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“I printed out the email from the charity head.” Whitney pulls it out and gives it a scan. “We’re in charge of getting the items for the silent auction.”
“Sounds exciting,” Beckett says, still eyeing Camila.
She winks at him.
“So let’s make a list of ideas, items we think would be good for the auction. We’ll have to reach out to businesses and high-profile individuals for donations. How about this? Each of us will contact, let’s say, ten businesses or people?”
“I’ll create an online form where we can all input the information we gather,” Will offers. “Like names, numbers, what they’re offering, that sort of thing.”
Whitney thanks him. “For bigger organizations, we can send a form email asking for a donation. But I always find there’s better success when you ask in person. So for any local businesses, either go in yourself, or at least make a phone call.” She glances at David. “Do you remember what kind of shit was up for auction last year?”
I think the two of them were involved in the previous year’s fundraiser. Luckily, I managed to escape that assignment.
“I don’t know,” he says slowly, his French-Canadian accent so subtle you can barely hear it sometimes. “I think there was, like, a skydiving package? A B&B in New Hampshire donated a weekend getaway. There was an all-inclusive vacation too.”
“Oh, right. And we had that sick Bruins prize—the winner got to watch their morning skate,” Whitney recalls, lighting up.
“Yeah, but that was because of G’s dad,” Demaine points out. “He arranged for it. I doubt we’ll be able to get something like that on our own.”
As expected, Whitney’s shrewd gaze lands on me. “Can you work your magic and see if your dad or any of his famous friends will donate something cool?”
I nod. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure he can hook us up.”
“Must be nice,” Ryder drawls.
I bristle. Really? First time we’ve spoken in a week, and that’s what he comes up with?
I narrow my eyes at him. “Would you rather I didn’t use my connections for the charity auction that we’re all forced to plan?”
That shuts him up. I glimpse a hint of a smile on his lips before he ducks his head.
Camila says, “My stepfather owns a bunch of gyms in Boston. I’ll ask him if he’ll donate a gym package.”
“Excellent,” Whitney says, jotting it down.
An idea comes to me. “My cousin is launching a makeup line. Maybe I can ask her to put together, I don’t know, a gift basket of products?”
Camila gives me a knowing look. “Hey, someone ask Gigi what her cousin’s name is.”
Beckett grins. “I’ll bite. What’s her name?”
I scowl at Cami. To Beckett, I say, “Her name is Alex, and it’s really not a big deal—”
“Her name is Alexandra Tucker,” Camila corrects. “Yes, that’s right. The supermodel. So, you know, totally not a big deal.”
Shane looks impressed. “Damn, you really do have friends in high places, don’t you, Gisele?”
“She’s my cousin,” I grumble. “I can’t help that she’s famous.”
From the corner of my eye, I notice Ryder is on his phone. Texting, I think. Which activates a jolt of suspicion. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe the reason he hasn’t contacted me all week isn’t because, like me, he was overwhelmed by how mind-blowing the sex was.
Maybe he’s sleeping with other people.
The notion weakens my pulse, and not in a good way. For some reason, the thought of him in bed with another girl makes me feel—
My phone buzzes in my purse.
I wait a few seconds, trying to remain nonchalant, then fish it out of my bag. My breath promptly gets stuck in my lungs.
RYDER:
I can’t stop thinking about you.
I did not expect that.
Slowly, I lift my head to find him watching me. Completely expressionless. Then he turns his head away, but not before I spot the gleam of heat.
“Okay,” Whitney says, “everyone start googling local businesses and pick some to contact. We can’t leave here today without a solid list, so let’s nail it down because I don’t want to do this again. I have a life.”
Beckett chuckles.
“I’m going to call my dad,” I tell the group, scraping my chair back. “See what he might be able to offer. Maybe he’ll be able to do a meet-and-greet or a private skate. I’ll find out.”
I grab my phone and leave the table. I walk down the European history stacks toward the back wall, heart drumming against my ribs.
Rather than call my dad, I text Ryder.
ME:
Study Room B
Because I can see into Study Room B and it’s empty. Beyond the narrow stack, I hear my group chattering quietly amongst themselves. They can’t see me, though. I slip past two more rows and then duck into the study room.
I pull down all the blinds. And then I wait.
I don’t know if he’ll come. I don’t know if I even want him to. This is crazy. All our friends are sitting right there.
