I clear my throat as the auctioneer continues. “A private, hands-on baking and floral arrangement class with Lila Ng, owner of Bloom & Brew. A unique experience that combines art, food, and creativity!”
A smattering of applause. Some nods of interest. I force my shoulders to stay loose, even though my pulse is sprinting.
“It’s a wonderful opportunity to learn from a beloved member of our community,” the auctioneer adds. “Shall we start the bidding at fifty pounds?”
A polite bid comes from an older woman near the back. Thank God.
“Fifty pounds,” the auctioneer announces. “Do I hear seventy-five?”
Another hand goes up. Then another. A slow but steady pace.
Okay. Okay. This isn’t so bad.
Then a smooth, deep voice cuts through the chatter.
“Ten thousand pounds.”
I freeze.
The auctioneer blinks. The entire ballroom stills.
Sophie’s jaw drops. Olivia chokes on her champagne. Willow lets out a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeal.
I don’t even need to turn around to know exactly who it is.
Ben.
Of course.
He’s draped in his chair like he has nowhere better to be, the crisp black tux fitting him too damn well, the open collar just undone enough to hint at something reckless beneath the polish. His dark blond hair is slicked back, like he ran his fingers through it just to mess it up. One wrist rests lazily on the edgeof his chair, fingers tapping idly against the table, like he has all the time in the world. Like he owns the damn place.
His gaze is locked on mine, unreadable, waiting.
The auctioneer visibly chokes. “Ah—well—that’s—” He coughs, straightening his bow tie, eyes darting toward the crowd like he needs confirmation that he didn’t just hallucinate that number. “We have a bid of ten thousand pounds.”
The auctioneer clears his throat again, visibly rattled. “Do I hear eleven thousand?”
Crickets.
Not a single hand raises. No one even breathes.
Of course not. Who the hell is going to bid against that?
I force my jaw to unclench, but my heart is still hammering so loud I swear the microphone might pick it up.
“Going once,” the auctioneer says, hesitating for half a second, like maybe someone will swoop in and save me from whatever the hell Ben thinks he’s doing.
No one does.
“Going twice.”
I swallow hard.
“Sold! To bidder number—” The auctioneer scans the crowd, brow furrowing. “Sir, if you could hold up your number, please?”
Slowly, deliberately, Ben raises his number card, the movement so effortlessly smug it makes my blood boil. The auctioneer barely finishes confirming, “Bidder number seventy-two!” The room erupts with applause, a wave of claps and murmured excitement rippling through the ballroom, but I barely hear it over the blood roaring in my ears.
Ben doesn’t look at the auctioneer. His gaze stays locked on mine, dark blond hair slicked back, a hint of stubble sharpeninghis jawline. He looks infuriatingly good, like the kind of man who knows he just turned the entire night in his favour.
