Chapter Seventeen
GOING ONCE, GOING TWICE, MINE
Andi
Idon’t do nervous.
Not for autopsies, not for small talk, and definitely not for dressing up.
And yet—here I am, standing in front of my mirror, holding my breath while Shay zips up a dress that might actually kill someone if I breathe too hard.
“Holy crap.” Shay steps back, hands on her hips, eyes wide with something bordering on religious awe. “You look like the sexiest disco ball I’ve ever seen.”
I roll my eyes, but even I have to admit… damn. The silver sequins catch every bit of light, hugging my body as if this thing were stitched by angels—or at least a team of very determined saleswomen at Nordstrom.
“This is too much,” I mutter, smoothing the fabric down my hips.
“It’s exactly enough,” Shay fires back, already reaching for the curling wand like she’s prepping me for battle. “Now sit. I’m not done.”
I obey, mostly because I’m afraid of what she’ll do if I don’t. She’s got that look—the one that says she won’t stop until I’m fully transformed into some kind of glittering goddess.
It’s slightly terrifying.
“Fancy underwear?” she asks, already rifling through the drawer where I keep the stuff I never wear.
“Shay.”
“You didn’t shave your legs for nothing,” she sing-songs, tossing a lacy black set my way.
I groan but change anyway—sliding off my preferred boy shorts and tugging on some torture device that Shay insists won’t create panty lines.
An hour later, my hair’s curled, my makeup’s flawless, and my heels are—well, dangerous. I catch my reflection again, and for a second, I almost don’t recognize myself.
Not because of the sequins or the lipstick, but because I’m actually… excited.
What is wrong with me?
Mikey would have a field day if he knew. I’d never hear the end of it.
I look like trouble. The fun kind—wavy hair, perfect makeup, a figure-hugging dress, and killer shoes.
“Okay, final touch.” Shay swipes a tube of lipstick from her bag and hands it over. “Red. For maximum impact.”
I apply, blot, and glance in the mirror one last time. My heart’s doing something weird—something I don’t like.
Hopeful.
“Crazy,” I whisper.
Beef lifts his head from the couch, huffs like he agrees, then flops back down dramatically.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him. “It’s just a party.”
Shay grins. “Sure. And Cole’s just a guy.”
I narrow my eyes, but she’s not wrong.
I’m not doing this for him.
…But if he likes it?
I won’t hate that.
I should’ve stayed home.
That’s the first thought that hits me as I step into the gala, all glitter and glass, surrounded by people who look like they belong in magazines, not real life. The air smells like money—expensive perfume, polished wood, and something vaguely floral that probably costs more than my rent.
My heels click too loudly against the marble floor, each step echoing like a warning: You do not belong here.
I fidget with the strap of my clutch, scanning the room.
Bigwigs. Donors. Hospital board members who wouldn’t know a scalpel from a butter knife.
Fancy hors d’oeuvres float by on silver trays—tiny things I can’t pronounce that look like they’d taste like pretension.
People laugh into tall champagne flutes, their teeth too white, their suits too perfect.
And me? I’m one wrong move away from bolting.
This is not my scene. Not even close. I’m a sweatpants-on-the-couch kind of girl, not someone who knows how to schmooze with people who use “summer” as a verb.
I tug at my dress—Shay’s idea of “perfection”—and try not to think about how my underwear feels like it’s trying to strangle me from the inside out.
Glittery silver sequins catch the light, hugging my body in a way that demands attention, which is exactly what I don’t want.
My heels pinch, my lips are dry, and I swear if one more person bumps into me with their tiny plate of foie gras or whatever-the-hell, I’m going home.
Then I see him.
And just like that, the whole damn world stops spinning.
Cole.
He’s standing near the bar, laughing at something one of his buddies said.
Black tuxedo. Clean-shaven. Hair styled in that neat, polished way that makes him look like he just stepped out of a James Bond movie and into my personal space.
He’s deadly like this—tall, confident, stupidly gorgeous—and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
This? This is worth every stray eyebrow Shay plucked. Worth the glitter in places glitter shouldn’t be. Worth the shoes, the dress, the literal torture chamber of a bra. Because seeing him like this? Holy out-of-body experience.
And then he spots me.
His eyes light up, slow and warm, like he’s been waiting just to see me.
He crosses the room in a few long strides, weaving past the crowd like none of them matter. His gaze never leaves mine, and my heart? It’s pounding against my ribs like it has something to prove.
“Hey,” he says, and damn if his voice isn’t lower and smoother than usual—like silk mixed with something dangerous.
“Hey,” I manage, because words are apparently hard now.
He leans in, grinning. “Is it just me, or did it get way hotter in here?” He pauses, still grinning. “Oh wait, never mind—it’s you.”
I laugh—sharp and quick—and it feels like all the air comes rushing back. Instant relief. Instant calm.
This? I can do this.
“That was the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard,” I shoot back, lifting my chin.
His eyes roam slowly but respectfully before landing back on mine. “I know. Seriously, though, you look incredible.”
I blush, hating that I do, but not caring enough to hide it. I let my eyes take their fill of him too—this is a very different look from his polyester firefighter uniform or his jeans-and-T-shirt combo.
“You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“Careful, Callahan. You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna think you like me.”
I clear my throat. “Shut up, Cole.”
He chuckles, then offers me his arm—classic and easy. “Ready to survive this circus?”
I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I loop my hand through his, trying not to melt at how solid he feels. Holy biceps, Batman! I let him lead me through the madness, and for the first time tonight, I believe I might just make it.
I’m still reeling when he leans in, his voice low and warm.
“By the way, if you’re trying to kill me, you’re doing a damn good job.”
It hits me right in the chest—sharp, quick, and totally unfair.
“Shut up,” I mutter, heat rising to my cheeks. But I can’t stop the grin, not when he’s looking at me like that—like I’m the only person in this crowded, fancy room who matters.
“You want a drink?” he asks.
“Definitely.”
The bar’s tucked in the corner, all sleek lines and polished wood. A waiter is already handing out champagne as if everyone here is used to it, but Cole orders me something stronger—bourbon, neat. I raise an eyebrow.
“What, no sweet vanilla latte this time?”
He shrugs, handing me the glass. “Thought you might need the hard stuff tonight.”
He’s not wrong.
The drink burns in a good way, and I’m just starting to relax when chaos hits.
“Andi Callahan?” A woman in a sleek black dress and headset materializes out of nowhere, clipboard in hand. There’s too much energy in her voice. “We need you backstage. It’s almost time.” Her gaze swings over to Cole. “And Cole Hartley. Yep, you too.”
My heart plummets. “Time for what?”
“The auction!” She beams. “You’re up after Cole.”
Cole freezes mid-sip. “Wait, you’re in the auction?”
I glare. “Apparently.”
He’s fighting a smile. “Didn’t peg you for the bachelorette type.”
“I’m not,” I mutter, setting my glass down harder than intended. “I was tricked.”
“Voluntold?” he teases.
“You have no idea.”
She’s already tugging at my arm. “Let’s go. You’ll love it, I promise!”
I shoot Cole one last look—part panic, part if I survive this, I’m killing someone—and let her herd me backstage. Cole follows closely behind.
The noise backstage is overwhelming. It’s too bright, too loud.
People mill about in designer dresses and tuxes, some fidgeting like me, others looking way too excited.
I’m definitely not in my element. I’m more of a pjs and crime documentaries kind of girl.
Not… this. Whatever this spectacle is—a complete and total horror show.
Cole appears next to me a second later, all casual, as if we’re not about to be paraded in front of every bigwig and donor this town has.
“You good?” he asks, nudging me gently.
“Right now? No. I’m questioning all of my life choices,” I admit.
“Yeah.” He laughs softly. “Same.”
And then—boom.
“Let’s keep things rolling with our next bachelor,” the emcee announces, his voice all smiles and hype from beyond the curtain.
“You’ve seen him around town, you’ve probably been saved by him once or twice, those biceps…
that smile… and rumor has it he makes a killer breakfast burrito. .. give it up for COLE HARTLEY!”
Cole smirks. “That’s me.”
I watch, almost in slow motion, as he straightens his jacket and walks through the curtain like it’s nothing. Cool. Confident. Deadly.
Rude!
I peek around the side of the heavy curtain, heart racing, and holy hell.
He owns that stage.
The lights catch the sharp lines of his tux, his clean-shaven jaw, and that perfectly messy hair he somehow managed to style just right. He waves, smiles, and says something to the emcee that makes the crowd laugh.
I’m frozen. Spellbound.
This is so not fair.
“And let’s start the bidding at one hundred dollars!”
Hands fly up.
“Two hundred!”
“Three!”
My chest tightens.
The numbers climb quickly. He’s grinning easily, as if this is just another day at the office. The emcee shares more about him—how he volunteers, how he once saved a cat from a sewer, how he’s single and ready to mingle. The crowd eats it up.
“Four-fifty!”
“Five hundred!”
Cole flexes on stage and somehow makes it funny, not cringey.
My eyes narrow as I spot her. Blonde. Tall. One of the ER nurses—I’ve seen her flirt with him before. She waves her bid card like she’s been waiting all night for this.
“Six hundred!” she shouts.
Cole glances at her, then—damn him—right at me.
The hammer slams.
“Sold! To Marissa from ER!”
Cole steps down, still grinning, while the nurse looks like she just won the lottery.
And me?
I should not care.
I should not care.
And yet…I’m a mess of jealousy and confusion.
Because what is even happening right now!?
I barely have time to process the ridiculous knot in my chest before someone touches my arm.
“You’re up,” the clipboard woman says, smiling like this is fun.
I swallow hard; my legs feel like concrete. “Do I have to?”
“Yep.” She’s already steering me toward the curtain. “Smile!”
The lights hit me like a punch in the face.
Too bright. Too hot. Too much.
I squint, trying to make out the crowd, but all I see are silhouettes and champagne flutes. My heart’s in my throat, my palms are sweaty, and the sequined death trap Shay made me wear feels too tight.
“And now, one of Memorial’s finest,” the emcee booms. “She’s smart, she’s strong, she’s not here for your bullshit—put your hands together for ANDI CALLAHAN!”
I step out. Barely.
The crowd claps, polite but hesitant. I don’t blame them. I’m not exactly bachelorette material. I’m not all smiles and sparkles. I’m the girl who works with dead people and has a don’t-mess-with-me attitude.
“She’s a morgue tech, loves dogs, and makes a mean pie—just don’t get on her bad side,” the emcee jokes.
A small laugh comes from somewhere in the crowd. Then a cough. Then total silence.
I already regret every decision that led to this moment.
“Alright, let’s start the bidding at one hundred!”
More silence.
My stomach drops.
“One hundred, anyone?”
A hand goes up. I squint. It’s... an elderly woman? Great. A pity bid.
“One-fifty?”
Crickets.
Okay, now this is just mortifying.
Then—
“Two hundred,” a deep voice calls.
My head snaps up.
Cole.
He’s standing near the back, jacket off now, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he’s here to work. His eyes are locked on mine, daring me to say something.
“Two-fifty!” some old guy yells, winking at me.
I nearly gag.
“Three hundred,” Cole fires back, smooth.
“Three-fifty!”
“Four.”
The emcee’s loving this. “We’ve got a bidding war, folks!”
Do we?
Because one’s an ancient creeper and the other’s the only man who’s ever made me laugh at my own expense.
“Four-fifty!” the old man shouts, his voice cracking.
Cole doesn’t blink. “Five.”
The man hesitates, looking me over like I’m a damn steak.
I shoot him my best death glare.
“Going once,” the emcee grins.
The old man frowns.
“Going twice—”
“Sold! To Cole Hartley!”
I stand there frozen, smile plastered on like I’m in one of those dreams where you show up to work naked and everyone applauds.
Cole’s grin is too smug, too sure. He gives me a slow, infuriating wink as the emcee claps him on the back like he’s just solved world hunger.
“Congratulations to our lucky bachelor!” the emcee crows. “And to his date—don’t look so terrified, sweetheart, he doesn’t bite.”
The crowd laughs. I don’t.
Cole mouths something toward the stage—maybe later—and I swear my eye twitches so hard I might need medical attention.
Mikey’s grinning from the from the back of the room, of course.
I glare in his direction, then step off the stage before I can do something violent with my sequin heels. Cole’s waiting near the steps, hands in his pockets like he didn’t just publicly purchase my evening.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Sure I did,” he cuts in easily. “You looked like you were about to bolt.”
“I was.”
He smiles, that slow, steady kind that probably melts other women. “Then I saved you. Again. You’re welcome.”
I cross my arms. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But now you owe me a date.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how auctions work.”
“Pretty sure this isn’t a charity fundraiser for your ego.”
Someone brushes past us carrying champagne, and Cole reaches out automatically, his hand on my elbow to steady me. It’s casual—gentle even—but it sparks something inconveniently warm.
He lowers his voice. “Relax, Callahan. It’s just dinner. You pick the place. I’ll even let you bring a chaperone. Beef, maybe.”
That gets me. My mouth twitches before I can stop it. “He’d eat your face off.”
“Nah, Beef loves me.”
I hate that I laugh. Just once. Quick and quiet.
Cole catches it like it’s gold. His grin softens. “See? Not that hard.”
I shake my head, brushing past him toward the bar. “You are exhausting.”
He calls after me, low enough for only me to hear. “Worth it, though.”
And damn him—he kind of is.