Except she doesn’t. Not really. I notice the tiny flinch she hides with swagger the moment she hits the spotlight. Her eyes dart around, scanning for exits before taking in the crowd. The smile is too bright, too practiced. She’s wearing armor. And I recognize armor that’s been worn too long.
The second our eyes meet, something detonates.
It’s not just heat; it’s recognition, as if I’ve been waiting for this chaos my entire life, unaware until she looked at me.
“Uh-oh,” Tank mutters beside me.
I glance at him. He’s cradling his arm. The idiot who nearly dislocated his shoulder raising his paddle for Jessie, the redhead who just went before. He’s still watching her like she’s the only woman in the room.
“You’re one to talk,” I retort.
“Yeah, but I knew I was in trouble. You look blindsided.”
“I am.”
I turn back to the stage. She’s still looking at me.
For one fleeting second, she stumbles. Her breath hitches. Our eyes lock, and at that moment, the auction, the lights, the stage, the crowd all fade away.
All I can see is her.
Something vulnerable flickers behind that practiced smile for an instant before she locks it down. But I saw it. The exhaustion beneath her bravado. The loneliness she’s trying to outrun.
She strides across the stage with confidence, as if she’s untouchable, like a flame that needs no one. I don’t buy it for a second.
The auctioneer begins the bidding.
I raise my paddle.
What am I doing?
I haven’t made an impulsive decision in twelve years. For over a decade, I’ve stuck to schedules and routines, carefully building fences around my life. I’ve controlled every variable I could because the ones I couldn’t nearly cost me the lives of the men I love.
“Bid from number seven.”
Her chin lifts, and her mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile, more like a challenge. Yet her eyes keep darting back to mine, as if I’m the only thing in this room that makes sense. I understand that feeling.
Another bid.
I raise my paddle again.
I don’t think. My body moves with the same instinct that kept me alive in Kandahar. But this time, it’s not about taking cover; it’s about keeping her. Keeping her safe. Keeping her close.
With each new bid, I respond without hesitation. And every time I do, she watches me more intently, not as if she’s flattered, but as if she’s trying to determine whether I’m dangerous or safe.
I want to be both.
“Sold! To bidder number seven!”
The gavel strikes, and the room comes back to life.
Jane beams at me.
And it wrecks me.
It’s not a soft smile. Not one of gratitude or relief. It’s the smile of a woman who just got exactly what she wanted and has no idea what to do next. That makes two of us.
“You good?” Tank asks in a low voice.
