Chapter 18 Sarah
SARAH
Idragged the chair across the grass with one hand, holding my coffee in the other. My head throbbed like a hundred tiny gremlins were inside my skull, taking turns hammering it with enthusiasm.
That’s what drinking two bottles of wine and shots would do.
Never mix alcohol. That had always been my number one rule—a rule I had respected for years but had absolutely bulldozed the night before.
Somewhere between Becca bringing up my ex and me realizing I was having fun, actual fun, I’d found myself planted at the bar, aggressively waving at poor Jason like he was withholding medicine.
“More wine,” I’d said at least four times.
“Maybe water?” he’d offered once.
“Don’t ruin this for me,” I’d replied.
Regrets were now happening.
“Hurry up, Sarah,” barked Helen. “The auction starts in five minutes.” She stood near the raised platform she’d had built on the lawn, her hands on her hips, surveying everything like a general preparing for battle.
Her gray hair was up in a bun, and she was wearing another signature oversized blazer, this one a white one, with jeans that were in style in the eighties.
The platform faced the ocean, a wide stretch of wood nearly twenty feet long, elevated just enough to command attention without blocking the view.
White folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows behind it, filling the lawn in a soft arc that funneled everyone’s focus forward.
From the stage, the water stretched out endlessly, sunlight glinting off the waves like the whole event had been staged on purpose.
Helen had had a few local guys build it this morning.
And Dust-guy.
He’d showed up about two hours ago with a team, trucks, and all that construction stuff. Even though I looked like I was suffering from some sort of allergic reaction—puffy face, swollen eyes that refused to open all the way—I still tried to make eye contact with him.
A few times. Briefly. Hopeful.
He never looked up.
He was too busy checking bolts, tapping boards, and making sure the thing wouldn’t collapse under the weight of wealthy women bidding aggressively for companionship.
Honestly, probably for the best. I currently looked like a swamp creature who’d crawled out of a marsh and demanded coffee.
Still, I couldn’t get that kiss out of my head or the way he kissed me back, fiercely, like he’d been thinking about it for days, like he wanted it, wanted me.
I wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t do wonders for my self-esteem.
My inner monologue had upgraded from barely coping to possibly still desirable.
I shook the thought out of my head and glanced around instead, watching Jason haul four white folding chairs at once like it was nothing and set them neatly in the last row. Show-off.
I dragged my chair, the very last one, over and dropped it beside his.
“Afternoon,” he said cheerfully.
“Never speak to me again,” I grumbled.
He grinned. “Rough night?”
“You ever drink enough wine that your soul tries to leave your body?”
“Twice,” he said. “College.”
“Hmm.” I nodded solemnly.
Around us, the lawn buzzed with movement.
By the time I looked up from my coffee, most of the white folding chairs were already filled.
The front rows belonged to the inn guests, the Pearls & Pints crowd, dressed like they’d coordinated in a secret group chat titled Rich and Ready.
Pearls everywhere. Sunglasses perched dramatically on heads.
Programs in manicured hands. They leaned together, whispering, comparing cards, and occasionally glancing up at the platform like predators waiting for a signal.
Behind them sat… everyone else.
Townspeople if I had to guess—curious locals, people who had absolutely not paid for the weekend but were here for the entertainment value alone.
I saw couples, groups of friends, and a few men who looked like they’d been dragged here under protest. At least two hundred people in total, easy.
No wonder Helen had insisted on hosting this outside.
The dining room would’ve exploded, possibly literally.
I scanned the crowd, trying to place faces but failing completely.
Right. New town. New life. Still no idea who anyone was.
At the very front, Lola held court.
She sat like she’d been born to it, her legs crossed and posture immaculate, wearing a pearl-blue sequined dress that hit mid-thigh and reflected sunlight like a disco ball.
She adjusted her boobs openly, unapologetically, and with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was working with.
I took another sip of coffee. Around the edges of the lawn, clusters of people stood chatting, drinks in hand, circling like sharks who hadn’t committed to bidding but wanted front-row seats just in case things got weird.
Then I noticed it. The looks.
Several of the women in the front rows weren’t watching the platform anymore. They were glancing sideways, smiling, checking their cards, and then glancing again.
I followed their line of sight.
Near the far side of the lawn, just past the flower arrangements, stood a small group of men.
Ah. The bachelors.
They stood clustered together casually, hands in pockets, shoulders loose, laughing like they didn’t realize they were about to be emotionally and financially evaluated.
Mid-thirties to mid-forties, from what I could see.
All fit, with a mix of rugged and polished.
One had sun-lightened hair and a permanent squint like he spent his weekends outdoors while another had dark hair and sharp-features.
There were broad shoulders and easy confidence, tailored jackets and rolled-up sleeves.
Light skin. Olive skin. A couple of days’ worth of stubble on more than one jaw.
They were the kind of men who looked good standing still.
Around me, auction cards rustled. Someone cleared their throat. Someone else muttered, “Oh wow,” under their breath.
The women weren’t doing anything particularly suspicious, just sitting there, talking quietly and laughing at something one of them said. But the energy around them was unmistakable.
Posture straightened. Hair was adjusted. Lip gloss appeared out of nowhere. One woman actually fanned herself with her auction card.
I watched as one of the men caught a woman’s eye and smiled politely. She nearly dropped her card.
Okay then. This was happening.
Two hundred people. An ocean backdrop. A platform built to handle enthusiasm.
And a group of men about to be auctioned off like very attractive livestock.
I sank back in my chair, my head still pounding. “This is so fucking weird,” I muttered to no one in particular.
“Tell me about it.”
I looked up to find Becca sliding into the chair beside me. She wore a white sleeveless pantsuit with a gold belt along with matching clutch and shoes. She handed me a bottle of Tylenol.
“Thought you might need some,” she said.
I grabbed it reverently. “Bless you, you fine, generous creature.”
I popped the cap with my thumb, poured two pills into my palm, and chased them with a sip of coffee like a professional.
Becca laughed. “I thought I was going to miss the first one.”
“Nope,” I said, handing the bottle back. “You’re right on time. We’re about to auction off human beings for charity.”
As if summoned by my words, Helen stepped onto the platform, microphone in hand, posture immaculate, and white blazer still aggressively shapeless. She waited until the noise dipped just enough to be dramatic.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she paused, peering out at the crowd, “no, I mean bachelors,” she corrected with a smile.
The front rows erupted, actual cheering and whistles. One woman shouted, “Finally!”
Helen waited it out like a seasoned professional and then continued, “Welcome to another Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend.”
Applause rolled across the lawn.
Yes, part of me found this appalling, but the other part, the winning part, thought this was absolutely fantastic.
As the applause swelled, Becca’s smile faltered.
She stared past the stage, her eyes narrowing on someone in the crowd. I followed her gaze to a man near the edge of the lawn. Before I could ask her about him, she quickly turned away, plastering a smile on her face like nothing had happened.
Huh.
“As you all know,” Helen went on, “the proceeds from this year’s event will go toward the restoration of the lighthouse, harbor maintenance, and the Maplewood Falls Scholarship Fund. Your money, ladies, is going to a very good cause.”
That did it. The applause doubled. Cards waved in the air.
Someone yelled, “Take it all!”
Helen smiled, satisfied. “So,” she said, lifting her hand, “let the auction begin.” She gestured to the left side of the stage. “Please welcome our first bachelor of the day. This is Mark.”
Mark stepped forward.
The reaction was immediate.
He was mid-forties, tall, broad-shouldered in an effortless way, with sun-warmed skin and sandy blond hair that suggested he spent more time outdoors than in front of mirrors.
He wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show forearms that absolutely did not belong to a man who spent all his time behind a desk.
He smiled easily, like he’d been born knowing how to do that without looking smug.
Several women inhaled at once. I snorted into my coffee.
“Mark is a lawyer,” Helen announced, “and when he’s not working, he enjoys sailing on his boat just off the coast. Which means today’s winning bid includes a private sail for two.”
The crowd lost its freaking mind.
Cards shot up. Women leaned forward. Jewelry clinked. One woman fanned herself aggressively, smacking her neighbor in the face repeatedly.
Helen lifted her hand. “We’ll start the bidding at five hundred dollars.”
I raised a brow. “That seems like a lot.”
Becca shook her head. “Not for these ladies.”
“Six hundred!” called a voice from the front.
“Eight!” yelled another.
“One thousand!”
I blinked. “That escalated quickly.”
Becca grinned. “Sexy lawyer man with a boat.”
She had a point. “Right,” I said. “I forgot about boats.”
“Fifteen hundred!”
“Two thousand!”
Mark stood there, smiling politely, like he wasn’t being verbally valued in public.
“Three thousand!” someone shouted.
Before I could process that number, Lola stood up.
She smiled and said clearly, “Six thousand.”
The lawn went dead silent.
Helen arched a brow. “Six thousand dollars,” she repeated. “Do I hear anything higher?”
Nothing. The betting women were mute.
“Sold!” called out Helen. “To Lola Sinclair.”
Lola lifted her arms and took a slow, graceful bow like she’d just won a pageant.
The applause was thunderous.
Mark laughed, shaking his head, and gave Lola a small salute. She licked her lips, very slowly, very suggestively.
Right. I leaned back in my chair, stunned. “Well,” I said, “there goes my understanding of money.”
Becca laughed. “Welcome to Maplewood Falls.”
Helen’s voice rang out, snapping my attention back to the stage. “Our next bachelor—yes, Carlos, our local department store owner. Please come up onstage.”
Carlos stepped forward.
And… huh.
He was about my height. Possibly pushing sixty. Strong build, with black hair slicked back like it hadn’t moved since 1997. He climbed the steps with supreme confidence, scanning the crowd and smiling like he was about to be crowned Mr. Universe.
He was not. He was… aggressively average.
The lawn went quiet as Carlos reached center stage.
“Is he serious?” I whispered.
“Wait for it,” said Becca, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.
Carlos turned to face the crowd and planted his feet. In two swift, practiced motions, he pulled off his shirt and pants, tossing them aside.
The women gasped.
I choked on air.
Carlos stood there gleaming in the sunlight, oiled up like a rotisserie chicken, wearing nothing but a tiny red G-string that looked like it was fighting for its life.
Carlos might not have been the tallest or largest of men, but his man-junk bulge was unnaturally massive for his body size. Like three times too big.
“Oh my god,” I wheezed. “Is that thing for real?”
“Told you,” Becca said calmly.
And then it got worse.
“Hello, ladies,” said Carlos. He spread out his arms. “I give you The Carlos.”
Music blasted from the speakers, and I recognized “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred.
Carlos moved, his hips gyrating, chest popping, and confidence at an all-time high as he smacked his own ass while grinning down at all the ladies.
The women lost their minds.
Actual screaming. Whistling. Someone shouted his name like he was a rock star. Cards flew into the air. A woman near the front fanned herself so hard I thought she might take off.
I stared at the stage in stunned silence. “Am I at a charity auction?” I asked. “Or did I accidentally host a stripper convention?”
Carlos winked at me.
And I died a little inside.
“Sold!” cried Helen, and I’d never even heard the bidding. I was too distracted by Carlos’s thumping giant-sized joystick. “To the lovely lady with the hat in the front row for seven thousand dollars for a Latin Night with Carlos.”
“Damn, he went for more money than the handsome lawyer.” I was in shock.
Becca leaned closer. “Carlos has been doing this for years. And the rumor has it… he is very good with lots of things.”
“Ah.” Still. This was madness.
I was still half listening, half watching Carlos leap off the stage with a level of agility that did not match his age bracket when I caught the faint words handyman for a day drifting through the noise.
What?
I turned back toward the platform.
“Oh my god,” said Becca beside me. “That’s Alex Carter. He’s actually doing this? You didn’t tell me.”
“I…” I swallowed. “I had no idea.”
Dust-guy stood center stage like he belonged there—calm, confident, and completely sexy.
And then my brain shut off.