Dark suit, easy smile, rolling up his sleeves when someone wolf-whistles. He finds Tessa across the room and winks, and I watch her try to smile back.
But something’s wrong.
“Milo Stone,” she says into the microphone, and her voice is all wrong. Thin. Shaky. Nothing like the confident woman who’s been running this auction for the past hour. “Owner of The Barn Bar, maker of the best cocktails in the county...”
She trails off, and I follow her gaze to where Cara Donovan is sitting. The woman who just won three bachelors in a row. Her paddle is in her lap, but Tessa doesn’t know she’s not going to bid.
Tessa’s terrified someone else is going to win him.
Good thing I have a plan.
“Let’s start the bidding at fifty dollars,” Tessa manages.
Paddles go up. Sixty. Eighty. A hundred. Two hundred.
Tessa’s knuckles are white around her clipboard. She’s watching Cara, waiting for the hammer to drop.
The bidding slows. Mayor Bradley leans toward the microphone.
I raise my paddle.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred dollars from Ben Wilson,” Mayor Bradley announces, sounding amused. “Do I hear five-fifty?”
Silence. No one’s going to bid against me. Half the room knows Milo’s my best friend, and the other half is too stunned to react.
“Going once... going twice...”
Tessa’s still staring. Her knuckles are white around her clipboard.
“Sold! To Ben Wilson for five hundred dollars.”
Milo’s jaw drops. Then a grin spreads across his face—slow, delighted, like he’s just figured out what I’m doing. He tips an imaginary hat at me from the stage.
One down. One to go.
Elijah takes the stage looking like he’s being led to execution. Shoulders hunched, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets. He hates this. Hates being the center of attention, hates being looked at.
When his eyes find mine in the crowd, I give him a small nod.Trust me.
He doesn’t look reassured.
“Elijah Smith,” Tessa says into the microphone. Her voice is steadier now, warmer. “Master craftsman, creator of the beautiful stage we’re standing on tonight...”
The bidding starts low. Fifty. Seventy. A hundred.
“Two hundred.” Maeve Bennett’s voice cuts through the room.
I look at her. The bakery owner is smiling sweetly, paddle raised.
“Three hundred,” I counter.
Elijah’s head snaps toward me. Surprise flickers across his face, then understanding. Then something that might be relief.
“Three-fifty.”
“Four hundred.”
