I want to argue. Want to tell him he had no right to volunteer me for this circus without asking. But deep down, I know he's right. I have been hiding. Existing but not living.
"One weekend," I say finally.
"One weekend. Could be nothing. Could be something. Either way, you'll have helped the center."
"You're still buying my drinks for the next year."
He whoops and claps me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stagger. "Deal! You won't regret this."
"I already regret this."
Twenty-four hours later, I'm backstage at the community pavilion, surrounded by men who look various degrees of uncomfortable. The space is cramped, smells like cologne and nerves, and I'm trying very hard not to think about what I've agreed to.
Through a gap in the curtain, I can see the pavilion filling up. There are more people than I expected, women from town and beyond, some in groups, some solo. There's a cluster of older ladies in the front row wearing matching pink scarves and holding what look suspiciously like wine thermoses.
Bachelor One is a guy named Maverick Rodgers—tall, broad-shouldered, and quietly imposing. Bachelor Two, named Gil Pruitt, gets the crowd even more worked up. I watch with the detachment of someone observing a nature documentary about a species I don't quite understand.
Then Evelyn Hartwood takes the microphone, and I know my turn is coming.
I've only met her a handful of times, but it's enough to know she's a force of nature. Sharp, sparkly, terrifying in the way onlysmall-town power brokers can be. She's wearing pearls and a smile that could cut glass.
"Ladies, are you ready for Bachelor Number Three?" Her voice carries across the pavilion, and the crowd erupts.
This is happening. Actually happening.
"This one's special," Evelyn purrs into the mic. "Ex-military. New to town. Tall, strong, and deliciously grumpy. He works hard, protects harder, and those eyes?" She fans herself dramatically. "You'll want to get lost in them. Give it up for Silas Northwood!"
I step into the spotlight, keeping my expression neutral. Military bearing, shoulders back, chin up, face controlled. Years of training kick in automatically, even though this is the last place I ever wanted to use it.
The lights are bright. Too bright. I scan the crowd out of habit, the way I used to assess terrain and threats. Counting exits, noting the layout, cataloging faces.
And then I see her.
She's standing near the back, partially hidden by the crowd, wrapped in a blue coat the color of high-altitude sky. Light brown hair falls in soft waves around her face, and when our eyes meet, I feel it like a physical impact. Something shifts in my chest, locks into place with an almost audible click.
She looks startled, like she's been caught doing something she shouldn't. Her lips part slightly, and even from this distance, I can see the flush creeping up her cheeks.
I can't look away.
There's something about her, the way she's watching me, not with the hungry interest of most of the crowd, but withsomething softer. Curiosity. Maybe even concern, like she can see past the carefully constructed walls to the mess underneath.
For a second, everything else fades. The crowd, the auction, all of it, none of it matters.
There's just her.
Then Evelyn's voice cuts through. "Alright, ladies, let's start the bidding! Who wants a weekend with this gorgeous specimen?"
"Fifty dollars!" someone calls.
I force myself to look away from the woman in blue, scanning the rest of the crowd. A few women are watching me with interest, others are whispering to their friends. I keep my face impassive. This is just another mission. Get through it, complete the objective, extract.
"Seventy-five!" another voice.
"One hundred!"
My eyes snap back to the woman in blue. But it's not her, it's her friend, a brunette practically bouncing in her seat, whose hand shot up. The woman in blue looks mortified, grabbing her friend's arm, clearly protesting.
"One-fifty!" someone else calls.
