Page 67 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

He took a step closer, lowering his voice to the kind of pitch reserved for high-stakes negotiations. “I flew all the way here to see you. You can’t just pretend what we had meant nothing?”

He said it like I’d just tipped over a Monopoly board because I was losing, not because I’d finally realized the game itself was boring and I was over it. “I’m not pretending, Peter.”

“Come on, Sadie. This is just that self-sabotage thing again. Every time we get close, you freak out.”

I surprised myself by not flinching. “No. Every time we get close, you steamroll me, and then act shocked when I don’t want to spend my life being an accessory to your ego.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, seemed to process, then shifted tactics. “Okay, look. I get it. You’re stressed, you’re processing some stuff from your hometown, you’re—” He made a vague, flapping gesture that somehow encompassed all of Valentine Bay and, presumably, my entire personality. “But don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

I looked at him—really looked at him—and realized he was incapable of seeing what I meant. Not because he was evil or even particularly obtuse, but because he’d never built that muscle. Some people were born with an extra sense for empathy; Peter had a blind spot the size of Manhattan.

“It’s over, Peter,” I said with finality.

He stared at me, stunned, then recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

He let the silence balloon between us, searching my face for some sign that I was joking, or would back down, or would let him talk me out of it like every other time. When he didn’t find what he wanted, he huffed out a breath, straightened his cuffs, and said, “You know, most people would kill for what we had.”

I didn’t bother replying. I just watched as he turned on his heel and stalked off into the crowd, shoulders squared, already reconstructing the story of tonight so he’d be the wronged party.

It was almost comical, how abruptly the noise of the fair filled the space he left behind. I exhaled. I may not have my entire life figured out, but at least that chapter was now closed, and I was ready to write the next one. And what better place to do that than at the bachelor auction?

26

WORLD’S WORST CHIPPENDALE

Dawson

Nobody warned me that being a bachelor at this auction would be the equivalent of a meat raffle with cocktails. It was the Price is Right, and the showcases were eligible men and their questionable relationship skills.

Behind the main stage, an almost ceremonial hush had settled over the proceedings, the kind that precedes either a thunderclap or a catastrophic mistake. Since not a single cloud dared mar the clear Oregon sky, I was betting heavily on the latter. White globe lights strung above the boards cast a forgiving glow over the burlap-draped runway, as if even the décor felt sorry for us. The crowd of women pressed close, their laughter rising in sharp, gleeful bursts, the unmistakable sound of people enjoying someone else’s humiliation.

That someone else was me. Us, technically.

I stood with the rest of the Lockhart men—Dean, Damon, and Dylan—who were all dressed in our Sunday best to be paraded around like pieces of meat, arranged in a lineup that could only be described as the world’s least-credible Chippendale audition. The other men up on the auction block were Gio Russo, whose best feature was his uncanny ability to make everyone else look bad by comparison. Cameron Dallas, an up-and-coming rodeo star. Beckett “Beck” Hayes, a firefighter/paramedic who was both charming and handsome, a lethal combo. Beck had a reputation as a shameless flirt, Still, I believed he was secretly a relationship guy who just hadn’t met anyone worth risking his heart for: Griffin Cole, laid-back, funny, and the town’s resident animal whisperer. Griffin took over for the small-town veterinary clinic when Dr. Pollard retired and had a habit of bringing home strays nobody else wanted, a trait he shared with my mom. Kids adored him, grandmas tried to marry him off, and half the single women in town suddenly found reasons their pets needed checkups. And finally, Nash Wilder, bar owner & former pro hockey player, confident, tattooed, and annoyingly sexy. After an injury ended his career on the ice, Nash returned home with the goal of turning the town’s rundown tavern The Heart & Anchor into its hottest gathering spot. Its grand reopening was pending. He insisted he was perfectly happy being permanently single, which naturally made the matchmakers and single women in town determined to prove him wrong.

Gen approached the lineup in full command mode, a clipboard hugged to her chest and a walkie clipped to her waistband. She moved from man to man in the group, dispensing last-minute instructions and threats with the same bright, unflappable smile. When she stopped in front of us, even Damon shut up and stood at ease.

“Okay, here’s how it breaks down,” Gen announced, voice pitched low but clear. “Dawson, you’re up first, right after the welcome. Dean, Damon and Dylan, you’ll follow, then Gio, Beck, Griffin, and Nash. You’ll get called up, with your sizzle reel playing on the screen. You’ll answer three questions, one from the emcee, me, and two from the audience. No cussing, nothing about politics or religion, and nothing raunchy, this is family-friendly. Anyone who tries to get cute will regret it.”

Damon straightened his lapels. “Define cute.”

“Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.” Gen pointed at him, then directed her attention to the men at large. “If anyone has questions, ask now or forever hold your peace.”

She waited two seconds and then dipped her chin in a nod. “Good.” And she was off, speaking over her walkie to whoever was on the other end.

Damon watched her walk away. “That woman frightens me in a good way. Like, I’d trust her with my PIN.”

I was barely listening, my mind was elsewhere, tracking the crowd for a particular person. It was that sixth sense I’d never been able to shake, a trained radar for all things Sadie. I could hear her laugh, two notes higher than her real one, the laugh she used when she was surrounded by people who expected her to be charming.

It took me less than thirty seconds to find her. She was talking to a man in a white dress shirt, crisp, probably straight from the dry cleaner, sleeves rolled to his elbows with the calculated carelessness of someone who did not, in fact, do manual labor. The man’s hair was dark and parted deep, gelled so precisely it looked like helmet plastic. His jaw was angular, clean-shaven, and punctuated by a vertical dimple that made him look both smug and oppressive. He had the air of someone who’d spent his college years tormenting underclassmen in some Ivy League secret society.

Sadie’s lips were parted in a polite smile, but I could see even from here that it wasn’t genuine. I knew her tells: the subtle lean away, her hand on her stomach, the way her right foot angled toward the exit while the rest of her body played at engagement. She wanted out of the conversation, but something—obligation, maybe, or sheer stubbornness—kept her rooted to the floor.

Damon followed my line of sight and whistled under his breath. “Who’s the suit? He looks like someone who gets his coffee overnighted from Milan.”

I felt a ripple of movement at my side, and suddenly my mother was there, her presence as strong as gravity. At five feet even, Selma Lockhart had the ability to make everyone else feel like they needed to stand up straighter. She wore a sea-green wrap dress and a pair of cowboy boots, her hair fell loose around her shoulders. She gave my arm a proprietary squeeze.