Page 7 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

The second billionaire and his birdlike features stood. He reminded me of a peacock strutting back and forth across the stage. He was clearly relishing the attention. The bidding for him started high and only climbed higher, spurred on by his theatrical antics. But despite all his posturing, he was sold for the same thirty-five grand.

It was ridiculous. Seventy thousand dollars in just two bids, not including ticket sales or the ludicrous markups on the food and drinks. The charity was going to be rolling in dough. I wasn’t jealous or envious, but it was pretty impressive to see these people all willing to fork out so much money without batting an eye.

And then there was me, standing here in my black-on-black uniform, earning sixteen dollars an hour and praying my car wouldn’t break down again this month. Or that I wouldn’t twist an ankle or, God forbid, get sick enough that I wouldn’t be able to work.

When only Roman Kelly was left, the energy in the room shifted. I could practically feel the women perking up and paying attention. I glanced into the crowd and saw several women had casually moved to the front. If I was him, I would be feeling like a prime cut of meat. A prized horse. A valuable antique going up on the block.

For a moment, I felt bad for him. He looked so uncomfortable. And angry. I didn’t understand why he would agree to do it if he didn’t want to. He was a billionaire. And a grown-ass man. Couldn’t he say no?

“Last but certainly not least, we have Mr. Roman Kelly, the owner of the Kelly Hotel itself, not to mention a few other minor business ventures.” The crowd chuckled, clearly in on the joke. Roman’s business empire was legendary. As was his wealth and his prowess. He was the stuff of legends. “Let’s make it count and really fill that charity pot, shall we? We’ll start the bidding for Mr. Kelly at a modest fifty thousand dollars!”

My mouth dropped open at the amount of money. My boss was standing next to me. Clearly, he was not immune to the excitement.

“Is the date just for a few hours?” I whispered.

He scowled at me. “Yes.”

That was more money than I made in a year. Two years if I didn’t get another job. Fifty grand to hang out with the man for a few hours? Was it sex? Was this some kind of legal prostitution?

The response was immediate and chaotic. Hands shot into the air faster than I could track. Bidding erupted into a cacophony of shouts and waving hands, the numbers climbing with dizzying speed.

Each bid was met with cheers and applause, as if the higher the number, the more exhilarating the spectacle. I watched as one particularly determined bidder—a woman in a shimmering gold dress—pushed her way to the front, her credit card held high like a warrior’s sword.

I had suggested using bidding paddles earlier, thinking it would add some order to the madness, but my idea was shot down. My job was to move stuff, not think. Chaos encouraged competitive bidding, I was told, and no one here could claim they couldn’t afford it.

Still, watching the numbers climb higher and higher, I couldn’t help but gape. Fifty thousand. Sixty. Seventy-five. The bids flew faster than I could keep up, climbing toward a hundred grand.

A hundred thousand dollars. For one night with this man.

What could I do with that kind of money? Pay off my credit cards, fix my car, maybe even afford to take a real vacation for the first time in years. I could buy new shoes. Buy some magical weight loss pills. And then celebrate with a meal that would counteract the pills. But boy would it taste good.

“Ninety thousand!” a woman shouted loud enough to shake the chandeliers.

The activity on the floor was actually stirring the shimmering hearts and balloons hovering overhead. These women were worse than sharks going after chum in the water.

I glanced back at Roman. He was standing stalwart. No expression. His broad shoulders were back, and he appeared to be looking at something on the back wall. I knew that look. When I was trying to be invisible, that was what I hoped I looked like.

As I let my mind wander, a woman in an elaborate feathered dress brushed past me. I didn’t know who she was or where she came from, but she was on a mission.

She left a trail of tiny feathers in her wake. It looked like a pillow fight gone wrong, like she was shedding. The little feathers floated through the air and tickled my nose. I rubbed my face, but it just made it worse. It felt like I was wallowing in feathers.

I tried to hold it in, but there was no stopping it. The sneeze came out loud and sudden, echoing like a firecracker.

“Sold over here to the woman in black for one hundred and ten thousand dollars!”

The gavel struck, and the room erupted into applause.

It took a moment for the words to register. I blinked, stunned, and looked around, sure there had been some kind of mistake. My manager was staring at me. His face was a mask of horror and fury.

“What?” I squeaked, but it was too late.

“You just won the bid,” my manager hissed.

“No, I didn’t!” I said, panicked. “I sneezed!”

“Then go up there and tell them it was a mistake!” His voice was low but sharp, each word laced with irritation and a warning.

I froze, unable to move. My mind raced. I couldn’t just walk up there in front of everyone and announce that I couldn’t afford to bid, that I wasn’t even supposed to be bidding in the first place. My stomach churned as chaos erupted in the ballroom. Everyone was trying to get a look at the woman who just won Roman Kelly for the night.