I don’t usually react to strangers, but something in my body recognizes him. An instinct ignites like a flare gun in my chest.
Heat surges low in my belly. My hands grow clammy. My heart forgets its rhythm.
And those eyes?
They remain locked on me.
He sees me. Not the denim skirt, chambray shirt, and lipstick. Just me.
And he doesn’t look away. He watches me as if he’s made a decision he hadn’t intended to make tonight.
I try to play it cool. I toss my hair and flash a smile that likely comes off as more desperate than confident. But my eyes keep returning to his.
The bidding begins, and his paddle rises.
Not flashy or aggressive—inevitable.
Another number, another bid. His paddle goes up again, sharp and decisive.
My throat goes dry. It’s not the bidding that does this; it’s the way he never stops looking at me, as if he already knows how this will end and that I already belong to him.
The final gavel drops.
Sold.
A buzz ripples through the room, along with soft applause and a few whistles. But all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears.
I step off the stage on legs that shouldn’t be able to function.
Except now?
I might belong to the one man in the room whose presence calms my racing thoughts.
And I wanted it to be him before I even knew his name.
Chapter 2
Tex
I didn’t come here to find a woman; I came to support a brother.
Wyatt “Saint” Callahan, our team’s anchor and the grumpiest bastard I’ve ever loved, was invited to show up tonight by Henry Sutton.
Henry’s wife, Shay, learned about a woman in need of a safe place to land. Someone running from something. Shay understands running; she did enough of it before Henry caught her. The woman didn’t ask for rescue; she asked for a chance, and Shay turned to Wyatt because he’s the kind of man you send in when someone needs a shield.
Sawyer “Tank” Granger and I are just here to back him up. We’re a quiet presence, moral support. SEALs don't show up solo, not even for matchmaking auctions.
I’m supposed to be watching Wyatt embrace his brooding protector role, observing the numbers rise as the women walk onstage, one by one.
I’m not supposed to be affected.
But then she steps out.
And everything shifts.
Red lipstick, wild curls, and a grin that dares you to chase her, as if she just stole your truck.
She walks onto that stage like she owns it.
