Chapter 19 Sarah
SARAH
Isat there frozen, coffee halfway to my mouth, waiting for the scene to rearrange itself into something that made sense. I blinked. And blinked again, just in case last night’s drinking had finally crossed into hallucination territory.
Nope.
That was Dust-guy, and he was on the stage.
Sunlight caught on his skin, making him look like he’d been lit on purpose.
He wore jeans and a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms inked with dark, subtle tattoos.
A tool belt sat low on his hips, heavy with actual tools.
Damn. Did he look better than I’d remembered?
My mouth was still open. Was I drooling? Possibly.
“That’s right, ladies,” Helen announced, clearly enjoying herself. “We have a very special bachelor today.”
Dust-guy’s lips twitched, like he knew exactly what effect he was having.
“Our local house investor and flipper,” continued Helen. “I’ll admit, it took some convincing. But in the end, this is for the town.” She paused for effect. “And I’m pleased to say he agreed.”
The crowd murmured. Cards rustled. Someone sighed.
“So,” said Helen brightly, “we’ll start the bidding at six hundred dollars for Handyman for a Day.”
Becca’s elbow dug into my side. “You have to bid.”
I finally found my voice. “I absolutely do not.” I wiped my mouth with my fingers, just in case I’d been drooling.
“That is your man.”
A startled laugh escaped me. “He is not my man.” Though a part of me did like the idea. I mean… there was that kiss…
“Six hundred!” a woman from the front row called out, the overly tanned one from yesterday, already leaning forward like she’d trained for this.
“Eight hundred!” another voice chimed in.
My pulse kicked up. Should I be bidding?
No. Absolutely not. This was not me. I wasn’t one of those women who came here this weekend ready to fling money at a bachelor like he was a silent auction gift basket with a side of bumping uglies.
I paid my bills on time. I recycled. I owned sensible shoes. I did not bid on men.
I glanced at Becca, who looked like she was one eyebrow raise away from doing it for me, and felt my resolve wobble. Because apparently all it took was one quiet, stupid man with broad shoulders and a stare that made my panties combust for my moral compass to start spinning.
“Sarah,” urged Becca, grinning. “You want him. It’s written all over your face.”
“So is last night’s wine,” I told her. My head still felt like it had been drop-kicked by garden gnomes.
Becca leaned closer. “I’m just saying. Look at those arms. That man could lift furniture with his pinky finger. Or people.”
On stage, Dust-guy smirked as someone in the front row said something to him I couldn’t hear. He dipped his head politely, like he wasn’t being openly objectified by two hundred people.
“I’m not bidding on a human being,” I told her while my traitorous mind screamed, Do it, do it, do it!
“Please,” said Becca. “He’s barely human. Have you seen that ass? That’s artisanal.”
I snorted. “You did not just call his butt artisanal.”
“Oh, I did,” she said proudly. “Handcrafted by the goddess. Don’t you want a piece of that ass?”
“Shut up.” I laughed. “You’re insane.” I looked back at Dust-guy. I couldn’t tell if he was actually enjoying himself or just putting on a show for the row of openly horny females.
“If you don’t bid,” Becca added sweetly, “you’re going to lose him.”
“I can’t lose him if I don’t already have him.” Shit. My hands were sweaty, and I rubbed them on my jeans.
Becca’s smile widened. “That’s quitter talk.”
“I’m not a quitter,” I started. “It’s just… no. No, no, no. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this.” I pressed my lips together, as if that might stop my brain from free-falling. “This is a bad idea. Capital B. Capital I.”
It was a bad idea. Right? I couldn’t bid on a man I actually liked and force him into a fake date like he was a lawn chair at a charity raffle.
That crossed several moral lines. Probably legal ones.
Yet my brain kept circling back, helpfully reminding me that I’d once eaten gas-station sushi and survived.
Clearly my decision-making history was not a strong argument here.
Even for me, this felt… ambitious.
“What are you waiting for?” Lola appeared behind us and dropped into a squat between the rows. “Do him.”
I stared at her. “Did you just say do him?”
Lola waved a hand. “You know what I mean. Why aren’t you bidding your fabulous tush off?”
I glanced to the side and caught Mark the sailor openly checking Lola out as she bent over. Of course he was. Men.
“Do you hate him?” asked Lola, studying my face like she was diagnosing a rash.
I frowned at her. “No. Of course not.”
“Do you think he’s unattractive?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly is the problem?” she asked. “Because from where I’m standing, this is a textbook case of unnecessary restraint.”
“I don’t bid on men,” I said weakly. Yeah, that sounded pretty lame, but it’s all I had at the moment.
Lola sighed. “Sweetheart, men love being bid on. It makes them feel chosen.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “And when a man feels chosen, he starts trying to earn it. Suddenly he’s attentive. Generous in the bedroom. Very… committed to exceeding expectations.”
My eyes widened. “This is a charity auction.” Though I had a feeling the women here all expected a little something from these bachelors. Whether or not they got it, I had no idea.
Lola smiled. “Exactly. He thinks you invested in him.” She paused. “Men get very ambitious when they think they’ve been selected. I once bid on a man who spent the entire date trying to prove his gratitude. Drinks, dinner, compliments, stamina. It was exhausting.” She sighed. “In the best way.”
I groaned. “Please stop.”
Lola patted my arm. “I’m just saying, a man who thinks you wanted him enough to raise your paddle will work very hard to justify that decision. Across the board.”
“That is not helping.”
“Put on your big girl pants and bid already,” expressed Lola. “Or don’t, and spend the rest of the afternoon wondering what his shoulders would’ve felt like under your hands. Or his ass…”
I swallowed. That… also wasn’t helping.
“I don’t know,” I said weakly. “It’s a lot of money.”
“I’ll pay for him,” said Lola casually, like she was offering to cover brunch.
Becca nodded enthusiastically. “I’d second that.”
I shook my head. “I can’t let you do that.
You’ve already helped so much.” Which was true.
If Lola hadn’t written me that enormous check, I probably wouldn’t even be standing here right now, much less considering bidding on the man who’d kissed me in my den and was now standing on a stage in a tool belt, looking way too pretty.
And then Dust-guy’s gaze landed on me.
Ah, crap.
I felt my insides twist. Nerves or stupid hormones, hard to tell. Possibly both. Watching him up there, looking over the crowd, I told myself I was fine. That I hadn’t expected anything else. That this was how it was always going to go.
Except that wasn’t true.
The kiss hadn’t felt accidental. It hadn’t felt like bad judgment or a momentary lapse in sanity. Well, maybe a bit on my part. But still it had felt… amazing. On both sides.
It took a good man to keep his word too. He said he’d help with the inspection of the inn, and he did. More, even. He showed up every morning for days, not just inspecting but quietly fixing things while he was there, like he assumed I wouldn’t notice.
I noticed.
How he fixed the radiator on the second floor when he thought I wasn’t spying.
I totally was. Or when he replaced a piece of crown molding that had rotted clean through from old water damage on the third floor.
Little things. Unnecessary things. The kind of fixes you do when you care, not when you’re on the clock.
He never mentioned them. Never pointed them out. Never added them to some imaginary invoice. Any other man in his place would have absolutely billed me for every minute, every screw, every breath.
Dust-guy didn’t.
He just showed up. Did the work. Left things better than he found them.
Dust-guy was a good man, loyal and dependable.
And, inconveniently, sexy as hell.
Still, I wouldn’t have let myself think about him in that way before. But standing there with the ocean behind him, the auction happening, and my heart doing something it absolutely didn’t have permission to do, I finally stopped pretending.
I liked him. I really liked him.
And I had a feeling he liked me too.
“Nine thousand!” someone shouted from the middle rows.
I physically flinched. “That’s a used car,” I whispered.
“Ten thousand,” came another voice, calm and terrifying.
The lawn erupted as cards shot up. Gasps. Applause. Someone actually laughed like this was sport.
I sat very still, my coffee mug useless in my lap. My brain did the math without being asked and immediately shut itself down for safety reasons.
“So you won’t bid?” asked Becca.
I shook my head. “No.”
Lola leaned forward again. “I told you, I’ll cover it.”
“No,” I repeated firmly. “I am not letting you buy me a man like he’s a handbag.”
“I’ve bought worse things,” answered Lola with a shrug.
I didn’t doubt her. “Thanks, but no. It’s fine. Really.”
On stage, Dust-guy shifted his weight, his hands resting casually on his tool belt, looking like he’d wandered into this situation by accident and decided to handle it gracefully.
He smiled at the crowd, polite, composed, and completely unaware that the price on his time had officially reached numbers that made my checking account curl up and cry.
“Ten thousand, five hundred!” shouted a female voice.
I raised a brow. This was officially out of my tax bracket. My lifetime tax bracket. I felt weird for not bidding. Not jealous, exactly. Just… displaced. Like I’d stepped out of a moment that maybe wasn’t meant for me after all.
Yet, I knew I was doing the right thing.
I couldn’t afford that kind of money. Not in any universe where I planned on keeping the lights on at the inn. And right now, the inn was most important. It had to be.
“Going once,” Helen called.
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
“Going twice…”
A woman stood from the front row. She was stunning in a way that felt expensive.
Mid-fifties, maybe. Long, wavy red hair cascaded over her shoulders like she’d paid someone very well for it, a pearl choker snug around her neck.
Enormous breasts were held aloft by confidence alone, and tight white linen pants had never known fear.
She lifted her card with manicured fingers. “Fifteen thousand,” she said, smiling like she already owned him.
“Fuck me,” breathed Becca.
“Fuck me sideways,” I added.
Helen blinked. Then smiled. “Do I hear anything higher?”
Silence. Absolute, reverent silence.
“Sold,” said Helen, pointing. “To the lady in white.”
Applause thundered across the lawn.
The woman blew Dust-guy a kiss. He laughed, genuinely this time, shaking his head as he stepped forward to accept his fate.
I sat there, my hands folded in my lap, and my heart doing something uncomfortable but manageable.
Weird, sure. But right.
I watched Dust-guy hop down from the stage and approach the winner, who was already saying something animated, already touching his arm like familiarity was a foregone conclusion.
And for the first time since the auction started, I let myself look away.
I hadn’t bid.
And even though part of me wanted to rewind the last five minutes and make a very different choice, I knew one thing for certain.
Some things weren’t meant to be won with a paddle and a number.
Even if they looked finger-licking good in a tool belt.