Chapter one
Tilly
Ididn’t come to the Valentine’s Bachelor Auction to find love. I came because I’m two weeks from my shop’s grand opening, and there’s a six-foot oak armoire blocking my entire back wall that I physically cannot move alone. Professional movers quoted me $800. The bachelor auction will cost two hundred, maybe three if someone gets competitive. The math is simple, even if the pride is harder to swallow.
I push through the crowd filling the bachelor auction in Heartstone Square’s indoor pavilion. The air is thick with perfume and the sugar-fat smell of waffles from the Waffle Den next door. I unbutton my coat and claim a spot against the back wall.
My hands ache, fingers stiff from three days of hauling furniture and scrubbing floors. My lower back throbs with a knot I haven’t had time to stretch out, and when I roll my shoulders, something pops. Not enough sleep. Not enough help. Not enough hours left before the opening I can’t postpone.
My spot has clear sightlines to the small stage at the front. The Matchmakers’ Brigade of older women claims the front rowwith their pink lipstick and wine thermoses, already providing commentary.
Evelyn Hartwood’s voice cuts through the noise, amplified and bright. As the mayor’s wife, she stands at the microphone in pearls and a smile sharp enough to sell anything to anyone. “Ladies, gentlemen, and anyone else with a pulse and a credit card, welcome to Lovesbury’s first annual Valentine’s Bachelor Auction!”
The auction erupts. Whistles, applause, a shouted comment filthy enough to make the cluster of veterans near the door collapse into laughter.
Evelyn beams. “All proceeds go to the veterans’ center, so bid generously. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find more than a weekend.”
I focus on the reason I’m here. The armoire. The shop layout that only works if I can move that piece to the east wall. I need help. That’s all. I’ll bid, win, clarify expectations, and handle this like the competent adult I’m supposed to be.
The first bachelor looks to be former military with a short scruff and a well-fitting flannel. A young, curvy brunette wins the bid, and Evelyn declares it a love connection immediately.
Minutes pass. More bachelors. More bids.
“And now,” Evelyn says, her voice dropping into the register of movie trailers and dark prophecy, “we have a very special addition to tonight’s lineup.”
The crowd goes still.
“He wasn’t on the calendar. He didn’t pose with puppies. But he’s here, and ladies, you’re going to want to pay attention.”
A man steps onto the stage, and every sound in the audience drops away.
He’s built like he was carved from the mountain itself. Shoulders broad enough to fill the narrow stage, height that makes the ceiling feel low, presence that takes up space withoutapology. His jaw carries scruff too deliberate to be accidental, and his eyes are dark, steady, scanning the crowd with the focus of someone looking for a specific target. He wears a canvas work coat worn soft at the elbows, boots that have seen mud and weather, and a calm so absolute it reads like a challenge.
His hands stay in his pockets. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t perform. He just stands there, and the entire crowd holds its breath.
Heat floods my chest and spreads down my arms. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, a physical thump I feel in my throat. My body responds faster than thought can follow, and the crowd’s warmth feels suffocating. My pulse is loud in my ears, my skin too tight.
“This is Davin,” Evelyn announces. “He’s a man of few words, so I’ll keep this short. He builds furniture. He knows his way around a mountain. And if you’re smart, you’ll bid high and bid fast.”
Davin’s gaze moves across the crowd in a slow sweep. It lands on me, and my lungs seize.
The moment stretches. His eyes are brown, deep enough to drown in, and they don’t waver. They don’t assess. They recognize. My breath stalls somewhere between my chest and my throat, and the noise fades to a distant hum.
Then his gaze moves on, and I’m left pressing myself against the wall behind me like it’s the only thing holding me up.
“Bidding starts at one hundred dollars,” Evelyn calls.
A woman I know from town named Claire shoots her hand up. “Two hundred.”
Watching her bid, imagining her parading past my shop window with her prize, makes something hot and sharp twist in my stomach. My jaw tightens, molars pressing together.
I raise my hand. “Two fifty.” I can do this, and I even have a little wiggle room.
Claire’s eyes narrow. “Three hundred.”
My stomach drops, but my hand goes up again. “Three fifty.”
Davin’s gaze locks on me. This time, it doesn’t move.
