Chapter One
HARVEY
“Tell me again why I let you talk me into this.” I stare wide-eyed at Bree, although I don’t actually see her. I’m too distracted by the sliver of light shining through a gap in the curtain.
That thin black material is the only thing separating me from humiliation. Beyond that piece of seemingly innocent fabric awaits a big stage, which faces over a hundred people who will be bidding on me.
For a date with me, anyway.
I’m just a bartender at a Mexican restaurant, and this fancy-ass hotel screams money. This is the kind of place that hosts things like million-dollar weddings or extravagant parties for the cast of The Real Housewives of New York City.
In other words, I definitely don’t belong here, even if the name of this auction is Everyday Bachelors.
I must’ve bumped my fucking head before I agreed to this.
Bree squares her shoulders, straightening into the confidence she wears like the bold lipstick staining her lips. “You’re here to raise money for charity, and also, because you know karma is a bitch, one whose bad side you do not want to be on.”
“What if I’m already on her bad side?” I quirk my eyebrow.
Sighing, she undoes the top button of my forest green flannel shirt, revealing the top of my white tee underneath, and says, “Then you and I both have a lot of work to do.”
I chuckle and take a deep breath.
“Why are you so nervous?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “This can’t be any different than all the women ogling you at the restaurant.”
“But there, I have a four-foot bar between us and several alcohol choices to distract them with,” I throw back. “It’s nothing like standing on stage to literally be auctioned off like meat.”
“You don’t let the bar stop you from coming to our table,” she challenges in a singsong voice.
“You and your friends aren’t handsy,” I point out.
“If only you were a few years older, we’d be having a different discussion.” She gives me a once-over and an appreciative smile. “And a different relationship too.”
I smirk, but before I can say anything about her only being thirty-two to my twenty-six, the next name is called out. Darius tugs his fireman’s jacket over his navy blue shirt and suspenders, then shrugs back at me as if to say, “Here goes nothing.”
The moment he steps on stage, there are whoops and hollers like this is a Naked Heat male revue show instead of a charity auction.
Bree hums as she stares after him. “I should be out there bidding on him myself.”
“Why? Because he’s a literal hero, putting out fires and saving lives? How unattractive.” My voice is full of sarcasm.
“But you save lives too.” She pats my arm. “Every Thursday, you save me from a lonely night at home with only my celebrity gossip to keep me company, which Tessa thinks is unhealthy, so we both owe you big.”
I shake my head as Bree moves down the line of beefcakes—her word—giving them compliments on their smiles, biceps, and occupations.
Once Bree returns, she nudges my shoulder. “Don’t be nervous. You already have an admirer. She asked me about you earlier.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t give me her name, but she’s very cute. And your age.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
Right.
Because those are the only two things I need for a perfect match.
I rack my brain for any guesses as to who it might be. I told zero people about this event since there’s no need to further embarrass myself, but the advertising for the auction has been extensive.
It could be anybody.
“As long as she’s not dressed in bright mixing patterns like one of those mall psychics, I’m good,” I joke as I inwardly recall Mrs. Quakenbush, one of my foster moms who lived up to her name. She was cooky and often confused sour cream for mayonnaise. Her heart was pure, though, and she took in orphans like she did stray cats.
Although her home holds the most pleasant memories of my time in foster care, I don’t want to go on a date with Mrs. Quakenbush.
Bree taps her chin. “No, but I definitely need to know the rest of that story sometime.”
A tall man in a suit more expensive than my entire year’s income comes to a stop next to us.
Carter Fields.
I’ve never seen him in person before this moment, and I can now officially report back to one of my fun regulars at the bar that he is, in fact, as tan and handsome as he is in magazines.
He gives Bree a one-armed hug. “Thank you for volunteering tonight. Tessa wishes she could’ve been here too, but she’s been sick all day.”
“I heard. Glad to fill in.” Bree points to me. “By the way, this is Harvey Jacobs, our last-minute auction item.” She winks as she references me like I’m a pie or a quilt.
Right now, I’d honestly rather be either one of those. Whether it’s for charity or not—which is the only reason I agreed to this, and not because Bree can get any man to do anything she wants simply by batting her lashes—this whole thing is humiliating.
Especially since I’m up after a damn fireman.
The only heroic thing I’ve ever done is throw a rag over a small flame that flared up from the bar when a flaming zombie drink went rogue last Halloween.
Carter shakes my hand. “Hey, man. Thanks for doing this. If you hadn’t agreed, I would’ve had to ask my head of security detail, and let’s face it, the man doesn’t know the meaning of small talk, let alone how to go on an innocent date.”
I laugh as he inadvertently settles my nerves. They’re not just from tonight, but also from the fact that I hit on Carter’s now-fiancée, Tessa. It was before she’d met him, though. I’m going to assume he has no idea or that he’s secure enough in his relationship and confidence.
Either way, what a fucking relief.
When my name is called, Bree playfully smacks my ass, and I turn to find she’s holding two thumbs up.
Three steps and I’m in the spotlight, feeling like I did at my middle school spelling bee contest, which is the last memory I have of my mother at a school event.
But no familiar faces are here to ease my nerves since Bree stays in the back, still keeping the other guys in line with more strokes down their arms than necessary.
The thought of her relentless charm makes me smile, but it quickly falls off.
I’m sweating. Small beads of water run down the back of my neck, and if anyone looks closely enough, they’ll see the droplets through my buzzed hair like dew on short grass in the morning.
It doesn’t help that the lights are beaming down on me—they’re as hot as the summer sun.
Blood rushes to my ears as I wave and plaster the smile onto my face that I use on customers when I’m having an off night. As a bartender, I’m partly the patrons’ entertainer, so there’s no room for crappy moods.
Except, the more I fake my smile, the more real it becomes.
Plus, this is for charity. For my friend Bree. For the kids.
People are cheering.
Why not have a little fun with it?
So, when the emcee tells the crowd I’m not a bad dancer, I shove both my sleeves up my tattooed forearms and spin in place, moving my hips from side to side as proof. This gets an even bigger rise out of many women, and too many hands to count fly into the air like this is a concert.
“I think they like what they see,” the emcee teases, then continues with the bidding.
Slowly, fewer and fewer hands hang in the air, until the woman in the back is the last one standing—yes, standing. She’s no longer sitting like the rest of the guests, and she’s spent more money on a date with me than I thought possible.
With the lights and distance between us, I can’t fully make out her face.
I’m antsy by the time the music fades, and my legs wobble down the steps worse than if I’d just run up twenty flights of stairs.
But as I approach the woman waiting for me in the back of the room, her arms crossed and full face in view, I stop dead in my tracks.
Her short blonde hair is parted down the middle and tucked behind both ears, revealing her defined cheekbones, which are highlighted by a brush of shimmering blush.
Above her pink-stained lips is a mole the size of a small freckle. She always hated it, but I liked it.
The amused way she narrows her eyes takes me back to six years ago. It was the last time I saw her.
The clashing sounds of the room are muffled. The music from the speakers, the hushed conversations, the empty flutes clinking as servers replace them with full ones—it all disappears as blood rushes to my ears for an entirely different reason than when I was on stage.
The sexy siren from my past stares me down, raising one eyebrow as if she’s waiting for me to say something or get down on one knee and thank her for coming back.
I won’t be doing the latter. No amount of time, money, or fucking holy water can exorcize the rage inside me from when she walked away.
I don’t care if the last few years have been good to her. That there’s a new glow in her cheeks, or that her breasts are pushed up in the most perfect two curves I’ve ever seen.
But that’s the only part of her petite body I can see. The rest of her is covered in a wool peacoat, teasing me.
What the hell is underneath?
My imagination runs wild with possibilities, and I’d bet my left kidney that was her intention. She was always the queen at making me squirm.
But it won’t work. Not this time.
Because I don’t care about any of that.
I don’t.
Leaving the high-pitched laughs and joy of the event behind me, I brush past her and make a beeline to the hotel bar for a stiff drink. Even talking to the gold carpet would be better than another minute with Micah.
For charity or not, I most definitely will not be going on a fucking date with my ex-girlfriend.
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