Page 22 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

“It wasn’t like that,” I said, looking down.

“Mmm-hmm.” The woman pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced. “You say that, but I know a man with unfinished business when I see one. And he’s got plenty of it with you, sweetheart.”

I let out a breath, exhaling slowly. “I appreciate your… insight.” I smiled. “But it was a nice enough time.”

Cara chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Nice? Honey, if that’s all it was, you missed out. Just remember, some opportunities only come once.” She turned her attention back to the mirror, smoothing the fabric of her gown. “Now, Alexis, darling, are you sure this hem isn’t too short? I don’t want to scandalize the bingo crowd.”

Alexis grinned, shaking her head. “Mrs. Thornton, I think the bingo crowd would be more scandalized if you didn’t show up in something fabulous. Trust me, this is perfect. I’ll adjust the hem just a bit.”

“Well, thank you.” She looked at me and winked. “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t let that one get away.”

“I’ll just have to bid on him next year too.” I forced a laugh, trying to play it off like it was no big deal.

But it was a big deal. At least, it felt like one. Every time someone brought up the auction, I felt a fresh wave of embarrassment. I didn’t want to be the girl who bid on Dean Jackson. I didn’t want to be the girl who came crawling back to town after failing in the city. I just wanted to be me. But it felt like that was getting harder and harder to hold on to.

“Okay,” Alexis declared. “I’ll take care of this today and you can pick it up tomorrow.”

Cara nodded and went into the dressing room.

“Sorry,” Alexis whispered.

I shook my head. “It’s fine.”

Cara left shortly after.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” I said. “The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

I left the shop and went down to the coffee shop on the corner. It was nothing like the trendy shops in Manhattan that were all trying to imitate Central Perk in one way or another. When I walked in, I felt eyes on me.

I stepped up to the counter, avoiding eye contact with the cluster of women sitting by the window. Their whispers were like the hum of a bee you couldn’t quite swat away.

“Two coffees, please,” I said to the barista. “One black, one with cream and sugar.”

The barista nodded, her expression neutral, but I swore I caught a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Or maybe I was just imagining it. Ever since the auction, it felt like everyone in town was looking at me differently. Like I was some kind of spectacle.

The whispers grew louder as the women by the window leaned closer together, their heads tilted in my direction. I clenched my jaw and focused on the chalkboard menu above the counter, pretending to study it like I hadn’t ordered the same thing a hundred times before.

“That’ll be six dollars,” the barista said, sliding the cups toward me.

I handed over a ten-dollar bill and mumbled a thanks before grabbing the coffees and turning toward the door.

“Did you hear? She went out with him.”

“Dean Jackson? Really?”

“I heard she spent a fortune.”

“Isn’t she broke? That’s why she’s here.”

I kept my head high. Let them talk. Let them wonder. It didn’t matter what they thought—not really. But still, my cheeks burned as I pushed the door open and stepped back into the heavy afternoon air. I walked back to the seamstress shop.

Alexis had her phone in hand. She looked up when I walked in. “Uh… you’re gonna want to see this.”

I gave her the coffee. Alexis slid her phone across the counter. The headline made my stomach drop before I even read the article.

Once a Dreamer, Now a Dropout: Why Portia Watson Is Back in Town.

I scrolled, my self-esteem falling with every word. It was all there—the business I started in the city, the risks I took, the ultimate failure that sent me running back home. They painted my return as some cautionary tale, as if my attempt to make something of myself should be a warning to other young people in town. And of course, they threw in the auction.

The article suggested that my bidding on Dean was an attention grab, a way to make myself relevant again. My face burned as I read the speculation, the way they twisted everything to make me look desperate. It was humiliating.

Alexis watched me carefully. “You okay?”

I exhaled sharply and set the phone down. “I don’t have time to care about this.”

It was a lie, but I refused to let anyone—especially some town gossip columnist—decide how I felt. I had nothing but time. It was more like I didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with it. Not now. I just wanted people to leave me alone. Why were they so determined to mess with me? I had done nothing to anyone.

Alexis didn’t push, just nodded. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think they’re idiots. And if you want, I can ‘accidentally’ spill coffee on any reporter who comes in here looking for a quote.”

I laughed and shook my head, some of the tension in my chest easing. It was nice to know I had at least one person in my corner. One thought kept circling in my head. How many people have already read this?

If I wanted to give real estate a try here in my small hometown, like my father did, would anyone take me seriously now? Was that even what I wanted? I didn’t think I could make it work the first time here—that was why I had gone to New York. I didn’t want to be in my father’s shadow or have people go over my head to talk to my father if they felt like I wasn’t doing something right.

But maybe it was possible. Maybe I could rebuild something here, something real. If everyone knew my name, it was possible I could use that to my advantage.

I needed to have a long, hard think about my next steps.