A murmur ripples through the crowd. Five hundred is respectable. Serious. The kind of bid that saysI’ve thought this through.
My chest feels tight.
This is exactly what I said I needed a break from. Men who look at me and see potential. Branding. A curated version of myself they can fold neatly into their lives.
I shift my weight, forcing my shoulders back. If I’m doing this, I’m not disappearing into someone else’s expectations again.
“Five hundred dollars,” the announcer repeats. “Do I hear five-fifty?”
“Six hundred.” A voice from the back of the room.
Low. Steady. Unhurried.
My gaze snaps up.
The mountain man hasn’t moved from his seat. Arms still crossed. Flannel stretched across a chest that looks like it was built for work, not aesthetics. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t posture. Just lifts his paddle once, like this is a decision he’s already made.
The suit glances over his shoulder, assessing the competition for the first time. His smile tightens, just a fraction.
“Seven hundred,” he counters smoothly.
The announcer barely has time to repeat it before?—
“One thousand.”
The room goes quiet.
I swear I can hear my own heartbeat.
The suit turns fully in his chair now, surprise flickering across his features before it’s smoothed away. He studies Tank like a puzzle he didn’t expect to be handed.
“One thousand dollars,” the announcer says, fanning himself with his notes. “Do I hear eleven hundred?”
The suited man hesitates.
It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But I recognize the calculation—the moment where value meets pride. Where desire weighs against practicality.
He exhales through his nose, gives a small, rueful smile, and lowers his paddle.
The announcer doesn’t wait. “One thousand dollars! Going once… going twice…”
His gaze sweeps the room.
“Sold! To Tank Granger!”
Tank.The name fits him—solid and immovable. He looks like a man who could level obstacles through sheer presence or shelter you from them.
Applause erupts.
Tank pushes stands from his seat and heads toward the back hallway, the crowd parting around him like water around a boulder.
I’m still standing center stage with my heart racing.
What the hell just happened?
The backstage area is a hallway lined with tables where volunteers shuffle paperwork and count cash. Tank is leaningagainst the far wall, filling out forms with a pen that looks comically small in his massive hand.
He glances up as I approach. No smile. Unreadable expression.
