“Do we have one ten?” Isabella asked.
“One twenty-five,” came a shout from across the crowd. Not Sophie.
Silence fell over the room.
Stone’s eyes locked with Sophie’s, imploring her silently. Wishing he’d bid an even higher amount on her T-shirts. An amount so outlandishly outlandish it would obliterate her common sense that was no doubt telling her to stop bidding. That the money could be better spent elsewhere.
“One ninety-five,” Sophie declared sharply, erupting the crowd with more excited chatter.
“Two hundred,” rang out a new voice, cold and clear.
What the… Stone scanned the sea of faces, finally resting his gaze on a woman in the back. Her smile was tinged with an enigmatic allure. Why was she bidding on him?
“Two fifty,” Sophie countered firmly, her paddle high in defiance.
“We have two fifty. Can I hear two seventy-five?” Isabella said, seizing on the sudden quiet.
Stone glanced at Isabella, appalled at the amount of money she was egging the bidders to spend.
Isabella didn’t look the least bit guilty. Her eyes twinkled with the thrill of the auctioneer’s chase.
“Two seventy-five,” someone said, causing a new avalanche of bids.
Stone’s heart pounded. He’d been a damn fool to put himself in this situation. Exposed, vulnerable, his future dangling on the strings of women drunk with champagne and unlimited bank balances.
“Two eighty,” came the counter from the woman in black, her voice carrying a challenge.
Isabella smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a real bidding war on our hands. How much are these fine participants willing to pay to uncover Mr. X’s tantalizing secret? A man who did promise to reimburse you if you’re not impressed with what he shares.” She glanced at Stone and winked.
This seemed to shake loose the inhibitions of every last bidder in the room, and the bidding frenzy escalated.
As the bids soared, Stone’s mind wandered back to his childhood in the orphanage, where even the most minor luxuries were out of reach. He remembered dreaming of simple pleasures—a lunch packed with Hostess Cupcakes, Oscar Mayer Lunchables, and name-brand sodas—things other children took for granted. He had been grateful at the orphanage for the meals provided, but they had been a stark reminder of what he didn’t have.
It wasn’t until Clarabelle had taken in him and his brothers that he had experienced the joy of choosing his school supplies and clothes, not those given out of charity. The luxury of choice had been a profound gift, yet here he was, witnessing his secret being auctioned off for sums he once couldn’t even fathom.
“One million,” Sophie said, her voice firm and resolute.
Stone blinked. Had he heard her correctly? That was half of the amount he’d bid on her silent auction bundle. This woman, who’d quit college and worked odd jobs to make ends meet for both herself and Poppie, was now giving up half of a windfall to buy him. Was it because she loved him? Or had she gotten carried away? Was she trying to keep the bidding going in thehopes of making ridiculous amounts of money for the charity? Was that what Ms. Birdie had talked to her about? Told her to bid when it looked like he was about to be sold. Was it a calculated risk on Ms. Birdie’s part that someone would outbid Sophie?
It didn’t matter. Sophie had bid on him. He’d worry about why later. Hell, he’d happily reimburse her.
No new bid rang out.
Isabella, looking as shocked as he felt, picked up her gavel. “Going once, going twice, and sold.”
As the gavel slammed down, Stone’s gaze found Sophie’s. Her eyes were a little wild, his no doubt the same.
Applause burst forth like a storm, and Stone stood there, unsure what to do.
The indecision was fleeting because Isabella’s voice reclaimed the room’s attentiveness. “Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the stage for one final spectacle.”
The lights dimmed and then flared dramatically. During this time, Stone was helped off the stage by Ziggy.
“Let’s welcome the authors whose works inspired this evening’s auction.” A line of women stepped through the curtain.
Stone swiveled, searching for Sophie, certain she’d come backstage to claim her prize. Well, if not certain, at least hopeful.
“…Aggie the Horrible versus…”
