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When Echo walked across the stage, the crowd cheered. She waved, did a cute little curtsey, and then looked at the auctioneer. The old guy began his spiel, reading off the card in his hands.
“And now, folks, we’ve got quite the treat. The lovely Echo Mansfield has agreed to let one lucky person out there spend the entire weekend with her at her family’s beautiful plantation home, Live Oaks, in Louisiana. She will be at your beck and call. It’s a one-of-a-kind getaway, and we’ll start the bidding at fifty thousand.
I stood straighter, watching as the bidding evolved into a battle between Nick Greenfield, a quarterback with the Jets, and some creepy old dude I didn’t know. They got as high as four hundred grand, which was Greenfield’s bid, and when the auctioneer did his thing, looking to the old dude to pony up more dough, I raised my hand, and the place went quiet.
“And what is your bid, young man?” the auctioneer asked, his voice giving the right amount of drama to the whole thing.
I looked up at the stage and found Echo’s eyes on me. Her chest rose and fell slowly, and her eyes glittered under the lights.
“One million.”
The crowd gasped. The quarterback swore. And Echo shot a look my way that would have driven a knife through me if she could have.
Malcolm appeared from out of nowhere. He slapped me on the back and handed me a shot of tequila. He winked and shook his head.
“Dude, that’s one way to get a woman alone.”
No shit, I thought, glancing back toward the stage. Echo wasn’t happy. That much was clear.
Too bad we weren’t on the same page.
15
Echo
“I’m not doing it. No way in hell.”
I was so angry, I wanted to throw something. I reached for my phone and swore when I realized I didn’t have it. Then I eyed up Lyric’s but was pretty sure she would wrestle me for it, and even on her worst day, she could take me.
Hands empty, I clenched them and gritted my teeth so hard, pain radiated up my jaw. This was a nightmare. All week, my people had been on damage control. Team Echo said there was nothing going on between me and Boyd. Our cabin stay was a coincidence and nothing more. But now? A million dollars? Really? How were we going to spin this?
I wanted to move on and forget about Boyd Appleton. Write him off as a weak moment. And now it would be in my face twenty-four seven.
Just fucking great.
We were backstage, and I’d nearly burned a hole in the floor from pacing back and forth. I saw Jessica Dubrosky watching a few feet away, her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched in glee. I resisted the urge to flip the bird. Barely. She was a snobby trust fund bitch from the Upper West Side and had a nasty habit of trolling my Insta pics, leaving negative comments via a barrage of emojis. I wanted to ask her if she could spell. Seriously, if you want to throw shade, use your damn words.
Instead, I gave her a pointed glare, and eventually, she left with a sly smile and a shrug that told me she’d be posting something later. Just my luck she’d be the one to witness my backstage meltdown. Whatever. I had more to worry about than the emoji queen of New York.
“This is a disaster.” I threw my hands up and began to pace again.
“You’re scared.” Lyric shrugged. “I get it.”
I rounded on her, outraged at her cavalier response. “Are you kidding me? That’s what you’ve got? That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
A weekend alone with Boyd in Louisiana? What the hell could go wrong?
“Echo,” she began, but I cut her off. I was so not in the mood for her side of things.
“I’m not scared, Lyric. I’m angry for being put on the spot. Angry that I’ll be front page news again. I haven’t been able to leave my apartment because the paparazzi are as thick as the crap smoothie I force down every morning. Mother of God, but Hollywood Tattler is going to have a field day.”
“First of all, Echo, the paparazzi are always in your face. That’s nothing new. And it’s never made you angry before.”
“Before doesn’t count,” I snapped. “You’re my sister, and you should be on my side.”
Ali retreated because she knew me well enough to know an epic tantrum was on the horizon. “I’ll just…” Her voice faded to nothing as I shot my eyes her way.
Poor thing. It wasn’t her fault. I took a moment. Pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose and counted to ten just like my therapist had taught me.
