Cheers ripple through the room.
In the back, a cluster of older men in coats stand shoulder to shoulder like a jury. They look amused. One nudges another and says something that makes them laugh.
The bench squad. The veterans.
The woman on stage beams. “In December, we convinced a handful of our bachelors to pose for a community fundraiser calendar.”
More cheering.
“With puppies,” she adds, like that’s the real scandal.
The crowd loses it.
She lifts her chin, satisfied. “And when a few behind-the-scenes photos went viral, we realized something.”
Her eyes sweep the room like she’s choosing victims.
“People want to visit Lovesbury.”
Laughter.
“So,” she says brightly, “we’re doing a bachelor auction.”
My heart thumps hard.
There’s movement at the side of the stage. A line forms. Men step up, one by one, and the room’s energy jumps like someone tossed a match into gasoline.
Whistles. Claps. A woman in the front row fans herself with a pamphlet like she might faint.
I barely notice any of them.
Because then he steps out.
The man that caught my attention on the flyer.
He looks like a hero ripped out of one of those mountain man stories. The kind who chops wood with his bare hands and only speaks in grunts.
Except his expression is pure grumpy scowl, like Valentine’s Day personally insulted him.
He’s the first bachelor to step out, and the pavilion reacts like someone rang a dinner bell.
He stops at the front of the line, arms crossed, shoulders tense, looking like he would rather wrestle a bear than participate in this.
My stomach flips anyway.
Because I am still a woman with eyes.
And that man is… a lot.
The auction host glides toward him like she’s approaching a dragon she raised herself.
“And now,” she says, voice turning syrupy, “we have a very special man. Maverick Rodgers. He grunts a lot, but I promise you, under that scowl is a softie.”
Maverick’s jaw tightens. He looks mildly murderous.
The crowd laughs like they love it.
“He builds cabins,” she continues. “Repairs them. Helps half the town for free. Served our country. And has the kind of shoulders that make women forget their own names.”
