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The hemline hits midthigh and, as I stand there in three-inch heels, my legs feel longer than ever, even though I stand only a few inches above five feet. My hands slide over the fabric of the dress one last time before a gentle knock sounds at the door of the dressing room.
A friendly, older redhead woman peeks her head inside. “We’re ready for you, sweetheart.”
I nod silently and follow her toward the stage that’s been set up in the third-floor banquet hall at one of Portland’s finest hotels. I caught a brief glimpse of it earlier when we arrived, but nothing could have prepared me for the onslaught of blinding lights that I’m hit with as soon as I’m nudged past the curtain.
“And last but certainly not least, we have Olivia Danes,” the speaker’s voice booms with enthusiasm. “Ms. Danes, a lifelong resident of our great town, is a college graduate with a degree in accounting and business.”
Do not throw up. Do not throw up. Do. Not. Throw. Up.
I repeat the chant inside my head with every step I take down the short runway. A smile is forced to my face as I desperately try to find Sandi in the crowd to give myself a focal point, but with all the fucking lights, everything beyond the first couple rows is a blur.
“She enjoys cozy movie nights at home and relaxing weekends at the beach,” the speaker continues, providing a description of myself that I hadn’t penned. Sandi must have, and I kind of hate her right now.
“Olivia was a gymnast when she was young, but now, she finds solace in starting her days with a bit of yoga,” he says, and as I turn away from the audience to walk back toward the speaker, I’m certain my face is ten shades of red.
Not because I’m embarrassed about the likelihood of all these men now thinking about my “flexibility,” but because I’m ready to strangle my co-worker. Okay, maybe both.
“Now, let’s start the bidding off at one-thousand dollars,” the silver fox speaker says, adjusting his bowtie as I reach his side.
As soon as the bidding starts, I’m frozen in place, doing my best to “smile pretty” as Sandi instructed before leaving me earlier. The weight of knowing I’m doing this in a desperate attempt to save the link I have to my mother continues to press in on me. I know one day I won’t ache from this loss as I do now, but if I lose her house, too, even if it’s not my fault, I’m not sure I could bear the devastation.
The speaker places his hand on my shoulders, disrupting the thoughts plaguing my consciousness. The buzzing in my ears eases, and I only catch the last part of what he says.
“…and we have our new record for the evening, ladies and gentlemen!”
What in the actual fuck?
Who are these people, and why do they have so much money to blow on a date that, according to Sandi, will possibly never even happen?
An older gentleman stands in the front row. From where I’m standing, I can make out his stout frame and potbelly. “Twenty-five thousand dollars!” he shouts, raising a white paddle in the air with the number eighty-seven on it.
Seriously, this is insane.
Another man sitting only a row behind the recent bidder doesn’t stand like the balding man, but his intense gaze locks on me and he casually raises his paddle. Where are stupid lights when Iwantthem to blind me?
I freeze for a beat from the intensity of his dark amber eyes, but that doesn’t stop me from taking in the rest of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sinful.
Strands of umber hair fall over his forehead, but the sides are kept neatly trimmed. His sharp jawline is cleanly shaven, but something tells me he’d look ten times sexier with a bit of stubble. He’s wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that I’m certain is tailor-made for him, emphasizing the width of his shoulders.
His tongue peeks out, wetting his lips before he speaks. “Thirty-thousand dollars.”
Whereas the old, balding man had shouted, this other, far more delicious specimen, keeps his tone even, and I swear I can still feel his words echoing in my ears.
Fuck me.
I cross my fingers behind my back, silently praying Potbelly doesn’t bid again. Seconds of tension tick by before the speaker finally says, “Thirty thousand to Mr. Monroe. Wow, thank you so much everyone…”
I don’t hear the rest of what he says. Now that the bidding is done, I follow my previously given instructions and make my way off the stage.
My face still feels flushed from the brief encounter with…Mr. Monroe, but I’m still eager to get home. Someone like him won’t be claiming a date with the likes of me. A woman who can’t even pay her bills without selling herself out.
Back in the dressing room, I change into jeans and a sweatshirt. It might be June, but Oregon nights are always crisp, no matter the time of year.
With all my stuff packed into my oversized purse, I sling the strap over my shoulder and exit the room. The hallways are already packed with people also trying to leave, making it loud as fuck in the small space.
With the nerves caused by being up on that stage still making my head feel off, I decide to find an alternate exit and turn left toward the other side of the hotel. Numerous staff members dressed in white collared shirts and black slacks pass by, but none of them stop me. After what feels like twenty minutes, I finally discover a stairwell that will take me back to the ground floor.
Three flights of stairs later, I end up in front of two doors. One leads to the lobby and the other to the back of the hotel. It’ll be a longer walk to where I’ve parked if I go out the back, but there will be less people.
