Chapter 8 #2
I don't answer because Harper's eyes find mine across the room. She takes in my outfit—the blue button-down Maya swears makes Harper weak—and her smile shifts into something dangerous.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The MC's voice booms. "Our bachelor auction begins in ten minutes! Bachelors, please report backstage!"
I stand, still watching Harper. She's deliberately not looking at me now, but her fingers are playing with her necklace.
Backstage is chaos. Eight guys ranging from twenty-two to fifty, all looking various degrees of uncomfortable. The MC, Mrs. Patterson from the church, is reading from note cards and muttering about "appropriate descriptions."
"Bachelor number four," she squints at my card, "Dr. Nathaniel Wilder. Veterinarian. Thirty years old. Hobbies include... animal rescue and brooding?"
"Lucas wrote that," I say quickly.
"It says here you're six-foot-two, work out regularly, and have, quote, 'hands that should be registered as weapons.'"
"Lucas wrote that too."
"And you're offering a full day experience including breakfast, farm visit, and dinner."
"That one's actually true."
She pats my arm. "Good luck, dear. The divorced moms have been pre-gaming in the parking lot."
Through the curtain gap, I can see Harper at a front table, Marcus still touching her casually—her shoulder, her hand, the nape of her neck. Each touch makes my jaw clench harder.
Bachelor number one goes for five hundred to Mrs. Thompson. Bachelor number three, a firefighter who flexes unnecessarily, causes a bidding war that tops out at twelve hundred.
Harper hasn't bid on anyone. But she's whispering with Marcus, their heads close together, and she's running her finger along the rim of her wine glass in that way that means she's planning something.
"Bachelor number four, you're up!"
I walk onstage to enthusiastic whooping. The divorced moms are indeed present and accounted for. But I only care about one person's reaction.
Harper's looking at her phone, deliberately ignoring me.
"Dr. Nate Wilder, ladies! Local veterinarian, specializes in large animals, and according to his friend Lucas, gives excellent foot massages!"
"LUCAS!" I shout offstage.
The crowd laughs. Harper finally looks up, and our eyes lock.
Game on, Harps.
"Let's start the bidding at one hundred dollars!" Mrs. Patterson announces, and immediately three paddles shoot up.
Harper's still aggressively studying her phone like it contains the secrets of the universe. Marcus has his arm draped across the back of her chair, fingers playing with her hair, and I'm trying not to let it affect me. Failing spectacularly.
"Two hundred!" someone shouts from the back.
"Three hundred!" That's Mrs. Gilmore, who has to be seventy if she's a day.
"Five hundred!" A woman in her forties wearing a shirt that says "Divorced and Dangerous" waves her paddle enthusiastically.
Harper glances up, catches me looking at her, then whispers something to Marcus. He laughs, loud and French and annoying.
"Six hundred!" Another paddle.
"Seven hundred!"
The divorced moms are circling like sharks now, and I should be flattered, but Harper's still not bidding. She's swirling her wine, that little smile playing at her lips, watching other women want me.
Fine. Two can play this game.
I unbutton my cuff and slowly roll up my sleeve, revealing my forearm. The divorced mom section audibly sighs.
"Eight hundred!"
I roll up the other sleeve.
"Nine hundred!"
"One thousand dollars!" Mrs. Gilmore shouts, and her husband looks like he's about to have a cardiac event.
Harper's jaw tightens. Marcus whispers something in her ear, and she shakes her head.
You know what? Screw it.
I reach for my collar, undoing the top two buttons. When that doesn't get Harper's attention, I undo a third. The stage lights are hot anyway. That's my story.
"Eleven hundred!"
"Twelve hundred!"
I stretch, arms above my head, and—oops—my shirt rides up, showing a strip of abs. Total accident. Definitely not intentional.
"Fifteen hundred!" someone screams.
Harper's knuckles are white around her wine glass.
I run a hand through my hair, messing it up just enough, then lean against the podium in a way that makes my shirt pull tight across my chest.
The divorced moms lose their minds.
"Two thousand!"
Harper's eyes snap to mine, furious. Good. At least she's looking.
"Twenty-five hundred!"
Marcus is openly laughing now, and Harper's face is flushed. She sets down her wine glass with deliberate precision.
"Three thousand!"
Still nothing from Harper. Maybe she really is done with me. Maybe boundaries mean—
"Five thousand dollars."
The room goes silent. Harper's standing, paddle raised, chin lifted in that defiant way that makes me want to press her against a wall and—
"Five thousand going once?" Mrs. Patterson sounds stunned.
Harper's staring at me, and there's murder in her eyes. Also something else. Something that looks a lot like want.
"Going twice?"
The divorced moms are whispering frantically, but no one's raising their paddle. Marcus is grinning like this is the best entertainment he's had in years.
"Sold! To Ms. Harper Lane for five thousand dollars!"
Harper sits down immediately, draining her wine in one go. She won't look at me now, but her chest is rising and falling rapidly.
"Well," Mrs. Patterson says to me as I leave the stage. "That was quite the bidding war."
I head backstage, adrenaline still pumping. Through the curtain, I can hear Marcus's delighted voice: "Darling, that was magnificent! Five thousand dollars! What exactly are you planning to do with him?"
I don't hear Harper's answer, but I'm already planning what I want her to do with me.
One whole day. Five thousand dollars.
Worth every penny she doesn't actually have.
I'm barely out the back door before Harper follows, the night air electric with the incoming storm. She's ditched Marcus somewhere inside, and she's coming at me like a force of nature in that criminal dress.
"Five THOUSAND dollars?!" She's absolutely livid, her voice echoing off the brick walls.
"You're the one who bid."
"You were STRIPPING!"
"I was adjusting my clothing. It's hot under those lights."
"You were performing for divorced mothers!"
"You brought a DATE!" The accusation tears out of me before I can stop it.
"Marcus is gay!" she shouts back.
I freeze. "What?"
"Gay. Homosexual. Interested in men. He's dating someone named Philippe who owns a vineyard in Bordeaux."
"But Maya said—"
"Maya lied. We wanted to see if you'd do something stupid." She gestures wildly. "And congratulations, you exceeded all expectations!"
"You were testing me?"
"You were flexing at other women!"
We're standing too close now, rain starting to fall, and she's breathing hard, chest heaving in that dress that's going to be the death of me.
"Why did you bid?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Because I couldn't watch them pawing at you."
"Why?"
"You know why."
"Say it."
She backs up until she hits the brick wall, but I follow, caging her in with my arms. The rain's coming down harder now, and her hair is starting to stick to her skin, that dress clinging in ways that test every ounce of my self-control.
"Say it, Harper."
"I wanted to stop them." The admission comes out broken. "I couldn't stand watching other women want what's—" She stops herself.
"What's what?" I lean closer, rain running down my face.
"Mine." The word is barely a whisper. "What should be mine."
"Harper." My hand comes up to cup her jaw. "I've always been yours. Even in California. Even when I tried not to be."
She looks up at me, water droplets on her eyelashes, and we're both soaked now, the storm unleashing fully. Her hand fists in my shirt, pulling me closer. "This is such a bad idea."
"The worst," I agree, but I'm already leaning down, and she's already reaching up. Our mouths are inches apart, sharing breath, the heat between us defying the cold rain—
"Harper! There you are!" Marcus appears in the doorway, holding an umbrella. "Maya's looking for you. Something about payment forms?"
Harper's head whips to look at Marcus, eyes wide.
Marcus takes in our rain-soaked state and minimal distance. "Oh, did I interrupt something? Were you about to make terrible decisions against a brick wall in a thunderstorm? How very dramatic."
Harper's face burns red even in the dim light. "Marcus!"
"What? He's clearly gone feral for you, darling. Look at him—he's about to combust." He opens the umbrella with a flourish. "Shall we go inside? You need to sign papers for your very expensive veterinarian."
Harper looks at me, rain-soaked and desperate, but stays pressed against the wall like she needs it for support. "One whole day. That's what I bought."
"One whole day," I confirm, stepping back to give her space. But not before I feel her whole body trembling.
She pushes off the wall, walks past me toward the door, then pauses. "Tomorrow. Eight AM. The Willowbridge Inn restaurant. Breakfast."
"No." The word comes out before I can stop it.
She turns, rain streaming down her face. "I bought you. I set the terms."
"Six AM. My father's barn—my barn."
Her breath hitches. "Why there?"
"Because it holds history." I meet her eyes through the rain. "Come collect what you paid for, Harper."
The challenge hangs between us, charged with promise and six years of unfinished business.
"Six AM," she agrees, voice barely audible over the storm.
She disappears inside with Marcus, leaving me standing in the rain, already counting down the hours.