I step back, giving her room to breathe. “No need to thank me.”
The urge to touch her is almost overpowering.
Almost.
She bites her lower lip again. Deliberately. Like she’s toying with my control. “So,” she says, “what do you need me to do?”
So many deeply inappropriate thoughts flash through my head.
I swallow hard. “Excuse me?”
“You said I owe you,” she reminds me. “And that you’d collect tonight.”
“Right.” I reach into my jacket and pull out a glossy card, holding it up between us. “It’s simple. I need you to buy me.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m fairly certain buying people is illegal.”
“Not to own,” I assure her. “You’re buying one date.” I tap the card. “I’m about to be hauled onstage and bid on. And you, Pix, will buy me.”
She blinks. “Why?”
“Because the last thing I need is a quiet evening chained to some half-baked socialite or influencer or?—”
“Celebrity?” she offers, timidly.
“Or celebrity.” I shudder. “Exactly.”
She snaps the card from my hand and scans the rules, lips pursing. “Hmm.”
“Hmm?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Casanova.” Her mouth tilts, pouty. Patronizing. “Auctioning yourself off feels… bleak. Couldn’t you try, oh, I don’t know, Tinder?”
“You think I need Tinder?” I scoff, catching the distinct notes of disdain in her words.
She shrugs one shoulder, unapologetically. “I’m just saying. Tinder feels less… livestock-adjacent.”
Now I know she’s not just taunting me.
She’s pissed.
I have no idea what I did to set her off, but the urge to do it again is strong.
Preferably somewhere with a bed.
“It’s for charity.” I tap the flyer. “I’m not exactly chasing the spotlight. And attention is the last thing I need.”
“Says the shirtless man.”
“It’s a dressing room,” I point out. “A private one you barged into.”
“Fine.” Her hands lift in surrender. “How much do I bid?”
“As much as it takes.”
She tilts her head. “So… fifty bucks?”
I smile slowly.
