“I think I need to start the bidding,” Levi says to Addie.
“I think you’re falling down on the job. It already started without you,” she answers.
“Okay, folks, I’ve got thirty thousand dollars at this table to my right. Do I have?—”
My paddle flies up before I’ve decided I’m definitely doing this. “Thirty-five.”
Addie visibly chokes. “That one didn’t count,” she says to Levi.
He squints at me. “Why?”
“He’s Canadian.”
Levi grins. “That’s a shitty reason.”
She doesn’t grin back. “Give me a beer and five minutes, and I’ll come up with a better answer.”
“Forty thousand,” the wank-nut next to me says.
“Forty-five.” I’m being an absolute fuck myself.
But none of these assholes—noneof them—would’ve given her a second glance if she’d walked on stage in her baseball uniform.
Fuck. Them.
They don’t deserve her.
And I have a metric ass-ton to unpack when I make my next appointment with my therapist.
Addie doesn’t want me. She wanted us to be a secret. She’s given me zero signs she still thinks about me at all. She doesn’t do long-term relationships.
And that’s what I want.
I want what my friends have. I want a wife. I want kids. I want pets. I want tosee my partnermore than three hours a week.
Even if Addie did serious relationships, we wouldn’t have worked. We’re both too busy.
So why am I doing this?
Closure, half my brain says.
A second chance on her terms, the other half of my brain says.
“Fifty thousand,” Waverly Sweet calls.
“She can’t bid on me either,” Addie says. “Pop star rule, remember?”
Levi chuckles. “Any of them can, Coach. Even the Canadians are using American dollars tonight.”
“People usually listen to me when I use my stern voice.”
“You can use your stern voice on me, baby,” the shitwaffle mutters.
“Seventy-five thousand dollars,” I hear myself say.
A small gasp ripples through the room.
“Are you for fucking real?” Addie gapes at me.
