There is a palpable sense of anticipation in the crowded loft apartment that serves as the location for the pre-party. As soon as I walk in, I think about turning right around. I am not one for crowds. But Trevor convinces me to stay. He promises it will be worth it. I find a corner that is relatively free of well-dressed and well-heeled attendees and sip my whiskey as I scan the crowd. I suppose I should mingle. After all, some of these people could be potential clients. Clara is always badgering me to do more networking. But I like my business small, exclusive. As long as the right people know about me, I am happy. Besides, I hate working on boat designs for people who have money, but no love of the sea. I don’t like to make boats that just sit in the marina as status symbols. Unfortunately, the number of people at the intersection of having enough money for a custom yacht and having the ability to actually sail it is small. So I end up making boats for a lot of people who will end up hiring captains to take them out a few weekends a year and spend the rest of the time having drinks at the dock.

Trevor is circling the room like he’s the host – slapping backs and making jokes. I wonder if it is his utter lack of genuine personality that makes it so easy for him to engage in small talk with anyone he meets. I have never liked small talk. When an elegant couple comes up to talk to me, I begin regretting that I decided to come.

“Mr. Ericson? How do you do? I’m Jeffrey Dunn, from Dunn & Duquesne. This is my wife, Hilary.” I vaguely remember that Dunn & Duquesne is a law firm. They do a bunch of work for…for some industry group I can’t remember. Jeffrey must be the son of the actual name partner because he doesn’t look much older than thirty-five. His wife is even younger. She is beautiful, but in a severe, cold manner. She holds herself stiffly, as if to embody the marble statue she resembles.

“I saw the boat you just finished for Ted Gordon.” He pauses, like this is a statement that invites a response. After a moment, he continues. “It is a gorgeous boat. I know Ted is just over the moon. Can’t wait to take it out.”

I take another sip of my whiskey.

“I’m glad he is happy with it.”

“I was wondering, Mr. Ericson, can I call you Blake?” I nod. “Blake, Hilary and I were hoping you might have some time in the schedule for us.”

Thankfully, before I have to answer, a tone sounds and a voice comes over the sound system.

“Welcome everyone. If you will please direct your attention to the screen at the front of the room, we are about to begin.”

The Dunns smile at me as if to say ‘we’ll continue this later’ and walk toward the front of the room.

Conversation continues at a low murmur until the lights dim and the large flat-screen television flicks on. On the screen are the letters OPN in flowy purple script against a white background. The voice comes over the sound system again.

“Ladies and gentlemen. The lots for this evening’s auction. Please remember, all bids are subject to acceptance by the other party. Funds must be deposited in the escrow account you were provided earlier today. Specific questions can be directed to our agents at the party. Please enjoy yourselves.”

The screen immediately switches over to a picture of a gorgeous young woman. A slideshow of pictures, close-ups of her face mixed with full body shots. A brief description fills the right side of the screen. Age, height, weight, educational background, et cetera. She stays up for a minute or two and is then replaced by another young woman, just as pretty, but dark haired instead of blonde. One after another, a parade of exquisitely attractive people. Most are young women, but some are equally good-looking men. My attention starts to waver. I am not planning on bidding on anyone, so I will just enjoy watching.

But then I recognize one of the faces that pops up on the screen. It is the girl from the bar last night. I noticed her when I was out with Trevor; she was out with a couple of her friends. Trevor had been focused on her friend, the leggy blonde, but when I looked over at the table, I only saw her. I watched for a few minutes before she looked up and then I couldn’t look away. It felt awkward, staring like that. But then she was staring right back. I was done with my night and so I didn’t go talk to her. I assumed it was just a pleasant moment, gone as soon as it had come. But now here she is. Up on the screen. Open for bidding.

Emma Taylor, it says. Twenty-six years old, works at a coffee shop. Graduated with a degree in Classics? What an odd choice. My interest is truly piqued now. I studied history in college myself and have a deep interest in archaeology. Her picture flicks off and is replaced by another beautiful woman. But she is still in my head.

I overhear someone in front of me talking and Emma’s name comes up. He is talking with the man next to him, planning how much he is going to bid on her, discussing what his night with her would be like.

For some reason, even though I haven’t even spoken a word to this Emma Taylor, I begin feeling possessive. I’m not going to let this random guy buy her tonight. I wasn’t going to be participating in this auction, but if anyone is going to win this girl for the night, it is going to be me.