Page 3 of Auctioned To Be Mine

I reached for a piece of bread.

She smacked my hand. “Wait! I’m not done taking pictures. Wait until our drinks arrive so I can stage the table.”

Fuuuuck me.

In half an hour I could blow this whole thing off, text Drew, and kick off our plan to get me the hell out of here. Until then, I was stuck with LA’s most irritating influencer. Self-consciously, I looked around the restaurant, wondering if anyone would recognize me here with this wildly annoying dinner date. I didn’t want people thinking we were a couple.

Our drinks arrived, and my plan to not consume alcohol went out the window when Chantilly sent her drink back three times because the bartender had to get it “just right.” By the time her cocktail finally suited her standards, I’d downed my entire drink and put in an order for a second. I almost asked for a triple.

“You know,” Chantilly mused, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Her long, ruby red manicured nails pressed into her cheek. “We’ve wasted so much time. You and I could have gotten together way sooner than this. What were our fathers dilly-dallying about? We’re a great match. You’re the most handsome bachelor in LA. I’m, well, you know.” She gestured down at herself and batted her lashes at me. “Come sit next to me so we can take a selfie and mark the occasion.”

“The occasion being?” I asked dryly.

“Our first date, of course! We can put this picture up at our wedding.” She squealed. “How do you feel about white roses and lilies?”

Drew, you’d better be ready to blow this night up sooner rather than later and get me the fuck out of here.

2

VICTORIA

My dress was salvageable, thank God. I’d bought it eight months ago from a consignment shop on Melrose. It was pretty and made me feel confident. It gave me an hourglass shape.

There was a time when a dress like this would have been something I bought without looking at the price tag, one of dozens hanging in my stuffed closets in a house I hadn’t paid for with money I hadn’t earned. That was a different life. A life I’d walked away from with two suitcases and my mother’s disappointment following me out the front door.

No amount of Louboutin’s and Prada dresses could make up for the hollow feeling in my chest. Much to the dismay of my parents.

My family made money money. Their wealth defined them, and they built my childhood around enforcing my identity as a Cavendish. Etiquette classes, formal ballet training when I was five, dresses every day. My everyday life was a pageant show for a public audience, and I’d been critiqued and managed until my inner voice stopped talking all together. For a long time I tried to convince myself that I could be who they wanted me to be to fit into their world.

But then I met Betty, and through her I found charity work, and through that? My inner voice came back. I came back. And that was a gift I didn’t even know could set me free.

My parents called it a phase. Then they’d called it a disappointment. Then they’d stopped calling altogether.

I squared my shoulders and checked my phone. I could not screw this up. Betty was counting on me tonight, and just because some asshole with zero manners or spatial awareness literally knocked me on my ass, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to pull out all the stops.

I checked my phone to see if Jack Montana had returned my calls or texts. Nothing.

Our reservation had been for seven. It was now seven fifteen. The restaurant had a policy, which the very pleasant woman on the phone had explained to me when I’d booked. No one got seated until the whole party arrived. If I booked for two, there had to be two butts to fill the seats. They would hold the table for fifteen minutes. After that, it went back into rotation, and we would wait at the bar. Rather, I would wait at the bar and hope the famous actor showed up.

I called him. It rang four times and went to voicemail.

Hi, this is Jack. You know what to do.

I didn’t leave a message because I did not trust myself to sound professional at that particular moment. I sent a text instead. We had a reservation at seven. I’m outside. Please let me know your ETA.

If it wasn’t so important, I would have already left. I reminded myself why I was here. Betty’s charity. The one she’d built from scratch over six years. I’d told her I could do this. I could get a big Hollywood movie star to sign on. We needed his face. His name. His money.

That meant I had to play nice.

I hated asking for anything, but this wasn’t about me. This was for kids. I could swallow my pride and smile. We had plans. Big ones. We needed the money. Events were only as good as the names attached to them, which was why I was standing outside a restaurant waiting for a man who had not responded to six texts. Jack Montana’s name on the auction materials would fill a room.

A black SUV pulled up to the valet. I held my breath, willing it to be him. Willing our table to still be available.

Jack Montana got out with zero urgency, one long leg at a time, and swept his fingers through his long dark hair that grazed the top of his shoulders.

He was exactly as he looked in the movies. Tall, square jaw, zero wrinkles, and flawless skin. He wore a casual outfit that I knew cost more than our monthly operating budget. He handed his keys to the valet without looking at him, scanned the front of the restaurant, and found me standing to the side of the entrance.

“Victoria Cavendish?”