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One
Sasha
Myanxietylevelrisesas each minute passes in the Christmas Cheer Auction, or as it’s jokingly called, the Christmas Cherry Auction.
Will I be able to go through with my plan to bid on the three firefighters? If I do it, will people judge me, and make assumptions about what I want from them?
I figure I can put them to work fixing up the house I inherited from my grandma, but naughty thoughts of what I’d rather do with the firefighters make me tingly.
I give myself a mental shake. Me winning three guys won’t be much different from the craziness that has gone on so far.
Three mountain men bid on Izzy, Maggie was bought by her three stepbrothers, and three millionaires or billionaires, or whatever they are these days, won Roxy.
Maybe I can get lost in the shuffle.
Will groups of women be teaming up to bid on the firefighters I have my sights on? Am I foolish to think I can win all three? I have the advantage of the huge inheritance I’m obligated to donate to charity.
I reflexively open my bank app to check that the money is still there even though I know it is.
My life has been part dream, part nightmare lately, so checking the account is my equivalent to pinching myself.
I never knew that my grandmother was rich. She lived so frugally, I assumed that she had to. Even in her dying years, she neverenjoyedher money, not the way she could have.
It wasn’t until the reading of the will, that I found out she was wealthy. Her request was that I donate fifty percent of whatever she had left to charity, and I could keep the other half as seed money for my own retirement.
I’m eternally grateful for her generosity.
That’s half of the story of how I’ve landed at the Christmas Cherry Auction, sitting at a table with friends who promised to egg me on if I get nervous about bidding on the fire hunks.
I tug at the hem of my skirt, which is a useless act since I’m sitting on it.
The auctioneer is taking a small break. I glance at the exit. I could leave and simply write a check to the fire department for their much needed safety gear. They’d get more money that way since they’d get my grandma’s money and whatever is raised this evening.
And I could keep from embarrassing myself by being up close to these men. Winger is the oldest with a strong vibe of having his shit together. Purge is thick in ahits the gymkind of way, and seems to be the most casual of the three. Tank is the burly and broody baby of the trio, but still almost a decade older than me. Word has it that he’s been burned in more than one serious relationship. I’d like to—
“It’s going to be fine,” my support friend, Scarlette, says.
A deep breath helps me focus on a white lie. “Yeah, I’m just ready for them to get on with the show.”
“Then why do you look ill?”
My heart’s beating so fast, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to pull this off. The mere thought of brazenly bidding on the rugged, tattooed guys has me feeling so much more exposed than just my bare legs.
“I’ll be fine.” I fan myself with my bidder paddle, then set it back on the table so I can close my bank app. In doing so, I accidentally bump my finger on my text messages icon, and John’s name sits at the bottom of the screen.
That’s how newly single I am. I’ve barely received enough messages since his breakup text to bury it. My friends tell me I should just delete it and move on. The only reason I’ve saved it is to remind myself that he really did break up with me by text after a year together.
Part of his final text is on the screen. I never replied. Might as well reread it and bolster my confidence to have fun bidding tonight. My finger hovers over his name.
What he doesn’t know is that the day he sent that text, I’d gone to the store and bought a cute little piece of lingerie, red and lacy with white fluff across the top. It was something sexy that I thought we could have fun with because I was finally ready to have sex.
A few carefully worded mentions of things I’d read about in romance novels had caused him to roll his eyes. A few other attempts to get him to do things like chase me and take control of me had run into brick walls.
It seems anything related to romantic play, or that didn’t immediately lead to sex was lost on him.
I’d worried that my sexual desires had been tainted by what I read. So I waited. And waited. Hoping my fantasy world could be appeased by lying flat on my back while he grunted on top of me—and I would be able to accept the standard first time.
What a twist of fate that on the same day that I lowered my standards enough to accept whatever he had in store, he sent me the breakup text. Which means, I’m a virgin with a wild imagination, and I’m about to bid on three fantasy guys.
