Page 23 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

DEAN

I don’t do personal. I don’t get involved, don’t dig into people’s lives, don’t play hero. I fix things—machines, engines, moving parts. People? That’s not my business.

And yet, that damn article kept bothering me.

Should I save her again? Could I save her? This wasn’t like before. There was no quick fix. Nothing I could really do to stop the rumors. I thought back to the night I was able to do a little something to help her. It felt like a million years ago.

I didn’t know why I bothered picking her up that night. Seth had left her stranded on the island—just one of his many shitty moves—and she’d been standing there in the dark, trying to act like it didn’t bother her. But I knew better. I could see the fear in her stance. When she saw me pulling up on the jet ski, she was probably even more afraid. She didn’t know me. I was a lot older than her. But she must have figured I was the lesser of two evils. She didn’t say much, just climbed on behind me and held on tight as we cut through the water. I didn’t ask questions. She didn’t offer answers. That was fine by me.

I dropped her off at her place, watched her walk up to her porch without so much as a glance back at me. Typical Portia Watson. Always acting like she didn’t need anyone. And maybe she didn’t. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about her long after I rode my bike back home.

Now, sitting in my shop, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in over her head again. Not just with the auction—though that was its own mess—but with the way this town kept poking and prodding at her like she was some kind of sideshow. She didn’t deserve that. Maybe she was stubborn and a little too proud for her own good, but she wasn’t weak. If anything, she was too damn strong for her own good.

I told myself to let it go. It wasn’t my problem. Portia Watson could handle herself. She had made that clear enough.

I checked the time and decided to grab lunch. I climbed on my Harley and rode the couple miles into town. With all the vacationers and folks who owned second homes in town, parking was limited. I loved October. That was when things thinned out and we got our little town back.

I had to park a block away from the diner I frequented. They had damn good BLTs. I tried to shake things up, but I always went back to the BLT, potato salad, and the biggest chocolate chip cookie in town. People always joked it wasn’t healthy and one day my metabolism was going to stop. Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t. I was going to enjoy eating what I wanted while I had it.

I just happened to see Portia walking down Main Street with her head held high, pretending like nothing was wrong. I didn’t think she saw me. In fact, I didn’t think she saw anyone. She was doing her level best to stare straight ahead.

I stepped into her path before I could stop myself.

She looked surprised to see me, like I had just materialized out of thin air. “Jackson.”

“Portia. You look like you’re on a mission.”

“I suppose I am.”

“You see the article?” I asked. I didn’t know why I asked. I was pretty sure she had, and if she hadn’t seen it, she probably didn’t want to read that bullshit.

Portia lifted her chin, her green eyes flashing. “Why? You here to tell me it’s not that bad? Or maybe that I should’ve expected it? Or would you prefer to laugh in my face and talk shit? Just say it so I can get on with my day.”

I exhaled, raking a hand through my hair. “I’m saying it’s a load of bullshit. I don’t like drama, and I’m not interested in being involved in yours.”

She was ticked right away. Her shoulders tensed, and she took a step closer. “You’re interrupting my day to shit on me? The paper’s already doing that. Small towns, small minds—I should’ve expected this. But I don’t need it from you, too.”

“Just stay in your lane,” I snapped. “Nobody bugged me until you came back home.”

She hesitated, and for the first time since the article dropped, her mask cracked. I saw it—just for a second—the way the words got to her, the way they cut deeper than she was willing to admit. “It’s my name being dragged through the mud, not yours.”

Something twisted in my chest. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to feel a damn thing.

“Look,” I muttered, glancing away. “People in this town love a story. Give them a week and they’ll move on to something else. Trust me, I’ve been the subject of gossip more times than I can count.”

Portia stared at me like she was trying to figure out why I even cared. Then she exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. “Was that supposed to be an apology?”

I smirked, shaking my head. “Sure.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need you to defend me, Jackson.”

“Good,” I shot back. “Because I wasn’t offering.”

We just stood there, glaring at each other. I had no idea why she was mad at me or why I was irritated with her. Neither of us had actually done anything to each other. We were thrown together by circumstance. Somehow, I was being dragged into whatever drama she had going on.

Portia’s lips twitched, like she was fighting a smile. She shook her head. “You know, I might’ve failed at real estate, but this reporter is failing at her job, too. How is this even newsworthy?”

I had to laugh. She made a good point. “Small-town journalism. They’ll write about anything if it gets clicks. You’re the new face in town. And it’s a slow news week.”