ONE
KATHRYN
“Do you think they have one in uniform? Or maybe lots and lots of denim?”
Elizabeth looks at me like I’ve just asked if the men come with optional accessories. “Are we looking at the same auction book?”
“Obviously.” I hold up my copy to prove it matches hers, flipping it open with a dramatic flourish. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Because it’s insane.”
My brow furrows. “I don’t see how.”
“You’re talking about men. Like, human men. Who are going to take you out for the night.” She leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to share something deeply profound. “And your biggest concern is their outfits?”
“Yeah.”
She scoffs. Loudly. A couple of women sitting in front of us turn around, and I offer them a polite smile that saysplease ignore my sister, she was raised by wolves.
“We are looking at men for very different reasons,” she says.
“It’s a good thing too. Otherwise, we’d fight like crazy.”
“We already fight like crazy.”
She’s not wrong.
Because that’s what sisters do.
Of course, because we’re sisters, I can’t immediately agree with her. What would be the fun in that?
We might be grown-ass women now, with jobs and responsibilities and matching throw pillows we pretend we didn’t spend too much money on, but it doesn’t mean we can’t revert back into our teenage dynamics at the drop of a hat.
Just ask our mom.
“She says, knowing full well she’s about to bid on at least three of these men,” I mutter.
Elizabeth gasps like I’ve deeply offended her. “Excuse you. I am being very strategic tonight.”
“Strategic,” I repeat flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Yes. I am supporting a good cause.”
“You’re supporting a good jawline.”
“That too.”
I grin, because she’s not even trying to deny it.
To be fair, neither am I.
The ballroom is packed—round tables draped in white linens, soft golden lighting, the low hum of conversation mixing with the occasional burst of laughter. There’s a stage set up at the front, a long runway extending into the crowd like we’re about to watch a very niche fashion show.
Which, I guess… we kind of are.
Only instead of models, it’s men.
Men we can win for one evening.
