Page 46 of The Accident

“I see,” I say, but I do not look again.

Instead, I drain the rest of my glass in a single, burning swallow.

I set it down, pick up my paddle, and run a finger along the sharp black line of the number 7.

The rest of the room, the flowers, the chandeliers, the laughter—everything else vanishes, until there’s just the stage and the man across the room who’s about to be sold to the highest bidder.

And for the first time in a week, I feel alive.

To my surprise, the auction doesn’t start immediately. Instead, the crowd hums a bit more, and a tall man materializes at my elbow when I get up to grab a drink from the bar.

He’s unexpectedly handsome, with hair so blonde it almost glows against the black of his tux. He appears at my left, sliding against the wood bar and nodding his head toward me in a way that suggests both athletic grace and the practiced ease of a man who has never once encountered resistance. His skin is tanned a kind of perpetual summer, and his teeth are the white of fresh business cards.

“Don’t worry,” he says, low enough that only I can hear. “I’m only here to keep your friend’s claws out of my boss’s wife.”

I glance and sure enough, Stella is leaning across Gold Dress’s lap to talk to a handsome older man, laughing at something while Gold Dress stews. The woman has her lips pursed, her expression tense.

“Is it working?” I say, mostly to give my mouth something to do.

He smiles, that easy, melting smile. “If I’m being honest, no.”

I laugh.

“Well, that’s Stella,” I say in a rueful tone. “You can’t control her, so don’t blame yourself.”

He chuckles and offers his hand. “I won’t. I’m Evan Fine, by the way. Yes, rhymes with wine.”

The handshake is warm, his grip dry and direct. His palm is callused, a little rough in a way that surprises me. “Kayleigh McEnroe,” I say, and instantly regret how stiff my own voice sounds. “No relation to the tennis player.”

He laughs. “That’s a relief. My serve is trash.” He cocks his head, leans in just enough that I catch a whiff of oceanic aftershave, and says, “Let me guess. You’re here for a friend? Or you’re a plant from the PR committee to make sure no one gets too drunk before the auction?”

“Definitely the last one,” I say with a smile, because it’s the easier lie.

He glances at my empty glass. “But you’re drinking.”

“Trying to pace myself.” Also a lie, but he seems to like it.

“I’ll get you something. What do you like?” He starts to stand before I can protest.

“Champagne,” I blurt, and he’s already in motion, waving to the bartender. Within seconds, two flutes appear on the bar, and Evan hands one to me. “It’s not Dom, but it’s the closest they have.”

I take a sip. He watches me drink.

For a few moments, we do the polite, high-octane volley that passes for conversation here: What do you do? Are you bidding tonight, or just here for the spectacle? Who here are you with? It’s easy, and I’m good at it, but I notice that with every new question, his body leans a little closer, his blue eyes a bit more intense, the shape of his jawline doing this thing that is both threatening and comforting. He asks about my job. I tell him about the plant store. He wants to know if I ever do corporate clients because his real estate brokerage is decorated in the worst way possible. I laugh and say maybe, and he leans in even more, which is actually more disconcerting than if he’d made a joke about it.

It’s very, very clear that Evan is interested in me. He has the vibe of a guy who expects the night to end in someone’s apartment, likely his, kissing and maybe more. He looks at me like I’m a puzzle he already knows how to solve.

And if I were any other woman, I’d probably go for it. Evan’s gorgeous, after all, in an aristocratic, Nordic way. But my mind isn’t here.

My mind is across the room, where Trevor stands with a glass of scotch in his hand, a perfect mannequin beside him—a woman in a backless red dress, hair up, skin like a burnished coin. She has her hand on his lapel, and she’s laughing, leaning in so close her lips nearly brush his ear.

Meanwhile, Evan’s droning on about some disastrous bachelor auction in Edina that he had to participate in last year, but my laughter is all fake, and my eyes keep flicking past him to the far wall, to Trevor, to the tableau of red dress and white teeth and the way my stepbrother is acting like he doesn’t even know I exist.

I’m barely listening.

When I do look at Evan, I catch him studying me. It’s not predatory—more like curious, as if he knows there’s another story going on and he wants to figure out what it is.

“You seem distracted,” he says, not unkindly.