“Seven fifty!” Mrs. Henderson’s paddle whipped through the air.
“Eight hundred!” Sarah countered.
Mrs. Henderson’s steel-gray hair caught the light as she turned to fix Sarah with a look that could’ve frozen Hell. “One thousand dollars.”
The room fell silent. Sarah’s paddle lowered in defeat.
“Going once...” Cord’s grin stretched wider. “Going twice...”
“Sold!” The gavel cracked. “To Mrs. Henderson for one thousand dollars!”
The crowd erupted in whoops and whistles as Mrs. Henderson made her way to the stage, moving surprisingly quick for someone who’d had a hip replacement earlier in the year. In the row she’d vacated, I spotted her granddaughter, looking amused. What was her name? Lena? No, Lucy. She was a teacher at the elementary school.
Up on stage, Mrs. Henderson patted Cord’s cheek. “I’ve got plans for you, sugar. Big plans.”
Cord’s face fell for a split second before his showman’s smile snapped back into place. I wondered if anyone else noted that nervous edge? “Yes ma’am. It would be my pleasure.”
I buried my laugh in another sip from Jess’s flask. The night was already worth the price of admission just to see Hollywood taken down a peg.”
“And now,” Cord recovered smoothly, “let’s welcome our next bachelor, Jarrod ‘Moose’ Sato!”
Moose lumbered onto the stage with his characteristic mix of self-consciousness and charm. Despite his nickname, there was nothing ungainly about him on duty—I’d seen him navigate burning buildings with ballet-like precision. Off duty was another story.
As if to prove my point, he caught his foot on a cable and stumbled, catching himself with a sheepish grin that sent the crowd into appreciative laughter.
“That man is six-foot-four of pure clumsiness, and I am here for it,” Allie whispered. “$250!”
I relaxed a little, sinking back in my chair. This wasn’t so bad. I knew these guys. Had fed them countless times at Kiss My Grits when they stumbled in after shifts, bleary-eyed and ravenous.
Moose’s bidding war topped out at $750 from Paige Ramsey, who blushed furiously when he bounded off the stage to give her a bear hug that lifted her clean off the ground.
“Next up,” Cord announced, “Kyle ‘Twitch’ Russo!”
Kyle bounced onto the stage, already jittering with that nervous energy that earned him his nickname. Despite that—or maybe because of it—he had an eager puppy-dog appeal that had several paddles shooting up before Cord even started the bidding.
“He’s like a human espresso machine,” Jess commented, draining her cider.
I snorted. “Which is why he’s banned from coffee at my place after 2 p.m.”
Twitch went for $600 to Meghan, who winked at me when I raised an eyebrow.
“What? He’s cute,” she defended. “And I need someone tall to reach the top shelves at the boutique.”
“Sure, that’s why you bid on him,” Allie teased.
“And now,” Cord’s voice cut through our laughter, “give it up for Daniel ‘Meatball’ Costello!”
Daniel strode out, his confident swagger a stark contrast to his ridiculous nickname. I’d heard the pasta face-plant story at least a dozen times, usually embellished differently depending on who was telling it.
“Five hundred!” someone called immediately. Probably Jenny Lincoln, his girlfriend, though I couldn’t see her directly from my seat.
Meatball flexed, his firefighter’s physique drawing appreciative whistles.
I found myself genuinely enjoying the spectacle now, the knot in my stomach loosening with each bachelor who wasn’t Rhett. Maybe he really wasn’t participating. The thought brought both relief and a twinge of something I refused to examine.
Meatball’s auction ended with him being claimed by a group of giggling nurses who pooled their money for a cool $850.
“Not bad,” I murmured, surprised by how much fun I was having despite myself.
