Page 46 of Auctioned To Be Mine

“I already did,” I said, slumping back on the couch.

“Yikes.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “She’s got you all twisted up. Just ask her out.”

“I will. I’m just thinking about how.”

He snorted a laugh. “Since when do you think when it comes to women? Just ask her out, bro.”

“I don’t want to come on too strong. I want to keep it casual.”

His eyes widened like he’d come to a realization. “Holy shit, you’re scared she’ll reject you.”

I stood up from the chair. “Are we done here?”

He stood as well. “Look, do whatever you want. Ask her out, don’t ask her out. Just make don’t get distracted by what-ifs. Just talk to her and all this overthinking will stop.” He gestured around the showroom. “At least get through this grand opening first. A lot of people are counting on you.”

“I know.”

Drew clapped me on the shoulder. “On the bright side, you’ve got me here to help.”

I looked around the large space and something tickled the back of my brain.

“I think I might have an idea,” I said.

Drew stopped walking. “See? You stop being distracted and you’re back in the game.”

“Give me a few days to hammer out the details, but I think I know what we need.”

“Can’t wait,” Drew said. He checked his watch. “I have to go. Call your girl. Set up a date for after the opening. And then you can focus.”

I nodded and waved him off. I needed to get my idea on paper.

16

VICTORIA

The salad was depressing. It wasn’t one of those fancy ones with fresh meats and the crunchy croutons. It was a basic bitch salad. Lettuce, chicken that could double as those rubber nuggets on playgrounds, and cheese that was dry enough to be used as tinder.

But it was food and I was hungry.

I stabbed a tomato with my fork and scrolled through my phone with my free hand. Betty had forwarded me three emails about the upcoming gala planning timeline. I needed to respond to all of them. I needed to call vendors back. I still needed to draft a thank-you letter to Chantilly.

I was trying to figure out how to word that particular letter. I had looked up her Instagram and felt relieved and a little less guilty when I discovered she was still somewhere in the Mediterranean on her boyfriend’s yacht. She’d been posting photos of herself every five minutes, including delicious meals. It made my shitty salad taste just a little worse.

I stabbed a piece of chicken, cringed, but popped it in my mouth.

The breakroom was empty. Most of the other staff ate at their desks or went out in groups to the sandwich place two blocks over. I appreciated the quiet and chose to ignore the acrid scent of burnt popcorn. There should be a law against using a community microwave to cook popcorn. It always burned and the smell never really went away.

The door swung open. I glanced up, chewing a chunk of lettuce, and froze.

Callum Blackwell was standing in the doorway holding a large paper bag in each hand. He was wearing dark jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. My eyes were drawn to his forearms.

He looked around the small room with its plastic chairs and its bulletin board covered in outdated flyers.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. I was so confused.

“I wanted to see you.”

I blinked. “Oh. You could have texted. Called.”