Chapter 23
AURORA
“All right,” Cyrus’s voice barks down the line at me. “Tell me about this auction.”
I turn back and forth, looking at my reflection in the floor-length mirror of the dressing room. “It’s called a none-of-your-business auction,” I say.
“Hilarious. So funny.”
I smile smugly and allow myself this moment of petty enjoyment, but the expression fades as I look again at the mirror.
Saturday has arrived, and with it the auction.
I’m a ball of nerves, for multiple reasons.
We’ve been working tirelessly on this event, and if it goes well, I’m going to ask Denice for a raise.
At the same time, I’m going to be up on stage in front of a group of people searching for love—a group of two hundred exactly, in fact, because we sold every last ticket. Any of them will be free to bid on me.
But the largest portion of my nervousness is due to the one man I want to be here. Roman said he would come tonight, and I texted him this morning to remind him, but all I got was a thumbs up.
I’m very confident he enjoys keeping me on my toes like this, the jerk. He probably sent that thumbs up while snickering at his phone and playing with his Rubik’s cube.
Then he probably looked at more real estate investments he could make behind the owners’ backs.
I cannot believe he bought my house. I can’t believe he had the money.
I can’t believe he had the audacity.
“Aurora,” Cyrus says loudly into my ear, and I roll my eyes.
“What?” I say.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Not really. I’m getting ready for the auction.”
“Poppy says it’s a date auction.”
“Why are you asking about it if you already know?”
“Because,” he says with the air of someone trying but failing to maintain patience, “I want to hear about it from you. Are people actually—what is it? Bidding? Are they bidding on you? Like livestock?”
“You make it sound wildly uncivilized,” I say with a frown. “No one here is livestock. Everyone is a member of our dating service. They signed up. They wanted to participate, and we go through extensive background verifications for our members.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like anything.”
“Shut up.”
“No,” I say. “You’re wasting your time, Cy. And you’re making this into much bigger a deal than it needs to be. I’ll maybe end up going on a date with someone one time—at worst. No parking lots or abandoned buildings or shut-down theme parks. Okay?”
When he doesn’t respond, I sigh, softening the tiniest bit.
“I’ll be safe, okay?”
He mutters mutinously under his breath, which is my cue to exit the conversation.
“I have to go, Cy. This thing starts in an hour, and I still have some last-minute stuff to do.” Then, before he can protest, I say, “Bye!”
I toss the phone onto the plush chair in the changing room, staring at it to make sure Cyrus doesn’t somehow materialize in this little clothing boutique.
It’s situated across the town square from the bookshop and the record shop, and I felt bad asking to use their dressing room when I was bringing my own outfit instead of buying anything, but they were great about it.
And I made the right choice, going back for the red dress. It still fits like a glove. It hits several inches above my knee, and the neckline is low but not too low. It hugs my curves just right, and the color is perfect, too.
I shouldn’t need clothes to make me feel good about myself. And for the most part, I don’t. But I do feel better, seeing my reflection—like I’m fitting my armor in place. I straighten up to my full height and then nod, looking around for where I put my shoes down.
There were several options I could have gone with for heels, but it didn’t take me long to settle on my tan pumps, sleek and clean and classy.
They give me a few extra inches of height.
And while I know I’m a hypocrite for caring about height when I hate that quality in men I date, I slip the shoes on anyway, feeling better as I do.
I just want to feel confident.
My hair, I decide, will stay down. My lips will be red. My mascara will be black.
And if I see Barf down there, smirking smugly like I think he might, I will ignore him—like I should have done all along. Mindy can have him. They might be very happy together.
But Bart and I never would have been. It’s too late to berate myself for getting attached. It happened. The best I can do now is move on, without lingering annoyance.
“All right,” I mutter, giving myself one last look in the mirror. “Good enough.”
Then I leave the changing room and head back out of the shop, weaving through the rows of shelves and into the town square.
It does look great, I’ll allow myself to say.
Lucky’s town square just has a sense of charm that can’t be replicated, with the strands of light overhead and the paved stone beneath.
Our quintessential small town shops lend an air of intimacy to the event, as do the booths their owners are setting up.
I wave at several of them as I pass, heading toward the stage that we spent the morning setting up. The last time there was a stage in this town square, we were putting on the Lucky Bicentennial Pageant, and India accidentally flashed the whole town.
There will be no repeats of that incident this evening.
“Could you move that a few feet up?” I call to my coworker who’s tacking the gauzy backdrop in place, an overlay to the red curtains already hung. The woman turns to look at me over her shoulder from the top of the ladder, and then she stretches up, lifting the sheer fabric higher.
“Here?” she calls back down to me.
“A little more—yeah, that’s good. Thank you, Hallie.
” I keep moving, adjusting a few tablecloths as I weave through the tables, corralling our ticket-takers and going over their schedule, and then checking on the food preparation.
When I’m satisfied that everything looks good—even Bart and Mindy, I can admit, dressed in a cute little couple outfit—I sigh, hopping up to sit on the stage for a moment.
It’s childish, but I’ve always loved to sit on counters and tables and whatever else is around. I swing my feet and cast another glance over the square.
It looks great. It looks really great, and the weather has cooperated beautifully. Everything should be good.
Hopping off the stage, I skirt past the group of sound people setting up speakers. Then I turn the sharp corner and run right into a giant—someone with a broad chest, a fresh scent, and gentle hands that steady me before stepping back.
Roman.
I know it’s him before I see his face, and when I glance up, it’s to find him looking faintly surprised.
Relief rushes through me at his appearance. He’s got on his classic business attire, tan pants and a blue button-up shirt with a suit coat, and that feeling in my chest grows.
I didn’t realize until this moment how badly I wanted him to be here.
“Hi,” I say, my voice a little breathless from slamming into him.
“Hi,” he says. His gaze skates over me, slow and steady. “That,” he finally says, “is a perfect dress.”
“Complimenting the dress and not the woman?” The question slips out full of sass, possibly inappropriate given our history, but I can’t take it back.
And depending on how he reacts…I’m not sure I want to.
Roman raises one brow at me—like I knew he would, by the way. “Would the woman in question be amenable to compliments?”
I swallow, watching the flash of interest in his eyes, feeling my pulse jump. “She would.”
He takes a step closer, looking down at me. “I’m here like you wanted me to be. But you’re walking a fine line, Aurora,” he murmurs, a faint thread of warning in his low voice.
“I’m going to walk more of it.”
Roman doesn’t move or speak. He just waits.
“I know I have no right to ask this of you,” I say, tilting my chin up. “And you can say no if you want. All right?”
He gives me a slow nod. “All right…”
“The auction,” I say, swallowing. I nod at everything going on around us—the employees still setting up last-minute details, the local businesses laying out their booths. “The date auction we’re putting on. It starts in half an hour.”
Now his eyes narrow, like he can tell where I’m going with this, but all he says is “I’m aware.”
My pride rears its ugly head in the face of the question I’m about to ask, and for a second, I want to concede. I’m tempted to walk away, my head held high—held so high, in fact, that I can’t see the ground beneath my feet or all the things I might be trampling on.
But I already asked him to be here. That was the first step. I can take this one, too.
Spit it out, Aurora. So I take a deep breath, look Roman straight in the eye, and say, “Will you bid on me?”
And I see the flicker of triumph, even as he continues to look at me with skepticism. “That depends,” he says slowly. “Are you going to take off running in the opposite direction when I win?”
When—not if.
“No,” I say. The word is hoarse.
“Because as a general rule,” he says, almost businesslike now, “I don’t put myself in situations where I’ll be rejected by the same woman over and over again.
” He steps impossibly closer, until we’re mere inches apart, and his brow lifts as his gaze darts over my features. “If I do this…we’re doing this.”
My heart is rattling in my chest, racing, and as my answer dances off my tongue, my pulse speeds even further.
“I understand,” I say.
I can see Roman’s mind work as he gives me another slow nod. “And knowing that—you still want me?”
A simple, matter-of-fact question. He doesn’t ask if I still want him to bid, or if I still want him here.
Just if I want him.
“Yes. If you’re willing,” I say hoarsely.
His gaze flits to my lips. “I’m willing.”
More relief floods through me—relief and something else, tentative but bright.
“Good. Thank you.” I pause and then go on, “My sisters will find you.”
“Wait,” he says, and before I know what’s happening, his arm has snaked around my waist, his eyes still on my mouth.
In one swift move his lips find mine in a searing kiss—a single firework in the sky that explodes and then falls away.
It’s over before I can even respond, and he looks down at me again.
“Call it a down payment,” he breathes roughly.
I blink up at him in dazed surprise. “I’m wearing lipstick.”
He shrugs. “Red looks good on me.” He pauses, his arm tightening around me for a second, and then he lets go, stepping back. “Glare extra hard at anyone else who tries to bid on you, please.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, and he shrugs.
“I don’t like to share,” he says, unrepentant and unabashed. Then he points at my face, at my narrowing eyes. “Yep. That one. The glare that’s hot but also sort of scary. Do that one.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, but I’m pressing my lips together mostly so I won’t smile at his ridiculous teasing—or at his kiss.