“The man looks positively Gothic,” Aunt Delilah purred.
Ceci blinked.
Gothic?
When she thought of Leo Clarke, she’d always pictured Mr. Darcy mistakenly catapulted into the twenty-first century. Completely out of place. But now—with his eyes flashing angrily from out behind that dusty violet bruise—he looked brooding. Almost like … . No. Not possible. Heathcliff? Heathcliff and Mr. Darcy in one package?
No. Uh-uh.
He should have looked sympathetic with that eye. But he didn’t. He looked menacing and ready to kick the shit out of anyone who expressed one ounce of sympathy for him.
The auctioneer suggested an opening bid of one thousand dollars. Someone matched it. The bidding got as high as five thousand before it hit a long pause.
Ceci sighed before raising her hand. “Ten thousand.”
Aunt Delilah looked at her, impressed.
Pixel tapped her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll explain later,” Ceci muttered.
The bidding continued. When it reached thirty-five thousand dollars and looked like that was about to be the winning bid, Ceci raised her hand. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
Well, this was a first. Both Pixel and Aunt Delilah gaped. At the same time.
Ceci waited.
Silence.
She looked around the room.
Okay, Roxanne. Come on.
Nothing.
She looked up at Clarke. She could read that expression.
Why the fuck are you bidding on me?
If there was one thing she and Clarke could agree on, it was that a date with the other would be equivalent to a colonoscopy with noanesthesia, followed by that good old English practice of being drawn and quartered.
Ceci whispered in her aunt’s ear, “Now’s your chance, Aunt Delilah. Bid on the Gothic man. You can play Catherine to his Heathcliff.”
No response.
Aunt Delilah was holding up her compact, reapplying her lipstick.
“Going once,” the auctioneer cried.
Ceci jabbed her aunt and a swath of Scarlet Shame swept across her cheek.
“Now look what you’ve made me do,” Aunt Delilah huffed, wiping away the lipstick with a napkin. “I’ll have to start all over again.”
“Going twice,” the auctioneer cried.
“Aunt Delilah,” Ceci pleaded, her voice a whisper that burst from her like a jackhammer. “Please!”
Aunt Delilah shut her compact and tossed it and her lipstick back in her purse.
