Page 33 of Auctioned To Be Mine

He stared at me. I couldn’t quite read his expression. Then something shifted in his face.

“No,” he said. “I was just a little surprised. We’re going to dinner as planned.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m perfectly fine with putting on my jeans and eating a sandwich. Alone.”

“I’m sure.” He opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

I hesitated, then slid into the car. The interior was all black leather and that new car smell. The kind of car I used to take for granted when I lived a different life. Now it felt foreign, like I was stepping into someone else’s world for an evening.

Callum got in the driver’s side and started the engine. The car came to life silently, all glowing screens and ambient lighting.

“So where are we going?” he asked, pulling out of the parking lot.

“Marcello’s. It’s a little Italian place.”

“That’s not where Chantilly made the reservation.”

“I changed it.” I kept my eyes on the road ahead. “The place she picked was pretentious and overpriced. Marcello’s is better.”

We drove in silence for a few blocks. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. That shirt was truly unfortunate. And the khakis were somehow worse. I’d seen him in a tuxedo, looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine. Now he looked like he was going to try selling me solar panels.

“What are you wearing?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. Once it was out, the rest followed. “I mean, what happened? Did you lose a bet?”

He sighed and smiled ruefully. “Something like that. I’m definitely rethinking my choices.”

I laughed despite myself. We fell into silence again, but it felt different this time. Less hostile. Almost comfortable.

Soon after, he pulled into the parking lot of Marcello’s and found a spot near the entrance.

The moment we stepped through the door, I felt myself relax. This was my place. Not literally—I couldn’t afford to eat here more than once every few months—but it felt like home in a way that fancy restaurants never had. There was comfort in good food and this place always delivered.

The smell hit me first. Garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread. The lighting was warm and low, with a single candle on each table. Soft Italian music played from speakers somewhere overhead. No pretentious vibes.

We sat and I asked for a bottle of Chianti, which the server brought over quickly. The server was a professional, and she barely made a face when she saw how Callum was dressed.

The wine wasn’t expensive but it was good. Callum poured for both of us, and I watched him handle the bottle with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

“So,” he said, settling back in his chair. “How long have you worked for the charity?”

“About two years.” I took a sip of wine. “I started as a volunteer and Betty eventually hired me full-time.”

“Betty seems like good people.”

“She’s the best.” I meant it. “She built that organization from nothing. She actually cares about the families we help.”

He nodded, studying me over the rim of his glass. “And before that, what were you up to?”

“Before that?” I picked up a breadstick and broke it in half. “Different life. Not worth talking about.”

“Now I’m curious.”

“Don’t be.” I took a bite of the breadstick, hoping he’d drop it.

He didn’t drop it, but he also didn’t push. Instead, he changed topics. “What’s good here?”

“Everything.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s helpful. I’m so glad I asked.”