Get it together, Jessie. You’re here for a fresh start, not to make eyes at a mega hot Mountain Man.
My phone buzzes. A text from Marlie.
Marlie: Show them what you're made of.
Me: Remind me to hide your coffee stash.
Marlie: You love me.
Me: Jury’s still out.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, number seventeen. Please welcome Jessie Henry!” The announcer’s voice yanks me back to reality.
I down the rest of my wine and step into the lights.
The crowd is bigger than I expected. Close to two hundred people make up the crowd, drinks in their hands, their faces flushed with alcohol and competitive spirit.
“Jessie’s new to our community. She’s a talented artist, known for her murals,” the announcer says, glancing at the notes in his hand, “and she makes the best campfire coffee you’ve ever tasted!”
The spotlight sends a wave of heat prickling across my bare shoulders. I plant my hands on my hips, lift my chin, paste on my best “I definitely know what I’m doing” smile, and give a little wave. I’m channeling every ounce oftake it or leave itenergy I’ve got. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it as myself—whoever that is—but certainly not some demure damsel waiting to be saved. No shade on any other participant, of course.
The announcer smiles at me before turning to the crowd. “Who wants to start the bidding at fifty dollars?”
Silence.
The pause stretches long enough to get uncomfortable. The back of my neck tingles with approaching mortification. Of course. I’m the outsider, the unknown quantity, the girl nobody?—
“Fifty dollars.” A paddle rises in the middle of the room.
Fifty dollars is the minimum bid. At least someone’s willing to?—
“Seventy-five.” Another paddle, near the back.
“One hundred!”
The bids climb. My face warms with each one. These people don’t know me. They don’t know I’ll probably be gone in a few months. That I’m not the staying kind.
“Two hundred dollars!” A man in a cowboy hat grins up at me.
The announcer is getting excited now, his voice rising. “Two hundred! Do I hear two-fifty?”
“Two-fifty.”
The voice is smooth. Cultured. Used to being listened to.
I track the sound to a man near the front—immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car. Crisp white shirt. No tie, but a silk pocket square folded just so. A Rolex glints casually on his wrist as he lifts his paddle, elbow resting on the table like he owns the place.
He smiles at me. Cool. Polite. Assessing. The kind of smile I’ve seen a hundred times in galleries and private showings.
My stomach tightens.
“Three hundred,” he adds easily, not even waiting to be prompted.
The announcer nods approvingly. “Three hundred dollars! Do I hear three-fifty?”
Another bid comes in. Then another. The suit doesn’t rush, just waits, watching the room like he’s tracking a stock price.
“Five hundred,” he says at last, calm as if ordering another drink.
