But this—this was different.
Up close, under the lights, with nowhere to hide my reaction, Gil Pruitt was devastating.
Salt-and-pepper hair styled in a way that appeared effortless but probably wasn't. Steel-gray eyes that swept the crowd with a confidence born from a man who always got what he wanted. Shoulders that filled out his dark henley perfectly, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the muscle underneath. A shadowof stubble along his jaw. A scar cutting through his left eyebrow that added an edge of danger, a story I'd never know.
He wasn't classically handsome. He was better than that. He was the sort of man who walked into a room and made everyone else irrelevant. Made you forget whatever you'd been thinking about, whoever you'd been talking to.
I hated that my body responded to him when my mind knew exactly what he'd done to my family. Hated that some traitorous part of me wondered what it would feel like to have his gaze focused entirely on me.
This was going to be harder than I'd thought.
The name tag on his chest read:Bachelor #2.
"Ladies," Evelyn purred, "meet Bachelor Number Two—you might remember him asThe Sizzling Silver Foxfrom our calendar." She let the name hang in the air, and the audience ate it up. Whistles and catcalls erupted from every corner. "Now, I don't want to oversell this, but... actually, yes I do. Who wants to start the bidding at fifty dollars?"
"One hundred!" someone shouted immediately.
This was it.
"One-fifty!"
"Two hundred!"
The bids came fast, voices overlapping, women practically climbing over each other to get Evelyn's attention. My nails dug crescents into my palms. What if this all fell apart right now? What if these months of planning crumbled because I'd miscalculated?
Gil stood there utterly unbothered, his expression unreadable. He'd expected this. He knew damn well what he was worth. There was no false modesty, no awkward shuffling. Just quiet confidence that bordered on arrogance.
I wanted to wipe that confidence off his face. And I would. By Sunday, he'd know exactly what it felt like to be brought low.
"Three hundred!" Stacie hollered, waving her thermos.
"Three-fifty!" someone else countered.
"Four hundred!" Frankie's voice—the third matchmaker, clutching her small white dog to her chest. "Look at those shoulders!"
A ripple of laughter and agreement swept through the space.
I raised my hand.
"Four-fifty," I called out, my voice steadier than I felt.
Evelyn's gaze fixed on me, sharp and assessing. For a moment, I had the distinct impression she saw right through me—through my careful makeup and styled hair, through my plan, straight down to the anger burning in my chest.
"Four-fifty from the pretty redhead in the middle! Do I hear five hundred?"
"Five hundred!" Stacie shouted.
"Five-fifty," I said immediately. No hesitation. Show no weakness.
The crowd had gone quieter now. People were watching, leaning forward, sensing the shift—this wasn't casual bidding anymore. This was a fight. Gil's gaze found mine across the distance, and for one terrible, breathless second, we locked eyes.
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. Satisfied. As though he'd been waiting for this. For me.
He didn't seem to know who I was. Gave no sign of recognizing me. To him, I was just another woman willing to empty her wallet for a weekend with him.
That ignorance was my weapon. And I'd use it.
"Six hundred!" someone called from the back.
