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“Didn’t you do something like this before? You added too much belladonna?”

What a shit show that was. Our youngest sister, Elitza—or Litza, since she refuses to acknowledge the ‘E’ in her name—ended up sneaking into a house in the middle of the night to retrieve the tin. Good times.

“Thanks for reminding me.” A sniffle sounds through the speaker. “In my defense, it’s really only teas that I struggle with.”

“It worries me when you say things like that. I purchase all my tea from your shop, you know? I’ll have Litza look into him and see if we can make him into a flower—a pansy. Problem solved.”

“You don’t purchase shit. I give it to you. Also, knowing you would do that for me somehow makes me feel better. Are you in the car?”

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel like a vise.

“Yes, though traffic this morning sucked. Luckily, I’m just pulling into the parking lot now. Keep your fingers crossed for me!”

“I will. You got this! Once you get it, I want photos. Love you! Bye!”

“Love you, bye!”

The call ends, allowing me to check the time. I use the few minutes I have to fix my hair and makeup. The new concealer is working its ass off to cover my raccoon eyes. As I exit the parking lot, a burst of fall wind threatens my updo.

Of all seasons, fall is my favorite. It brings with it a sweet earthy scent. Crisp leaves. Damp branches. A balmy coolness. Normally, I’d immerse myself in the seasonal change. Sit on a park bench. Grab a baked treat from one of the shops. However, I have no time to enjoy it right now.

Fighting against the wind, I finally reach the auction house doors. The host smiles and ushers me to the front of the line. One of the perks of being a private curator—everyone working an auction house knows me. The availability of seats so close to the start time fills me with hope that I won’t have as much competition as I had anticipated.

I find my favorite seat open in the middle of the third row, just to the right of the block. Shuffling along the aisle to my seat, I scan the room to make sure I can see most of the people holding paddles. Several curators wave and smile at me. I return their greetings—my pathetic attempt to make it look like I give a shit.

Why everyone wants to smile at random people all the time is beyond me. However, shrewd and rude is no way to obtain favors from the competition. Pricks.

I notice a pair of explosive blue eyes framed by tortoiseshell glasses fixed on me. I nod and smile stiffly as I lower myself into the seat.

Once settled, a nagging thought in my mind makes me turn to find his focus still fixed on me. I’ve already done the socially acceptable thing by smiling. Being a dick doesn’t entitle you to further kindness. Even if it is forced. He continues to sear me with his unwavering gaze.

What’s his fucking problem?

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, sending a shiver down my spine. The sensation is alien but oddly welcoming.

Dropping my smile, I narrow my eyes to shoot daggers in his direction.

A light dusting of chocolate brown bristles accentuates the chiseled line of his jaw that ticks with each long breath he takes. The rise of his massive shoulders highlights the muscles packed beneath the fabric of his suit. I honestly don’t know how the seams are holding it together. Even the pressed folds along his sleeve manage to survive. A pulse thrums between my thighs the longer I stare.

Clearly, I’ve neglected my body for too long. Biting my lower lip hoping the mild pain will help center my thoughts, I sigh. My mind conjures up the tickle of his beard across my skin. He brings his hand up to adjust his glasses. Small cuts graze across his knuckles. The sight has me pressing my thighs together.

As if reading my mind, his eyes crinkle at the edges as his full lips tilt into a lopsided smirk. I begin raising my hand to throw him the finger, when the auctioneer takes the podium.

My foot bounces with nervous energy as the auctioneer spends far too much time running down the rules. After an hour of bidding, my calf burns from springing off the ground continuously. Pushing that thought out of my mind, I see the next item being brought out. I look over at the asshole from earlier who hasn’t taken an interest in anything yet. He doesn’t even look up when the items are out. He just keeps staring at the catalog in his lap. His arms move, but I’m unable to see what he’s doing. I crane my neck to get a glimpse, but his thick, stupid arm is in the way.

The auctioneer calls “Item 34” and all thoughts of the handsome man leave my mind. As soon as the stage manager places the glass box containing the manuscript on the rostrum, my leg ceases its bouncing. I grip the end of the paddle in anticipation of the battle about to begin.

“Bidding for Item 34 opens at $5,000. Opening bids!”

I raise my paddle immediately. Several more rise throughout the crowd. Fools. I’ve planned for this. I have close to $15,000 saved for this. If that fails, well, I have a bad attitude and a sharp blade.

Good luck, assholes.

The bidding continues. My paddle hand never falls. It’s not worth the risk. My arm remains outstretched as my wrist flicks the paddle. The bidding price continues to climb.

My lungs seize, making breathing difficult. Sweat gathers at the back of my neck. My arm starts to tremble. I underestimated how many collectors would be interested in the manuscript.

The bidding reaches $10,000, and fewer paddles rise. A flicker of hope begins to soothe my nerves. I can taste it—victory!