Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Wyatt
Present day
Ipace the foyer of the Fairmont Hotel in Phoenix, my phone pressed to my ear.
“Come on, Ash. Pick up,” I mutter under my breath as it rings… and rings… before going to voicemail again. That’s the third time. With a frustrated sigh, I end the call.
It’s the night of the charity auction that Ash promised ages ago she’d be here for.
She’s had a lot on her mind lately, between all the drama with Ben and the fallout after that asshole attacked her at school, but she still swore she wouldn’t miss it.
I told her she didn’t have to come, not with everything going on, but she was adamant.
And now? She’s nowhere to be seen, and she’s not answering her phone either.
A knot tightens in my chest. I’m starting to get seriously worried.
I got into Phoenix two days ago for some sponsorship stuff. Ash was meant to be riding down with Ben and crashing in my spare room overnight. Maybe they hit traffic, or maybe they left late, but that doesn’t explain the radio silence.
“Hey, there you are,” Cleo, my publicist, says, striding over. “You’re up.”
I groan. “Ash isn’t here yet.”
Her brows lift. “Okay… does she need to be?”
I exhale hard. “She was supposed to be bidding on me,” I admit. “I told you I didn’t want to do this, Cleo. Ash was going to make sure some obsessed fan doesn’t win.”
She links her arm with mine and leads me toward the event entrance. “Wyatt, this is the Fairmont. The fanciest hotel in Phoenix. These women aren’t crazed fans, they’re bored, rich housewives spending their hedge-fund husbands’ money.”
“And that’s better? It’s just a different kind of crazy.”
Cleo stops beside me, laughing. “It’s dinner and a few paparazzi. You’ve done this before. What’s the big deal?”
She doesn’t get it. She’s amazing at her job. We’ve worked together for two years, but if it boosts my profile, she’s pushing me into it, whether I want it or not.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Let’s just get it over with.”
She grins and straightens my bowtie. “You know I’m right. And you look hot. These women are going to fall all over themselves for a date with you.”
“Dinner,” I correct her. “Not a date.”
“Same thing, babe,” she says with a wink before dragging me into the ballroom and toward the stage.
The function room is packed with over a hundred people seated at glittering round tables, sipping champagne and nibbling canapés as yacht trips, weekends away, and celebrity dinners are auctioned off for charity.
“And next up,” the auctioneer announces, her voice echoing through the mic. “Dinner with Wyatt Brookes, linebacker for the Arizona Cardinals.”
Cleo nudges me forward, and I slowly make my way up the steps.
The lights are blinding, casting the room in a haze. I can’t see anyone beyond the tables directly in front of the stage, but I don’t care. All I can think about is Ash and why she isn’t here.
The auctioneer is speaking, but her words blur into background noise. I’m too distracted, my gaze sweeping the dark room, still hoping Ash will walk through the door.
Then a voice cuts through the chatter.
“A thousand dollars!” a woman near the front calls out. The crowd erupts in laughter and applause.
My stomach sinks, and I force the smile I’ve mastered over the years for press events and media days.
“Thank you!” the auctioneer beams. “Do I hear an advance on one thousand dollars? A night with Wyatt Brookes has to be worth more than that!”
I take a step forward and reach for the microphone.
“It’s dinner,” I clarify with a nervous laugh.
“Of course,” she says smoothly, reclaiming the mic. “Dinner with Wyatt.”
More bids follow, and I listen, hoping to hear Ash’s voice in the crowd, holding on to the faint hope that she’s just late, hidden in the darkness, waiting for the right moment. But her voice never comes.
The bids keep rising, and when the same woman from earlier, older, well-dressed, and definitely enthusiastic, calls out “Twelve thousand,” the crowd roars.
I groan internally. That’s it. No one’s topping that.
“Twelve thousand dollars!” the auctioneer exclaims, grinning. “Any advances? Anyone going to top twelve thousand?”
The room falls quiet.
I steal a glance at the bidder. She’s smiling like she’s already won, her eyes glued to me like I’m a prize she can’t wait to claim. I’ve never felt more objectified, and that’s saying something considering my career.
Right now, I swear to myself, this is the last time I agree to one of Cleo’s publicity stunts. I’ll write a check next time. Hell, I’ll donate twice the amount. Anything but this.
“Twelve thousand dollars, going once,” the auctioneer calls out, her voice rising above the buzz of the room. “Going twice–”
“Fifteen thousand dollars,” a voice interrupts.
Everyone gasps, a ripple of surprise moving through the crowd.
My eyes widen. I scan the dimly lit room, but the spotlight makes it impossible to see where the voice came from.
“Fifteen thousand!” the auctioneer echoes, her tone charged with excitement. She turns toward the original bidder. “Would you like to go to sixteen?”
The woman shakes her head with a polite smile, gracefully bowing out.
I exhale quietly, tension loosening in my chest. Though, for all I know, this new bidder could be just as enthusiastic.
“Ladies and gentlemen, fifteen thousand dollars, going once… going twice… sold to the lady at the back!” the auctioneer calls out. “Come on up and claim your prize!”
The room breaks into applause, but I barely hear it over the pounding in my ears.
My gaze sweeps the crowd, searching for the mystery woman who just paid an insane amount of money to have dinner with me.
The lights are brutal, making it impossible to see, but then she appears, ascending the steps, her head down, long, dark hair veiling her features.
Her dress is black and covered in sequins that shimmer with every step. It hugs every curve, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. Then she lifts her head… and my world tilts.
Ivy.