The room shifts. Heads turn. I feel a dozen eyes land on me like spotlights.
My cheeks burn.
Maverick’s eyes snap to mine.
This time he holds the stare.
My breath catches.
His gaze flicks over my face, my coat, the way I’m standing too rigid, like I’m bracing for impact. And something in his expression tightens, subtle but real.
The pink-lipstick lady squints at me. “Well,” she says loudly, “look at you.”
I pretend I didn’t hear that.
The host’s smile sharpens, delighted. “Two hundred! Do I hear two fifty?”
A woman near the front raises her paddle with an ease that makes me want to throw mine into the snow.
“Three hundred,” she says, voice smooth.
The host tilts her head. “Oh! And for anyone curious, this lovely lady has had her eye on Maverick for years.”
The woman beams like that’s a compliment.
Maverick looks like he hates every single person and object in the room, including the ceiling.
My pulse hammers.
I swallow.
“Three fifty,” I say, and my voice wobbles just a little.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
Maverick’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. His jaw flexes once.
The woman in front lifts her paddle again immediately. “Three seventy-five.”
My stomach drops.
Three seventy-five is… a lot. It’s more than I should be spending on anything right now, including safety.
But the thought of stepping back outside alone, of being found, makes my skin crawl.
My hand lifts again.
“Four hundred,” I say.
The room goes quiet for half a beat, then erupts.
The host’s eyes widen. She looks between me and Maverick, and something knowing sparks across her face.
Maverick goes very still.
Not angry still.
Alert.
