of the volunteers at the event brought her on stage to stand beside me. She stiffened as she was smooshed against me for the obligatory photos. She glanced up at me with shock still in her gaze. I stared down at her, noticing the wild amount of freckles across the bridge of her nose. They were the same as they’d been when we were kids. The makeup she was wearing was light enough to let those sexy little freckles shine through. Muted but still there.
A sudden flash from a camera caught my attention. Someone from the local press had snapped a picture of the moment. That was going to be one hell of a picture. Portia and me, locked in a tense gaze, caught in a situation neither of us wanted. But I doubted that was what people would see. They would make up stories about the two of us. I knew how this town loved to eat this kind of thing up.
I barely resisted the urge to groan.