“I look like I’m trying to advertise more than Meghan’s boutique.” I shot a glare at the woman in question, who walked ahead of us, looking perfectly comfortable in her own stylish outfit. Which was par for the course for the owner of Huckleberry Chic. She always looked like a million bucks.
“That’s kind of the point,” Jess laughed, nudging my shoulder. “Show off the goods while supporting the fire department. Win-win.”
Except I felt a whole lot more like I was showing my own goods off than the dress. I tugged at the hem again, feeling the silky fabric slip through my fingers like water. The dress was emerald green—“to make your eyes pop,” Meghan had insisted—and about six inches shorter than anything I’d worn since high school.
The community center buzzed with feminine energy. Women of every age packed the place, from teenagers giggling in corners to grandmothers fanning themselves with auction paddles. The scent of perfume hung thick in the air, mingling with excitement and anticipation. Chairs had been arranged in neat rows facing a makeshift runway, and a table near the entrance was stacked with programs listing the “merchandise” up for bid. The annual firefighter bachelor auction was one of the social events of the season in Huckleberry Creek. One I’d studiously avoided for the past three years, claiming I was too busy with the restaurant or making up other excuses that my girls had finally stopped accepting.
“I can’t believe I let you three talk me into this,” I grumbled.
“We didn’t talk you into anything,” Meghan called over her shoulder, her boutique owner’s confidence on full display. “We ambushed you. Totally different strategy.”
“I’m not bidding on anyone,” I insisted as we found seats near the front, close enough to see every firefighter’s face in excruciating detail. Just what I needed.
Allie rolled her eyes, brown hair bouncing as she shook her head. “We know, we know. You’ve sworn off firefighters forever. Been there, done that, got the emotional scars.”
Meghan snagged a glass of bubbly—sparkling cider, not champagne—and passed it to me with a knowing smile. “Here. Have a drink. It might help with that death grip you’ve got on your purse.”
I wished the auction organizers had sprung for an alcohol license as I sipped. Some actual champagne or wine would help dim this flutter under my breastbone. Not that I had any idea whether Rhett would be here. He wasn’t back on duty yet. Probably.
Not that it mattered whether he was. Because I wasn’t bidding. And it hardly mattered if someone else did. We were divorced. He was free. Free to flash that crooked smile at whatever woman had enough disposable income to buy some time with Huckleberry Creek’s most eligible firefighter.
The sparkling cider seemed to boil in my stomach, acid and anxiety mixing into a potent cocktail that no amount of bubbles could settle.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The emcee’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Welcome to Huckleberry Creek’s Annual Firefighter Bachelor Auction!”
The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles. I sank lower in my seat as I focused on the stage, where I recognized Cord Gaffney—Hollywood to the guys at Station 1—and wondered how the pretty boy had gotten out of being on the auction block himself. He was a known ladies’ man and usually brought top dollar. Maybe he’d be auctioning himself off later.
“This isn’t just about finding dates for these brave men,” Cord continued. “Every dollar raised tonight goes toward new equipment for our fire department!”
More cheers. More whistles. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look anywhere but at the stage.
“I need a drink,” I muttered. “A real drink.”
“Here.” Jess pressed a flask into my hand. “Dutch courage.”
I took a swig and nearly choked. “What is this?”
“Does it matter?” Allie grinned.
It didn’t. I took another drink and resigned myself to the longest night of my life.
“Let’s get this party started!” Cord’s mega-watt smile lit up the room as he shrugged off his dress uniform jacket. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. “Who wants to take me home tonight?”
I choked on Jess’s mystery drink. Next to me, Allie fanned herself with her paddle.
“Do I hear fifty dollars?” Cord flexed, his fitted white t-shirt straining across his chest.
“One hundred!” A voice called from the back.
“Two hundred!” Another paddle shot up.
“Ladies, ladies.” Cord prowled the edge of the stage. “I’m worth more than that.”
“Three fifty!”
“Five hundred!” The bidding war heated up as fast as a grease fire.
I watched in fascination as Mrs. Henderson—who had to be pushing eighty—got into it with Sarah from the bank. Back and forth they went, neither willing to give ground.
