26. World’s Worst Chippendale
WORLD’S WORST CHIPPENDALE
Dawson
Nobody warned me that being a bachelor at this auction would be the equivalent of a meat raffle with cocktails. It was the Price is Right, and the showcases were eligible men and their questionable relationship skills.
Behind the main stage, an almost ceremonial hush had settled over the proceedings, the kind that precedes either a thunderclap or a catastrophic mistake.
Since not a single cloud dared mar the clear Oregon sky, I was betting heavily on the latter.
White globe lights strung above the boards cast a forgiving glow over the burlap-draped runway, as if even the décor felt sorry for us.
The crowd of women pressed close, their laughter rising in sharp, gleeful bursts, the unmistakable sound of people enjoying someone else’s humiliation.
That someone else was me. Us, technically.
I stood with the rest of the Lockhart men—Dean, Damon, and Dylan—who were all dressed in our Sunday best to be paraded around like pieces of meat, arranged in a lineup that could only be described as the world’s least-credible Chippendale audition.
The other men up on the auction block were Gio Russo, whose best feature was his uncanny ability to make everyone else look bad by comparison.
Cameron Dallas, an up-and-coming rodeo star.
Beckett “Beck” Hayes, a firefighter/paramedic who was both charming and handsome, a lethal combo.
Beck had a reputation as a shameless flirt, Still, I believed he was secretly a relationship guy who just hadn’t met anyone worth risking his heart for: Griffin Cole, laid-back, funny, and the town’s resident animal whisperer.
Griffin took over for the small-town veterinary clinic when Dr. Pollard retired and had a habit of bringing home strays nobody else wanted, a trait he shared with my mom.
Kids adored him, grandmas tried to marry him off, and half the single women in town suddenly found reasons their pets needed checkups.
And finally, Nash Wilder, bar owner & former pro hockey player, confident, tattooed, and annoyingly sexy.
After an injury ended his career on the ice, Nash returned home with the goal of turning the town’s rundown tavern The Heart & Anchor into its hottest gathering spot.
Its grand reopening was pending. He insisted he was perfectly happy being permanently single, which naturally made the matchmakers and single women in town determined to prove him wrong.
Gen approached the lineup in full command mode, a clipboard hugged to her chest and a walkie clipped to her waistband.
She moved from man to man in the group, dispensing last-minute instructions and threats with the same bright, unflappable smile.
When she stopped in front of us, even Damon shut up and stood at ease.
“Okay, here’s how it breaks down,” Gen announced, voice pitched low but clear.
“Dawson, you’re up first, right after the welcome.
Dean, Damon and Dylan, you’ll follow, then Gio, Beck, Griffin, and Nash.
You’ll get called up, with your sizzle reel playing on the screen.
You’ll answer three questions, one from the emcee, me, and two from the audience.
No cussing, nothing about politics or religion, and nothing raunchy, this is family-friendly.
Anyone who tries to get cute will regret it. ”
Damon straightened his lapels. “Define cute.”
“Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.” Gen pointed at him, then directed her attention to the men at large. “If anyone has questions, ask now or forever hold your peace.”
She waited two seconds and then dipped her chin in a nod. “Good.” And she was off, speaking over her walkie to whoever was on the other end.
Damon watched her walk away. “That woman frightens me in a good way. Like, I’d trust her with my PIN.”
I was barely listening, my mind was elsewhere, tracking the crowd for a particular person.
It was that sixth sense I’d never been able to shake, a trained radar for all things Sadie.
I could hear her laugh, two notes higher than her real one, the laugh she used when she was surrounded by people who expected her to be charming.
It took me less than thirty seconds to find her.
She was talking to a man in a white dress shirt, crisp, probably straight from the dry cleaner, sleeves rolled to his elbows with the calculated carelessness of someone who did not, in fact, do manual labor.
The man’s hair was dark and parted deep, gelled so precisely it looked like helmet plastic.
His jaw was angular, clean-shaven, and punctuated by a vertical dimple that made him look both smug and oppressive.
He had the air of someone who’d spent his college years tormenting underclassmen in some Ivy League secret society.
Sadie’s lips were parted in a polite smile, but I could see even from here that it wasn’t genuine.
I knew her tells: the subtle lean away, her hand on her stomach, the way her right foot angled toward the exit while the rest of her body played at engagement.
She wanted out of the conversation, but something—obligation, maybe, or sheer stubbornness—kept her rooted to the floor.
Damon followed my line of sight and whistled under his breath. “Who’s the suit? He looks like someone who gets his coffee overnighted from Milan.”
I felt a ripple of movement at my side, and suddenly my mother was there, her presence as strong as gravity.
At five feet even, Selma Lockhart had the ability to make everyone else feel like they needed to stand up straighter.
She wore a sea-green wrap dress and a pair of cowboy boots, her hair fell loose around her shoulders. She gave my arm a proprietary squeeze.
“Dawson, honey, are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you’re about to eat a horseshoe.”
“He’s fine,” Damon answered for me, grinning. “He just spotted Sadie’s new friend.”
Mom peered out into the crowd, then let out a soft, considering sound. “I just met him. His name is Peter.”
Right, I had a feeling it was her ex. Mom just confirmed it.
“Peter,” Damon repeated, as though trying it on for size. “Are you sure his name isn’t Clark?”
She pursed her lips. “No, I’m certain. Peter. From New York.”
“Really? ‘Cause I think it might be Clark, as in Clark Kent. You can’t tell me that is not Superman.”
I should have laughed, if only to show my brother he wasn’t getting to me.
I couldn’t. Instead, I watched Peter lean in toward Sadie, saying something I couldn’t hear but which made her expression flicker, as if she’d just caught a whiff of mildew in a bouquet of roses.
She blinked once, nodded, and then—deliberately—notched her body a half-step away from him.
I wondered if anyone else could see the minute choreography, the dance between what she wanted to say and what she couldn’t.
Mom sighed, “She wasn’t thrilled to see him.”
“No,” I agreed. “She wouldn’t be.”
Damon elbowed me. “Well, if you want to go over and save her, do it now. Otherwise, she might get carried back to the big city on the back of a flying superhero.”
The hell she would. Everything inside of me was telling me to fuck this auction, walk over and insert myself in their conversation.
Gen returned, this time with a bullhorn, putting the bachelors into parade order. “Places, everyone! Let’s go, Lockhart boys, upstage right.”
I felt Mom’s hand at my elbow, warm and steady. “Don’t do anything rash,” she warned in a whisper. “Let her fight her own battles. If she needs backup, she knows who to call.”
I nodded, but the words barely made it past the white noise of irritation in my head. I stared into the crowd and saw Sadie standing alone. Peter was nowhere to be found. I craned my neck and saw him walking away from her, he didn’t look too happy.
Before I could decide whether to abandon my post and responsibilities to make sure she was okay, the auction started, with Gen welcoming the crowd and explaining the rules.
There was a lot of hollering from the back row, mostly from the old-timers who’d been day-drinking since breakfast, and even more from the table of bridal shower attendees armed with custom T-shirts and dollar bills.
Then Gen brought the house down with my intro.
It was over-the-top, embarrassing, but the crowd lapped it up.
“Our first bachelor is none other than the infamous Dawson Lockhart, eldest son of the Lockhart dynasty, man of mystery and muscle, and, ladies, rumor has it he’s got a heart to match that jawline.
When he’s not wrangling cattle, he’s rescuing animals, drinking black coffee by the gallon, or breaking hearts left, right, and sideways.
He claims to prefer horses and dogs to people, but that’s only because none of you have convinced him otherwise!
” She winked at the assembled masses, lips painted fire-engine red.
I played my part. I smiled, answered her questions, and tried to keep my head in the game. But all the while, my gaze kept drifting back to Sadie. She was clapping for me, cheering along with the rest.
The bidding started at a hundred bucks, which was less than I’d paid for a pair of boots that fell apart in the rain, but it quickly took off like a stampede.
A brunette in an all-denim jumpsuit shouted, “Two hundred!” and a table of retired teachers instantly countered.
Within seconds, it was a bidding war. Gen kept up a rat-a-tat commentary, hyping my virtues in ways that made even me blush.
“He’s a man of the land, ladies—he can mend a fence, wrestle a bull, and still make it home by six for dinner!
Look at those arms! He’s practically a monument to American agriculture! ” I could barely keep a straight face.