Buy a Boyfriend (The Abbott Brothers #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

Travis

Music pumps from the other side of the curtain. Women whistle and scream catcalls every time someone brushes against the curtain, assuming the bachelor auction is beginning.

How the hell did I get here?

The answer walks toward me in the form of a sweet senior citizen with eyes that sparkle and shine.

“Hi, Grams.”

“Sweetie, you look so handsome.” She sets her hand covered with age spots on my forearm and squeezes. “I should have taken you to buy a new shirt.”

I glance down at the flannel shirt I’m wearing. My favorite shirt. “What’s wrong with this one?”

She hems and sighs. “Nothing. It’s a lovely shirt. A little old and worn, but…” She grins up at me, and I swallow the growl that wants to erupt from just being here. “You look great.”

My grandparents had a big hand in raising my two brothers and me. Because my parents worked so much in order to support the family, Grams and Gramps would pick us up and take us to their house after school to get started on our homework and feed us dinner.

Grams and Gramps are the only people I’d do this for. When Grams asked me to be a part of this bachelor auction, I couldn’t say no. I tried, several times, but she was insistent. Even though I’ve been dreading this day for months, I can’t disappoint her after she’s been there for me so many times. Strutting on stage and having a bunch of strangers ogle me isn’t really in my comfort zone.

“Thanks again for agreeing to do this. All of us at the center are appreciative.”

The money raised tonight will go toward a new lawn bowling field at the seniors’ center my grandparents belong to.

I give her a wan smile. “Of course. But you told them to use my middle name when they introduce me, right?”

When I agreed, that was my only request. I don’t want anyone to track me down on social media sites. Not that I use them that often, but I’ve heard horror stories of stalkers. While my brother Josh would probably bask in the attention, women chasing me around isn’t my thing.

She pats my cheek. “All taken care of. Well, I’d better find somewhere to sit out there. Sounds like it’s filling up.”

Awesome. More spectators to witness my humiliation.

“I’ll see you after.”

She steps away and walks along the curtain until she pushes through the slit. The crowd erupts into cheers and whistles but quickly shifts to a collective groan when they realize it’s my grams and not an eligible bachelor.

I rub my clammy palm over my short beard and sigh. I can’t believe I’m about to go out alone on that stage and let women bid on me. Most guys would probably love the idea of a roomful of women jeering at them and bidding up the price for the chance to spend a few hours with them. But I’m not a guy who likes attention, nor am I looking for a date, let alone a girlfriend. What went down a couple of years ago cured me of wanting any part of the dating world.

Another senior milling around approaches me, giving me the once-over through the thick lenses of her glasses. She’s about half my height with silver hair. “You’re cute, but we need to up the ante.”

My eyebrows furrow. “Sorry?”

Her hands go to my shirt, and she untucks the flannel from my pants.

I stiffen as if she’s a predator, and if I make any sudden movement, my life will be over. “What are you doing?”

She raises her hands to the top button of my shirt. “Beatrice said you’d never go shirtless, but we gotta give the ladies a little taste of what they want.”

Beatrice, my grams, apparently knows this woman whose arthritic fingers are struggling to undo the buttons of my shirt.

“Mind giving me a hand? Arthritis is a bitch.”

For the first time, I really take in what’s going on back here. Most of the other schmucks who got roped into being bachelors aren’t wearing shirts. Some are in jeans, some in suit pants… is that guy wearing a Speedo?

Oh, hell no.

“I’d really rather keep my shirt on.” I move my hand to one of the two buttons she’s managed to undo and fasten it back, but she swats my hand.

“That’s what I just said. You can keep it on, but it needs to hang open. Tease ’em a bit.” She winks and steps away. “Now undo the rest of those buttons.”

Despite being a petite old lady, there’s steel in her voice, similar to Grams when my brothers and I would wrestle instead of cleaning the dishes. So I decide to go with what she wants rather than fighting her. I don’t want to disappoint Grams and be the one bachelor no one bids on. She’d never let me hear the end of it.

Once all the buttons are undone, her smile reveals her perfectly straight white dentures, and she nods in satisfaction and a little smugness. “Perfect. I’ll send Muriel over with the oil.”

“Oil?”

My mouth drops open as I watch her walk over to another little old lady who’s clearly still dying her hair black. After the woman who was just here says something to her, the black-haired lady looks at me with a grin and heads my way. I have to force myself to stand in place when I see the bottle of oil in her hand.

“Hey, handsome. I’m here to oil you up.” She looks so excited, you’d think she just won me at the auction, and I don’t have the heart to tell her I can do it myself, or not at all, preferably.

So instead of bolting, I grin and bear it while she runs her hands over my chest until I’m “good and shiny” as she says.

She steps back to assess her work. “That should do it.”

“Great.” I give her a curt nod.

I feel like a greased-up pig ready to be put on the spit.

Thank God neither of my brothers are here. I’d never hear the end of it.

Soon after, the ladies backstage get us into the order they want us in, and I find myself near the back of the pack. I have no idea whether that’s a good or bad thing. Perhaps we’ve been put in some kind of order based on what they think we’ll fetch. I don’t really care. I just want this over as quickly as possible.

I haven’t given too much thought to who I might have to go on a date with since I’ve been too preoccupied by dreading the bachelor auction itself. Now that I’m here though, I wonder—who will I be spending a dinner with?

The community center fills with cheers as the auction begins, and I picture the women on the other side of the curtain wildly waving their paddles, standing to their feet, competitiveness gleaming in their eyes.

The closer and closer I get to the front of the line, man after man getting pulled onto the stage, the more my throat closes up.

Way too quickly, I’m next in line to be bid on. Dread coats me as I hear my name over the microphone. The senior citizen manning the curtain pulls it apart by the split, revealing a room full of women on the other side.

“Go work the crowd, hot stuff,” she says and slaps me on the ass, propelling me forward.

I blink several times and stand unmoving under the heat of the lights, disbelieving that I’m actually putting myself out there for some random woman to buy me. A set of hands pushes me from behind.

When I look at the crowd, I expect to find a bunch of young women. There are a scattering of them, but the majority of the women with paddles in their hands are older than my grams.

Jesus. I’m auctioning away my pride to a bunch of geriatrics.