The spotlight beaming down on the dates up for auction, including me, is bright as the fucking sun. Not only do I regret my decision to offer myself up like a piece of meat to a pack of wolves, but I also regret my decision to wear a bright yellow gown. With the light beaming down on the stage, I feel like a beacon of light in the middle of the ocean.
Nerves slither down the length of my spine. With my pulse racing, my eyes adjust to the light, scanning the shadow sea of people gathered below.
Breathe in. Breathe deep. Breathe out.
“All right, everyone!” The announcer emerges from side stage.
He’s tall with a smile brighter than the gold rings around each of his fingers. His black bow tie is slightly crooked, but he adjusts it as he saunters over to center stage as effortlessly as a duck paddling through water. “My name is Scott and I’ll be your announcer for this evening. Welcome to New York City’s largest charity organization, City Angels’ first annual Auction ofLove. Where several lucky bidders will win a date with these stunning singles, all while donating to some incredible charitable causes!” Scott half turns, holding out his arm to showcase the ten of us standing in a row.
The ballroom erupts into applause.
Clinking champagne glasses and cheers echo from below. Now that my eyes have finally adjusted to the lighting, I search the crowd for London and Charleigh, desperate to cling onto to the sight of them for survival. Instead, my gaze lands on two blue eyes piercing through the darkness—ones I was staring into thirty minutes ago, when they were only inches from mine, melting me into a puddle.
Holt’s gaze is unwavering and hard as stone, but his mouth is clamped shut, and his sculpted, sharp jaw ticks, his muscles twitching beneath his smooth skin, indicating he’s as surprised as I am to see me standing up here.
“Before we begin,” Scott booms into the microphone wrapped tightly in his grip. The blood drains to my feet, stealing my attention. “We would like to send a thank you to all our event coordinators and sponsors. Without them, this night wouldn’t be possible. Let’s give them a hand.”
The crowd explodes into another round of applause before the auction gets underway. I stand at the end, debating whether it would be in my interest to go first or last. I’m standing at the end of the line, near the edge of the curtain. Behind the ten of us, a small quartet is set up. The drummer starts a slow and hushed beat before the rest of the band joins in. First, the guitarist, then the bassist. The beat vibrates across the stage, matching the speed of my heartbeat, ramping up my anxiety.
I sigh with relief when Scott starts at the opposite end of the line.
He calls the first woman forward: a tall, queenly woman in a gorgeous, black velvet, floor-length gown. She moves tojoin him at the front of center stage, and he asks her to introduce herself. She gives her name, age, and occupation—all the basic details you would learn from an online dating profile. Then he opens the bidding up. I try not to show my stunned expression when the bidding starts out with a four-digit figure.
By the end of the bidding, I have to force my mouth shut when it closes at just under six figures, and the winner is asked to come on stage. A young man appearing the same as the woman he’s just won a date with weaves his way through the crowd to join her. He passes by the line of us waiting, on a mission to meet his date. He shakes the woman’s hand with a large grin, then leans forward and presses his lips to her cheek. She giggles when he whispers something in her ear. After one more round of applause from the crowd, the couple return to the line, standing hand in hand.
Then Scott moves effortlessly onto the next single. An older man dressed in a perfectly tailored black tux. Julianna managed to cast a wide range of candidates. Each one of us is of different ages and genders.
The auctions go faster than I expect, and, for a moment, I’m drawn into the excitement of it all. I listen intently to everyone’s bios and stare blankly into the crowd once the bidding begins. Every time I turn back to the crowd, I can’t help looking at Holt. He remains where he is near the back, with his handsome, unwavering expression.
I’m almost caught up in him, but my neck prickles with nerves the faster the bids start to go. Before I’ve even had a chance to ready myself, Scott is standing beside me.
“And last, but certainly by no means least, is this stunning woman in yellow. She’s a golden ray of sunshine, am I right?” Scott grins, revealing his blinding white, straight teeth. The crowd hums and hollers in agreement. Scott nods, riled up fromthe crowd’s reaction, then he turns to me. “Tell us, young lady, what’s your name?”
He shoves the microphone toward me, holding it close to my mouth. I want to jump out of my skin. A lump swells in my throat and my heart races. There’s only ever been one other moment in my life when I found myself wishing to be anywhere other than where I was in that moment.
Vastly different circumstances, yet similar sensations humming in my body.
I clasp my hands in front of me and blankly scan the crowd, swallowing my nerves before answering. “My name…” I clear my throat and sweep my tongue across my suddenly dry lips. “My name is Selene Walker.”
“Selene Walker, everyone!” Scott shouts. The crowd erupts into applause. “That’s a beautiful name, Selene.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, unable to look at Scott.
“Tell us, what’s your age? What do you do for a living, and where are you from?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old,” I start, my voice shaky and uneven. “Originally from Long Island, though I currently live in Manhattan. I’m a florist.”
“Florist, huh?” Scott clicks his tongue, eyeing me suspiciously.
My skin crawls.
I stare at Scott, wondering why he’s looking at me with a cocked brow when he adds in a surly voice, “Something tells me there’s more to you, Selene Walker. Come on. Tell us something interesting and unexpected.”
“Um,” I mutter, frantically searching my brain for anything remotely interesting about myself until the first idea pops into my head. “I’ve written a novel.” Once I realize what I’ve just said, I curl inward, shrinking under the spotlight.
“An author?” Scott’s mouth falls open before he turnstoward the crowd, encouraging them to react. He swings back to me, waiting for my answer.
Fuck, why did I mention my novel? Stupid nerves.
