But I get in my truck the next night anyway.
Chapter 2
Wyatt
The mansion house where the auction is taking place isn’t what I expected. It looks like a luxury hotel and a country dance hall had a love child.
Valet attendants in black coats direct sleek sedans and SUVs under heated lanterns.
Mud-splattered ranch trucks with dented bumpers and hay sticking out of tailgates are parked right beside them.
I pretend I belong here, but the truth is I feel like a stray mutt in a room full of pedigrees until the ranch hands remind me this place isn’t about polish—it’s about purpose.
Tank steps out of his truck, eyes sweeping the scene. “Well, damn. Smells like money and horseshit.”
Tex adjusts his jacket like he’s about to charm a senator’s wife. “Smells like opportunity.”
I grunt. “Smells like regret.”
Tank claps my back. “That’s just you, bud. You wake up disappointed and build from there.”
I ignore him. Mostly because he’s not wrong.
We move toward the entrance. Men in tailored suits stride across the walkway with practiced confidence, polished shoes, expensive cologne, and an ‘I’ve never held a shovel’ posture.
Right behind them, cowboys in worn boots stroll as if they belong here too—and honestly, they do. This place was designed to be accessible: second chances for anybody, no matter their bank account or their brand of boots.
Tank nods at a group of ranch hands heading inside. “See that? Equal-opportunity matchmaking.”
Tex smirks. “We’re about to witness a socioeconomic crossover event.”
“Stop narrating like this is a nature documentary,” I mutter. “Makes it weird.” But I can’t deny it; the place is gorgeous.
Soft lighting spills from the glass awning. Marble steps gleam as if they’ve never seen real boots. Inside, a chandelier glitters like a suspended constellation.
And in the middle of it all? Cowboys. Ranchers. Men who came here hoping for a clean start.
Tank elbows me. “Relax, Saint. You’ll blend in.”
“With who?” I ask. “The CEO brigade or the cattlemen?”
“Yes,” Tex replies cheerfully, not answering my question
I shake my head and follow them inside, where money, hope, nerves, and cologne all mingle in the air.
One woman. One bid. That’s all this is supposed to be.
So why does my chest already feel tight?
We find seats in the back—exactly where I like to be. Tank and Tex immediately start whispering commentary on the décor, like two judgmental aunties.
“Those tablecloths are lavender,” Tank murmurs. “Is lavender romantic?”
“No, but that chandelier is,” Tex says. “Makes my skin look radiant.”
I close my eyes. “Why am I here?”
Then the auction starts.
