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Camille had taken us to what she called a sitting room. Apparently, Victorians believed in a room for everything. This one hosts a few sofas, a chaise, heavy dark brocade curtains, a fireplace which is thankfully burning hot, and short chandeliers for a little more light. The rugs beneath our feet are patterned with flowers of some kind, but I’m too nervous to figure them out. I’d guess roses, considering the era, but right now, they could be cacti for all the attention I can give them.
“Yeah. Um. Me either.” My mouth is so dry, no matter how much I drink.
She giggles. “I’m so excited for you. This is wild.”
“Not really the wild part that’s got me nervous, Callie. It’s the sex part. And the judging.”
“The sex part I get, but the judging? What judging?”
“Well, aside from society’s opinion of this kind of thing, Camille said I’d be on a stage. In front of bidders. Letting them judge whether I’m worth their money. What if I don’t make anything? What if no one likes what they see? Wh?—"
“Oh, stop! You’re so pretty. I know you’ll make money.”
“Camille was a fucking model, Cal. I am not in her league. We don’t even play the same game!”
She giggles at me. “You’re psyching yourself out for no good reason.”
“No good reason? I’m twice her size!”
“You are exaggerating, and since when are you so self-conscious?”
I huff. “It’s not that. Any normal day, I like how I look. But this isn’t a normal day. Not even close. I’m going into a room full of strangers and asking them for money so they can have sex with me. If that isn’t the ultimate act of ego, I don’t know what is. And since Camille is my competition … I must have lost my damn mind.”
“First of all, she’s not your competition. One guy will go with her. That leaves the rest of them looking for another woman. And the kind of guy who is into her is probably not the kind of guy who is into you. She’s thin, you’re curvy. Those two types usually result in two different kinds of men, so really, she’s not your competition. She’s just there.”
My worry balloon deflates some. “Okay. You have a good point.”
“Second, it’s like Camille said. This isn’t that different from a date, except you both know what’s expected of you, so in reality, that takes a lot of the pressure off. You both know you’re getting laid, which means there’s no point in worrying about that, and you’re not expected to necessarily make small talk and you look fabulous tonight, so you don’t have to fret over your appearance. That’s like half the work done already. And since you’re going into this with your eyes open, it’s not like you’re meeting the man of your dreams tonight, so again, no pressure to be clever or sexy.” She sighs. “Honestly, I’m a little jealous because that sounds like the best date ever.”
I laugh. “What?”
“No pressure to be perfect. You’re getting laid. And you go home with a boatload of cash.”
“You could sign up, too, you know.”
But she shakes her head. “I couldn’t do that to Daniel. The bidder could be one of his friends and I wouldn’t even know it until I ran into him at a dinner party or something?—"
I laugh harder this time. “Oh god. That would be awkward. I can just imagine now. You running into the bidder, the bidder recognizing you, and Daniel asking how you two know each other … worst night ever.”
She nods, smiling. “So, I’ll have to live vicariously through you. You have to tell me everything afterwards. You know that, right?”
“Pretty sure I’ll be signing an NDA for this. I doubt they do this kind of thing without some sort of coverage.” With my background, it’s hard to ignore the legalities involved here, but I’m trying. I’m also trying to ignore the way my heart keeps clenching in my chest. Not a full-on palpitation, but close. I shouldn’t be here—I should be at a cardiologist. Or a neurologist. Who in their right mind does this? But then Callie’s here, acting as though there’s nothing to worry about. Maybe she’s right.
“Good point about the NDA, but it’d be totally unenforceable.”
I shrug. “This whole thing is unenforceable. If Camille hadn’t sworn for the validity of this, I’d think it was a scam for rich guys to trick women into bed and not pay them.”
She shrugs. “Seems legit, though.”
“Camille said my number is six to keep things as anonymous as I want. I don’t even have to tell him my name. Do you think the bidders do the same thing?”
She shrugs her slender shoulders again. “Maybe. Or maybe they use code names or something. A pity your number isn’t seven.”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s almost like you’re a spy, and you could have been?—
“Double-oh-seven?” I cannot believe she’s Bonding this.
