I’m supposed to take one a day. I took one this morning.
I shake two into my palm anyway.
My hands are trembling as I grab the water bottle from my cupholder. The pills go down easy, familiar. I’ve been taking these for years. They’ve never failed me before.
They can’t fail me now.
I set the bottle on the passenger seat and take a deep breath. Then another. The ache between my legs is still there, but knowing I’ve done something—taken action, made a plan—helps settle the panic in my chest.
This is fine. I’m fine. It’s just my body being stupid. The extra dose will kick in soon and I’ll be back to normal and I can get through this meeting and figure out the rest later.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, slightly wild expression.
Not great. But manageable.
I grab my bag and push open the car door. Cold air hits my face, sharp and bracing. Good. I need that.
Focus, Tessa. You have a meeting. Appetizer menus. Seating charts. Normal, controllable things that don’t make you want to crawl out of your skin.
And after that, you’re going to find Ben Wilson and make him say yes to this auction if it’s the last thing you do.
One problem at a time.
Ben first. My traitorous body later.
Chapter 8
Ben
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being strategic.” I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, watching the snow start to fall outside my cabin window. “There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not.” Bea’s voice is sharp with the particular brand of sisterly exasperation she’s perfected over twenty-two years. “Tessa Lang has asked you a dozen times. At least. At this point you’re not being strategic, you’re being a coward.”
“Fourteen, but who’s counting. And I prefer the term ‘tactically evasive.’“
“I prefer the term ‘emotionally constipated.’“
“Wow. That’s hurtful.”
“It’s accurate.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. “What is your problem? It’s a bachelor auction. You stand on a stage, smile pretty, let some nice lady bid on you for a date. It’s not a lifetime commitment.”
That’s exactly the problem, but I’m not about to tell her that.
“Maybe I don’t want to be paraded around like a prize pig at the county fair.”
“You literally competed in a hot dog eating contest last Fourth of July. In front of the entire town. You had mustard on your face for three hours.”
“That was different. That was for charity.”
“This IS for charity!”
“Benjamin, just say yes to the poor girl!” Mom’s voice echoes from somewhere behind Bea, and I groan.
“Are you at Mom and Dad’s? Did you call me just so the whole family could gang up on me?”
“I called you because you’re being an idiot and someone needs to tell you.” Bea’s clearly enjoying herself now. “Mom just happens to agree with me.”
