16. The Bachelor Auction #2
He laughs. “That’s a relief. My serve is trash.” He cocks his head, leans in just enough that I catch a whiff of oceanic aftershave, and says, “Let me guess. You’re here for a friend? Or you’re a plant from the PR committee to make sure no one gets too drunk before the auction?”
“Definitely the last one,” I say with a smile, because it’s the easier lie.
He glances at my empty glass. “But you’re drinking.”
“Trying to pace myself.” Also a lie, but he seems to like it.
“I’ll get you something. What do you like?” He starts to stand before I can protest.
“Champagne,” I blurt, and he’s already in motion, waving to the bartender. Within seconds, two flutes appear on the bar, and Evan hands one to me. “It’s not Dom, but it’s the closest they have.”
I take a sip. He watches me drink.
For a few moments, we do the polite, high-octane volley that passes for conversation here: What do you do?
Are you bidding tonight, or just here for the spectacle?
Who here are you with? It’s easy, and I’m good at it, but I notice that with every new question, his body leans a little closer, his blue eyes a bit more intense, the shape of his jawline doing this thing that is both threatening and comforting.
He asks about my job. I tell him about the plant store.
He wants to know if I ever do corporate clients because his real estate brokerage is decorated in the worst way possible.
I laugh and say maybe, and he leans in even more, which is actually more disconcerting than if he’d made a joke about it.
It’s very, very clear that Evan is interested in me. He has the vibe of a guy who expects the night to end in someone’s apartment, likely his, kissing and maybe more. He looks at me like I’m a puzzle he already knows how to solve.
And if I were any other woman, I’d probably go for it. Evan’s gorgeous, after all, in an aristocratic, Nordic way. But my mind isn’t here.
My mind is across the room, where Trevor stands with a glass of scotch in his hand, a perfect mannequin beside him—a woman in a backless red dress, hair up, skin like a burnished coin. She has her hand on his lapel, and she’s laughing, leaning in so close her lips nearly brush his ear.
Meanwhile, Evan’s droning on about some disastrous bachelor auction in Edina that he had to participate in last year, but my laughter is all fake, and my eyes keep flicking past him to the far wall, to Trevor, to the tableau of red dress and white teeth and the way my stepbrother is acting like he doesn’t even know I exist.
I’m barely listening.
When I do look at Evan, I catch him studying me. It’s not predatory—more like curious, as if he knows there’s another story going on and he wants to figure out what it is.
“You seem distracted,” he says, not unkindly.
“Sorry,” I say with an apologetic smile. “Big day at work. Long week.”
He nods. “I get that. Sometimes these things can feel like another job. But you pull it off.”
“Pull what off?”
He shrugs, a little abashed. “Looking like you belong. Most people fake it, but you make it look real. Like you’re enjoying yourself, even.”
I almost laugh. “That’s funny,” I say, “because I don’t think I belong here at all.”
“That’s how you know you do.” Evan’s smile is slower this time, almost lazy. “The imposters never notice.”
For a second, I think about telling him. About last week. About the jail and the guard and the fact that my stepbrother has seen every inch of my body, and how it’s all I can think about even when another gorgeous man is standing right next to me.
But I don’t.
Instead, I let the silence stretch. I let the music and the glasses and the lights fill the space between us.
He reaches over, his fingers just brushing my wrist. “Listen. I’m up tonight—part of the auction.
” He gives a self-deprecating smirk, but it’s clear he enjoys it.
“If you want to bid, I’ll buy you drinks for the rest of the year.
I shudder to think what’ll happen if I’m won by any of the ladies with fake lashes.
I’m scared of spiders, you know, in case one of those lashes detaches. ”
I have to laugh at that.
“I’ll think about it,” I say with a smile, even though I know I won’t.
Then, across the ballroom, I see it, suddenly: Trevor’s eyes on me, sharp and so blue they almost hurt.
He’s staring, jaw tense, lips just a line.
The woman in red is still talking, oblivious.
But Trevor is locked on me, and for two seconds the whole world shrinks to just us.
We stare at one another, my heartbeat thunder in my ears.
I look away first, and then down at the floor.
Evan follows my gaze, then glances back, expression a little more serious now. “That guy’s going to be a tough act to follow,” he says, almost to himself.
I don’t answer.
A bell sounds, and the room starts to shift, women gathering their things, the bachelors lining up near the side doors.
Evan stands, draining the last of his champagne.
He holds out his phone. “Can I get your number? For business purposes. Or, you know, someone to call if a fake eyelash lands on my hand.”
I give it to him because obviously, Evan’s handsome, funny, and nice. Maybe I should go out with him just to prove to myself that I can because within five seconds, Trevor made me lose myself again.
But Evan’s smooth. He smiles, saves my number, then leans in and kisses my cheek, soft and just barely lingering. “Wish me luck,” he whispers.
I do.
And then the blonde man’s gone, swallowed by the crowd and the noise and the anticipation.
I sit there for a while, clutching my paddle, the gardenia in my lap, my body angled toward the stage.
But my eyes are already drifting back to the place where Trevor was standing, and my heart is slamming so hard I’m scared someone will hear.
The auction starts with a thud. The emcee—some former local weatherman in a shiny navy suit—takes the stage and does the kind of jokes that only land if you’re drunk or desperately hoping to look like you belong.
Every woman has her hand gripping a paddle and a drink at her elbow, and every conversation feels like it grows louder by the second.
But then, the lights go dim, and the stage gets its own spotlight: a little square of illumination in a city of shadows.
Stella leans over, gardenia tucked behind her ear. “Get ready,” she whispers, “this is where the magic happens.”
I want to laugh, but my mouth is dry. My paddle feels like a weapon in my hand.
First up are the “fun” bachelors—the pro hockey player, the guy who owns a chain of vape shops, the one who looks like he’s been working out for this moment since puberty.
Each one walks onstage to a cheer that’s equal parts irony and predation.
The emcee does a little intro, lists their “hobbies” and “hidden talents,” and then the bidding starts, usually slow but rising in increments of five hundred dollars.
The winner gets a “date” (the fine print says this can be anything from dinner to a full spa weekend to running a 5k together-ugh!).
It’s a circus, but an interesting one. The crowd is well-behaved but boisterous: clapping, cheering, pausing to let the numbers settle before going higher.
Some of the women are fierce, raising the paddle as if it’s a saber, some of them coolly flicking their wrists and watching the bids climb.
At our table, Stella is in her element, offering whispered commentary on every guy: “That one’s on steroids.
” “That one’s gay, trust me.” “That one, I’d eat with a spoon. ”
I’m halfway into my third glass of champagne when I realize I’ve been staring at the entrance for several minutes, waiting for the only thing that really matters.
But it doesn’t happen quite yet because Evan Fine is called to the stage, and he strolls up like he was born to it.
He’s charming, a little self-mocking, one hand in his pocket, eyes never quite meeting the crowd’s gaze, but you can tell he’s loving it.
The emcee reads his stats—Real estate broker, thirty-three, ran the Twin Cities Marathon for cancer research, enjoys outdoor sports and “quality time with friends and family.” Honestly, that stuff could describe any guy just about.
Bidding opens at $1,000 and climbs in a lazy, sinuous way, almost like the room is testing him.
By the time it hits $4,000, three different women are in play: a petite redhead in a feathered mini, a tall blonde who looks like she eats women like me for breakfast, and a woman in her forties with a severe chignon and a black silk dress that looks painted on.