Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
JULIETTE
“—so, if we keep the silent auction structure the same, we’ll need at least three new high-end items. And I’d love to raise the starting bids this year.”
Whitney’s voice barely registers in my brain as she stands at the front of the conference room near the projector screen in a tailored cream blazer, clicker in hand, scanning our faces to make sure we’re listening.
I am, in fact, barely listening.
I am physically present at this meeting. I am seated upright. I have a notebook open in front of me. I am even holding a pen.
Mentally?
Far, far away. Aaron Bishop is whispering sweet words into my hairline to wake me up before sliding out of my bed and showering in my bathroom.
It was different having a man get ready in my apartment, out of the norm and a bit unnerving. But as I lay there listening to the shower sluice over his body, I couldn’t help basking in the domesticity of it. He’d made coffee and brought me a cup.
Kissed my forehead before walking out the door.
I call that progress.
I shift in my seat, ashamed that I’m unable to focus. I mean, seriously, this is a work meeting and my thoughts are inappropriate. We’re here to discuss donors and budgets for the gala—not daydream about water pouring down Aaron’s hot body.
Speaking of the gala…
If he and I aren’t technically supposed to be dating, would I be able to show up with him?
It’s months away, plenty of time for this to implode. But that does not stop my mind from betraying me with the image of Aaron in a tux. Standing beside me. One hand resting low on my back as we greet his teammates and notable guests.
Him leaning down to murmur something wicked and flirty into my ear while Declan pretends not to notice…
Would that be allowed? Would we arrive separately? Leave separately?
This is absurd.
I’m future-tripping hypothetical scenarios and can barely sit through a forty-five-minute meeting without mentally undressing a man I should not be involved with.
I lower my eyes to the page and force my hand to move.
“And we cannot rely solely on the usual donors,” Whitney continues. “The high-dollar silent auction items are great, but they’re predictable. We’ve had dozens of vacation packages and trips to the Super Bowl. We need something exceptional—something immersive that will get the crowd involved.”
A small, automatic nod.
Across the table, Annaleise gives me a warning tap with her foot beneath the conference table.
I glance up.
Whitney is staring directly at me.
“Juliette?”
My pulse jumps like I’ve been caught cheating on a test.
“You’ve been quiet,” Whitney says mildly. “Any thoughts?”
Right.
Thoughts.
About fundraising.
“Yes. I think we could lower the barrier to entry for giving.”
Whitney tilts her head. “Explain.”
Think, Juliette. THINK!
“I think we’re… leaning too heavily on the five-thousand-dollar vacation packages and luxury experiences,” I say, finding momentum as I go.
“They’re great for a large majority of attendees, but they intimidate everyone else.
Maybe we shouldn’t assume everyone in the room wants a weekend in Bali, or can afford one?
We need small things that spark competition without requiring a second mortgage. ”
For people like me.
And my co-workers, who don’t earn close to a six-figure salary, let alone make millions.
I hold my breath.
Whitney nods slowly with understanding, her smile approving. “So more accessible price points?”
“Yes. And maybe… people sponsor, like… scholarships. A program slot. A child’s tuition for a semester.”
I am proud of myself for forming full sentences while replaying the memory of Aaron’s warm mouth trailing slowly down my throat.
His tongue…
“And,” I continue, “some things that are more intimate.”
Intimate.
Like the look in his eyes when he was looking down at me, my hair fanned out on the pillow after we’d had sex. The look on his face as he wordlessly brushed his finger over the bridge of my nose, my lips. The curve of my brows.
I can’t decide what to make of that look.
Whitney smiles. “That’s good.”
Annaleise raises her hand. “What about something that could be considered controversial?”
“Yes—love that, Annaleise.” Whitney clicks to the next slide. “We need buzz. Something that will get people talking.” She pauses, glancing around the room. “Ideas. Go.”
One by one, team members from the player engagement department, along with marketing, begin tossing ideas into the ring—good ideas, but most of them lame.
“Celebrity bartending,” a guy named Stephan offers. “Have the players behind the bar for an hour.”
Whitney nods slowly, tapping her chin. “Liability?”
“Massive,” someone from legal mutters.
“Okay, next.”
“What about a dunk tank?” another voice chimes in.
“For a black-tie gala?” Whitney deadpans, barely unable to contain her eyeroll. “Get real, Rory.”
“Jersey auction,” Annaleise suggests. “We haven’t done that in a while, but maybe we can have them custom-designed by local artists?”
“Good,” Whitney says, nodding to her assistant. “Keep that.”
“What about a ‘mystery experience’?” someone suggests. “People bid without knowing what they’re bidding on.”
Whitney raises a brow. “This isn’t fear factor. Most of these people probably have trust issues.”
Quiet laughter ripples around the table.
Silence follows, and if it were possible to hear people’s brains working, that’s what it sounds like in this room.
“What if we auction off an evening with a single player?” Someone suggests.
My stomach drops so fast, I swear it hits the floor at the idea of Aaron being auctioned off on a stage to another woman.
Whitney doesn’t immediately shut the idea down. “Go on.”
“I don’t know—a date or three with a player?” My co-worker continues. “Dinner? Day out, doing whatever the highest bidder wants to do—within reason, of course. We can have them sign waivers. No one is kidnapping anyone and forcing them to go skydiving.”
A few people chuckle.
Everyone seems to love this idea—of course they do.
It’s a fabulous idea! It’s buzzy, it’s controversial. It will get press leading up to the event, during the event, and after.
It’s brilliant.
The perfect fundraiser.
I’d love it, too, if I wasn’t secretly dating one of their most eligible bachelors.
Technically, if Whitney loves it, Aaron could be on that list.
Technically, I would have no claim to say a word about it.
And technically, I would have to sit in the crowd with a professional smile while women bid on spending an evening with the same man who had his mouth between my thighs twelve hours ago…
Annaleise claps her hands once. “Oh my God, people would lose their minds.”
“Yes, but we’d need player buy-in,” someone from marketing points out. “Not everyone would go for it.”
My pulse hammers with newfound hope.
There is no way Aaron would rubber stamp this for himself; I would bet money on it.
Whitney folds her arms. “It would generate serious revenue.”
Translation: a shit ton of money.
“It would also generate serious gossip,” legal counters.
“Gossip is free marketing,” marketing chirps back.
I keep my face neutral. Calm. Mildly intrigued, like the rest of them.
Inside, I am spiraling.
Because what happens when some tech billionaire heiress, with an ungodly monthly allowance, decides she wants Aaron Bishop at her side for three evenings in a row?
What happens if she wins?
Because those women are out there.
Those women exist.
And those women—
“Excellent, I love this. Let’s explore it.
I want numbers, risk assessment. Player interest.” She rattles off deliverables while her assistant starts typing at lightning speed, legal already nodding like they’re mentally drafting the waiver.
“People will be begging for a ticket to this event—it’s going to be irresistible. ”
Irresistible.
That’s the problem.
Aaron is already irresistible.
In nine months, during the fundraiser, the guys will be part of the auction to raise money for charity.
Whitney blows through her agenda, assigning committees and deadlines, hitting several more bullet points before ending the meeting.
In slow motion, I gather my notebook.
Glance down at a blank sheet of paper.
I make it back to my desk on autopilot, offering tight smiles to co-workers who are still buzzing about “the player idea.” My inbox is already piling up. Subject lines marked URGENT. Follow-ups. Calendar invites.
The normal stuff…
I’ve been seated maybe three minutes—barely long enough to wake my computer and scroll through social media—when a shadow falls across my cubicle wall.
I look up.
Declan.
He’s leaning against the partition, one shoulder propped on the door, arms folded. This isn’t a casual visit…
“Hey,” he says.
My spine straightens, and I turn toward him in my swivel chair. “Hey.”
He rubs the back of his neck, gaze flicking briefly down the hallway like he’s making sure no one’s hovering. “You busy?”
“Yes,” I say, but a smile tugs at my mouth.
My brother eyes my computer. “Okay. Fair enough.”
There’s an awkward hesitation that follows.
“I, uh, wanted to see if you were hungry for lunch? We can do the cafeteria—nothing fancy.” He shifts his weight. “I feel kind of bad about the other morning.”
Kind of bad?
Ha.
Typical.
Then again, it’s kind of normal for me to judge his verbiage, as his sister. I’ve been doing it since we were kids.
I let him squirm.
Close my laptop and remove my wallet from a drawer. “But ‘kind of bad’ feels like the soft launch to an apology.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Fine. I was out of line.”
Ahh, progress.
I stand, smoothing down the front of my blouse, grabbing my phone and badge. “Okay. I can eat.”
His shoulders visibly relax. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We fall into step, walking side-by-side to the stairwell. Declan takes the stairs two at a time, waiting for me at the top of each landing.
“What a gentleman,” I tell him sarcastically, nudging him aside so he has to follow me into the lunchroom. Ice Wolves staff sit at tables, some of them alone, others in small groups.
A manager or two.
No players.
No top executives.