Page 1 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

1

KAIRA

“So glad this weighs eight thousand pounds.” I grunted and shoved a ridiculously heavy box toward the open door of the van. “Does anyone look at me and see a dainty woman? No. What do they see? A donkey. Someone meant for hard labor.”

Talking to myself was so normal for me I barely knew I did it. If I didn’t talk to myself, I would spend most of my days in silence.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. I had Carla, my roommate, to talk to. But she wasn’t always there by my side to indulge my chatter.

“Move, bitch!” I shouted at the stubborn box.

The thing finally moved, sliding toward the ramp. That would be another challenge, getting it on the dolly and down the ramp without squishing myself in the process.

When I took this job out of sheer desperation, I didn’t know I’d be the mule. I envisioned myself serving champagne and mingling with the rich and powerful. I imagined I would be blowing up balloons and setting up tables and putting finishing touches on floral arrangements. At the end of the night I thought I’d be getting praise and compliments instead of boob sweat and lower back pain.

But this gig? It was so not the vibe.

I was the sucker in charge of toting all the shit into the venue and my boss and coworkers were the ones inside making things look pretty. It was a temporary gig, so I shouldn’t be surprised. I wasn’t one of the cool kids. I had zero experience with event planning. I had taken the job because I needed one, but I had no clue how much physical labor it would require.

I paused to slump against the box and catch my breath. Blowing a strand of sweaty hair off my forehead, I leaned forward and braced my hands on my knees.

“Pro?” I muttered to the asphalt beneath my feet. “Possible weight loss. Con? Thousand-dollar orthotic insoles. Super sexy.”

I’d spent the last fifteen of my twenty-nine years trying to achieve a slimmer physique. Spin classes had resulted in dizzy spells, vomiting, and the humiliating experience of a hot paramedic handing me a bottle of water and gently telling me I wasn’t made for spin class.

That one stung for a while.

I’d tried lifting weights to great protest from all my joints and my bank account. Gym memberships were no joke these days and canceling mine had been so frustrating, it would have been easier to burn the place down.

I’d done every diet under the sun, tried every weight loss tea, and even succumbed to wearing a corset to try to “reshape” my waist. Lunacy.

Maybe all I really needed to drop the extra pounds and softness was this backbreaking job.

“This is it,” I said with a laugh. “This will be the thing that finally works.”

I lifted another box with a grunt and carried it to the back.

“Unless I just end up so buff I look like a female Hercules. That would be my luck.”

I leaned against the van, panting, and surveyed the mountain of boxes still waiting to be unloaded. Each one seemed larger and more intimidating than the last. A bead of sweat trickled down my spine, racing straight for my butt crack. I pressed my shirt to my skin to soak it up but it was too late.

The little bastard had already disappeared into the dark crevasse, tickling me in an unpleasant way.

So much for my break. I loaded up the dolly with more boxes and wrestled it down the ramp, each bump threatening to topple the precarious load. Inside the venue, voices echoed across the large, ornate hall that was slowly transforming into tonight’s event arena. I didn’t stop to take in the sights. My arms were screaming at me, so quickness was key.

I wheeled the empty dolly back outside and groaned when I looked toward the open door of the van. Boxes of brochures, centerpieces, and every random object needed for the evening’s fundraiser were stacked haphazardly, daring gravity to send them toppling.

“Come on,” I muttered, my breath puffing out in the cool night air. “Muscle up.”

It wasn’t much of a pep talk but it got me moving. And my old personal trainer, Marshall, used to call me “uncoachable.”

Suck an egg, Marshall.

I climbed back into the van and got back to work. It wasn’t just the manual labor that had me so frazzled. It was The Kelly Hotel. I couldn’t help but stare every few seconds at the towering beauty of the seventy-five-year-old building. It was like something out of a storybook—ornate stone carvings framed massive arched windows and soft golden lights glowed from inside.

I’d always thought the place was romantic, somewhere two soulmates could find each other and start their happy ever after. I could almost see two young lovers coming together for a blazing kiss, swept away in each other.

To my dismay, the woman in my little daydream wasn’t me. Even in my fantasies, love like that was for some other lucky girl. Never for me.