Chapter 4
FOUR
LUCY
I had hoped—prayed, really—that once the auction ended, Grandma might just forget the whole thing.
She didn’t.
The chairs were emptying now, the last bachelor having left the stage to raucous applause and someone’s paddle being waved like a victory flag. Women were laughing, grabbing their purses, rehashing bids. The after-buzz of the auction swirled around us, all heat and leftover perfume.
I was still glued to my seat, trying to pretend none of this had actually happened.
Next to me, Grandma sat with the unshakable serenity of a woman who’d just pulled off a masterstroke. She sipped her sparkling cider, lips curved in the kind of smug little smile that made my stomach drop.
Then she stood and turned to me. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go meet your date.”
I nearly dropped my cup. “Excuse me?”
She nodded toward the stage, where Cord Gaffney— Cord freaking Gaffney —was stepping down from the mic, his grin still camera-ready as he shook a few hands.
His T-shirt clung to his shoulders like it had been sewn on in secret by witches.
He was tall, golden, and way too good at that smile.
The kind of man whose every inch spelled trouble.
“I bought him for you.” Grandma announced this like she was confirming a bakery pickup. “It’s rude not to say thank you.”
My brain short-circuited. “You—he—what?”
She patted my arm like I was being overly dramatic. “Let’s go, before he gets mobbed.”
Oh, my God. She actually did it. She bought me a man.
I was a literal auction line item on her matchmaking checklist.
This was happening. This was real.
And Cord Gaffney was standing there waiting, like some kind of firefighter-shaped prize I had no earthly idea what to do with.
I followed Grandma across the room like I was walking to my own execution. Every step felt too loud, like my heels had suddenly transformed into clown shoes. I scanned the exits, wondering if it was too late to fake a phone call, a fainting spell, or a mild allergic reaction to cider.
Maybe if I pretend I’m someone else. If I change my name. If I fake an emergency involving a cat.
I could feel Cord watching us approach, which was somehow worse than if he hadn’t noticed at all. He stood just off the edge of the stage now, relaxed, laughing at something a volunteer said, the mic finally out of his hand but that smile still fully loaded.
It was a good smile. Damn him.
Confident. Easy. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he didn’t, because why would he? He was tall, handsome, built like a calendar model, and freshly auctioned off for a thousand dollars.
To my grandmother .
For me.
I tugged at the hem of my dress—too short. Too tight. Too not mom —and felt the sharp edge of a snack wrapper in my purse. Without thinking, I reached in, hoping it was gum and not?—
Goldfish crackers.
Of course.
I closed the bag fast and shoved it deeper, hoping he hadn’t seen.
But when I looked up, Cord’s eyes were on me—not mocking, not amused. Just soft. Curious, even.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Instead, his smile changed, gentling at the edges, like I wasn’t just part of the spectacle. Like he saw me.
And it threw me more than the thousand-dollar bid ever could.
“Cord,” Grandma said, her voice smooth as pie filling, “I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Lucy Sullivan.”
She said it like we were meeting over quiche at Sunday brunch instead of after she’d purchased him like a particularly well-muscled loaf of artisan bread.
And suddenly I had a mental image of him kneading bread dough, that painted-on T-shirt spattered in flour as he kneaded and smiled and showed off all the capabilities of those big, strong hands, and… what were we talking about again?
Cord turned to me, smile still warm but somehow less showy now. “Lucy,” he repeated, and my name sounded better than it had in a long time. He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I stared at it for half a second too long, like I’d forgotten how hands worked. Then I took it.
Warm. Solid. Callused in a way that said he actually used those muscles for something other than show. And when our palms touched, something zinged up my arm, sharp and surprising.
I blinked. He didn’t let go right away, but he didn’t overplay it either.
“Oh,” I said, then instantly regretted it. “You’re… tall.”
His smile tipped sideways, amused but not mocking. “Guilty.”
“Sorry,” I added quickly. “I mean—you know that. Obviously. It’s just—I didn’t expect…”
Cord’s laugh was low and easy, and the tension in my shoulders dropped a notch. Not because I was suddenly less mortified, but because he wasn’t making me feel worse about it. He wasn’t laughing at me.
Just with me.
Which, somehow, was worse. Because I didn’t know what to do with a man who looked like that and wasn’t a jerk. A man who stood in the center of a room full of women who wanted him, and looked at me like I was the one to impress.
He hadn’t let go of my hand too fast. He hadn’t winked, made a joke, or looked past me like I was someone’s plus-one.
He was still smiling. Still standing there.
And I was still unraveling.
I have a kid.
I’m divorced.
I haven’t shaved above the knee since last May.
I’m wearing clearance-rack Spanx under a dress that my grandmother told me to call “flirty” even though I can’t sit without fearing a wardrobe malfunction.
Why am I even entertaining this?
I should’ve said something about Liam. Dropped it into the conversation casually, like oh hey, by the way, I come with a small, sticky sidekick and no free weekends.
But the words stuck .
This wasn’t a real date. This wasn’t anything. It was a stunt. A laugh. A thousand-dollar exercise in public humiliation with a handsome stranger at the end of it.
Nothing would come of it.
And yet…
He was still looking at me with that not-quite-smile. That easy patience. Like I wasn’t a punchline or a burden. Like I was… a woman.
Not a teacher. Not a single mom.
Just me.
And some small, tired, ridiculous part of me, buried under lesson plans, laundry, and dried applesauce, ached for that.
To be seen. To be wanted.
Even just for a night.
Cord glanced toward the stage as someone called his name.
He looked back at me with that same easy warmth, like we hadn’t just been thrown together by a woman with a God complex and a checkbook.
“Looking forward to it,” he said, voice low and sincere. “Your grandmother gave me your number. I’ll text you to sort out the details.”
“I—okay.”
Then he nodded once and turned, heading off to help with teardown or wrap-up or whatever heroic emcees did when they weren’t being auctioned off like slightly singed beefcake.
I stared after him, not trusting my face to behave.
Beside me, Grandma made a pleased little humming noise. The kind she usually reserved for good coffee or successful meddling. “I think that went well.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t yet. Because I wasn’t sure what I felt. Not exactly.
Not dread. Not quite excitement. Just… something dislodged. Something I hadn’t touched in a long time .
I watched Cord disappear into the crowd, surrounded but still somehow alone, and wondered what the hell I was doing.
Some small part of me—small and tired and sharper than it should be—wished she’d bought me a friend instead.
Someone who texted me dumb memes and showed up with soup when life fell apart. That felt more possible. More within reach.
But maybe possible wasn’t the point tonight. Maybe tonight was about reminding me that I’d forgotten how to want anything at all for myself.
In which case… mission accomplished.