Chapter 2

PRESENT DAY

“Fifteen minutes! I need all the bachelors lined up here. If you don’t have a number, come get it!”

Imagine a meat factory and the cattle have no clue what’s happening, so they don’t give a shit about lining up. Theresa shuffles around the room, trying to get all us yahoos in the right order, but most of the guys are sneaking peeks at the sizable turnout of hot girls in the audience. Theresa runs a hand through her frizzing, freshly cut hair. It used to go all the way past her ass—I remember the reddish, curly strands tickling my knuckles when we danced together at Landon and Liz’s wedding. She said she was thinking of cutting it then, but it took her a year to finally do it. She said she didn’t have the face for short hair, which is bullshit. Her face is perfect for any type of anything, even the frizzed-out mess it is now.

Damn it. My goal of finding a new woman to serve as a palate cleanser seems completely absurd, since just the sight of her new hairdo renders me catatonic.

I shake it off and weave my way through the other greased-up bachelors, trying (and very much failing) to keep my eyes off the neckline of Theresa’s purple party dress.

“You said something about a number?” I ask in her ear. The small sharp intake of breath and cascade of goose bumps that rise on her skin are not lost on me. She turns her head, one of her earrings brushing her bare shoulder. I give her a completely platonic grin—the one I’ve mastered since she told me that was all she wanted from me.

“You’re here!” She breathes a sigh of relief. Then she fully turns, throwing her arms around my neck. She tucks a finger underneath the collar of the jacket I’m wearing, and suddenly I can feel her heart pound against mine through our clothing. Granted, my shirt’s pretty thin, and, well, her dress doesn’t start until halfway down her chest.

My mouth becomes dry as hell. I have to resist the urge to hold her tighter, hold her forever. I place one hand on the small of her back and squeeze before quickly letting go. Another thing I’ve mastered.

She stands back, a bright but frazzled smile on her pink lips. “You are saving my life right now.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say, pulling out the note card I was told to fill out. It’s still empty. “What the hell am I supposed to write?”

“How great a catch you are.”

She’s on something, and I think I want some of it. “If it’s dead quiet during the bidding, start bribing some of the girls, ’kay? Preferably a blonde. Long hair.” Yeah, I purposely pick her opposite so that I won’t be trying to turn the girl into Theresa in my mind all night.

Theresa’s eyes cut to mine, and I feel my brow furrow at her hard expression. It’s not hostile, exactly—I’m familiar with Theresa’s hostile side—but something’s going on behind those dark brown eyes that I can’t quite pinpoint. I feel a niggle of annoyance because I’m normally so good at reading her mind, but I push it away. It’s good that I’m losing touch. Maybe it means I’m starting to move on.

She lets out a soft breath and plucks the note card from my hand. “I’ll take care of it.” She folds it in half and slides it between her boobs. For barely a second I glance at her chest before forcing my eyes up to the colored lights that highlight the runway outside the curtain.

“The bribing part?” I say with a smirk. If it’s nothing but crickets when I’m onstage, I hope she’ll run to the nearest bidder and give her at least $20 for a pity bid.

Her made-up eyes flick up to mine, and again I’m caught off guard. What’s running through that pretty head?

No, no…I don’t care.

“Alec, I guarantee you’ll get at least one bid tonight.” Her eyes then drop from mine, giving me a deep look up and down. I suddenly feel bare-ass naked in this skintight strip-show wardrobe, even with the nice jacket covering most of my upper half.

“At least,” she emphasizes. The corner of her mouth twitches up, and a piece of her frizzed hair falls from its halfway updo. Just like that, I forget that I’m on a mission to fall out of love with her. I want to tuck that piece back behind her ear, lean in, kiss her full on the mouth, tangle my tongue with hers, find a hard surface to press her against, feel her hands slide my jacket off, cradle her face, run my thumbs over the soft skin of her jaw, tell her I love her, that I still love her, that I’ve never stopped, and finally hear her say the words ba—

“Theresa!”

I jerk back, blinking out of my daze, and glance over Theresa’s shoulder at a woman in a green tank and tight jeans parting the sea of testosterone.

“Two minutes,” she says, playing with her chunky necklace. Her eyes dance between me and Theresa. “Get ’em in line.”

Theresa takes a pen from her hair that I never would’ve seen if she hadn’t pulled it out in front of me. “You’re second to last, Alec. Thank you so much again.” She squeezes my hand before slithering through the crowded backstage. I turn around to try to find my spot, only to feel a soft hand on my shoulder turn me back around.

“You look good,” she says, slowly drawing her hand back. “I forgot how much I love seeing you in red.” Then, with a fresh blush on her cheeks, she spins around and disappears behind the curtain before I can even tell her thanks.

I stare pretty stupidly at where she disappeared for probably much longer than I should, only vaguely aware of some of the conversation going on around me. When one of the other bachelors accidentally knocks into me and apologizes, I finally shake myself out of it and find my spot in the lineup. The two guys in front of me are talking about some business transaction—bachelor number eighteen just sold his boating company to someone in bachelor number seventeen’s family, and apparently they’re both making enough money to afford long days of doing absolute shit and will probably take on a hobby like tennis or something to fill up their time. Oh, to be on the A-list. I pulled an eighteen-hour shift yesterday and then, in my “spare time,” had to practice for my audition today.

It seems everyone in New York but me has found some sort of monetary success. Even my best friends are raking it in now. Landon’s Hollywood bound, and Jace lives on the road (in his massive RV) with his soon-to-be fiancée.

The thud of a microphone quiets the backstage conversations.

“Hi, ladies! Who’s ready to start this auction?”

The screams from the women on the other side of the curtain shake the backstage area so much I start to fear for my life.

“Okay, girls. You’ll have your bachelor until your midnight kiss, unless he’s willing to give you more time—or extra activities—for free.” More cheers erupt. “All sales are final. Let’s get this started!”

The beat of some song I’ve never heard of starts thrumming through the room, vibrating the floor under my feet. The other men chuckle, and some adjust their easy-to-strip attire and fix their hair. Bachelor number one is waved through the curtain, and I can’t see anything, but I can sure hear what’s happening.

“Bachelor number one is a computer analyst and has a beautiful penthouse on the Upper West Side, where he hosts a number of charity events. He’s currently working on his Ph.D., and would love someone to quiz him on anatomy. Bidding is open now….Oh, we already have five hundred. Do I hear a thousand?”

The sound of tearing fabric followed by high-pitched squeals reaches where I’m standing, and I choke on my tongue. The bidding starts at five hundred? I was just hoping to earn this place a couple of bucks, best-case scenario. I guess I should’ve known from Theresa’s knockout dress that it was going to be higher than that.

She did look like a knockout. I may have mastered the art of looking platonic, but feeling platonic is a vastly different story.

All right, then, I’m going to have to do some internal convincing. Theresa didn’t look that great. I mean, her hair was falling out of its updo, and she was a little sweat-glossed from running around. Her neck was very flushed and splotchy, and she kept giving me that look that I don’t recognize. She had some makeup residue under her eyes. But that really doesn’t bother me. Makes me want to reach up and help her out with it, a very lame excuse for touching her. She’d tell me to be careful not to smudge anything else, but even if I did, she doesn’t exactly need makeup. There’s a natural red to her cheeks and lips, and when she wakes up in the morning, her sleepy eyes are wide and open, like she wants to take in the entire world from dawn till dusk.

Damn it. I’d make a terrible lawyer.

A tap on my shoulder makes me turn around, and bachelor number twenty nods to the line in front of me, which is moving up. I close the large gap I’ve let happen during my unsuccessful attempt at making the most gorgeous woman in the world sound unappealing.

The other intros are fairly similar to the first—this bachelor with an insane amount of money is brilliant in bed—followed by the same screaming and whooping, and the bid goes up and up. I’m slowly starting to panic over what Theresa put on that index card for me. I should focus more on the stripping, since I’ve done that before, and not to brag (I’m about to brag), but I’m a kickass dancer. There’s a reason I was the lead in Footloose in the theater above the pizza place.

The highest bid so far has been three grand. At an auction in a bar. Who are these women? I know it’s all for charity, but if I get a bid that high, I’d love to roll around in it with the winner before we turn it in.

I step forward again, now up at the curtain, and I watch bachelor number eighteen go out on the stage.

“Bachelor number eighteen!” the girl in the green tank top says from a mike by the DJ. “He just sold his boating company and is now sitting on a heap of cash with no one to spoil….”

Bachelor eighteen does this playboy pout that I can’t help but laugh at while the girls eat it up. Then he turns around and rips off a pair of Arabian Knights pants that are way similar to the ones I rejected earlier.

The girls scream, and I hastily drop the curtain because I’m pretty sure I caught sight of a furry undercarriage.

“Six hundred!” says a voice in the crowd. The music thumps and the guy behind me starts working on some moves. Oh dear God, he’s biting his lip.

“Fifteen hundred!”

Something tears open, and a button rolls under the curtain and hits my foot.

“Seventeen hundred!”

“Damn,” the bachelor behind me says, “we’re lucky we’re last.”

I look up. “Why’s that?”

“The bids get higher because no one wants to leave empty-handed.” He winks, then starts twerking. I laugh, and bachelor number eighteen sells for $2,200.

“Okay, ladies,” the girl in the green says, “loosen those purse strings, because we’ve only got two left!”

Right on cue, the song changes, and thank God it’s one I know. I crack my neck to the side, take a deep breath, and pull the curtain open wide.

The spotlight hits me right in the face, blinding me, and there are purple and blue and green lights hitting me from the side. The only thing I hear is the music and the auctioneer.

“Bachelor number nineteen…”

Ah, here we go. He’s the hard worker with a good heart stuck in the friend zone for five years.

Time to bring on the stripping skills, so I get right into it before the auctioneer finishes whatever bio Theresa cooked up for me. For Footloose they taught us street dancing, and though I’m not proud of it, I watched Step Up a time or two to study. I hop down onto the runway, getting close to the ladies in the front and slowly slide my jacket off my arms, trying to flex my biceps in the process.

“Fifteen hundred!” the girl I’m dancing in front of shouts. Suppressing the urge to drop my jaw to the floor, I give her a grin and wink at her. She’s got long blond hair and pretty eyes. Definitely someone to help me move o—

“Sixteen!”

I whip around and spot a redhead waving her arm. Using the skills I’ve learned from Channing Tatum, I slide on my knees across the stage and then dance in front of her. Faux redhead is good. The natural ones always remind me of the way Theresa’s hair looks dangling over her bare shoulders in the moonlight.

“Um…bachelor nineteen graduated with a theater and arts degree, top of his class,” the auctioneer says a little breathlessly, and I squint through the lights to catch a glance at her switching between fanning herself with the note card and actually reading it. “He’s been sought after by high-paying director Landon Wangford…”

I laugh out loud and search the crowd for Theresa, but can’t find her. Yeah, Landon wants me in his movie because I’m his best friend. Nothing other than tha—

“He’s also great with his hands, and amazing with his mouth.”

I jerk back, grinning at the screams, but also at the expression the auctioneer is wearing. She smiles and adds, “From a reliable source.”

“Two thousand!”

“Twenty-one hundred!”

“Twenty-two hundred!”

Bids are coming from all over, and hot adrenaline starts coursing through my veins. I push up to my feet and tear the shirt off. I pump my hips, smile, and enjoy my damn self because there are about eighty women out here, and they want me. I haven’t been wanted a day in my life. After months of no callbacks, no prospects, and wanting someone who doesn’t want me, this…this feels so damn good.

The bidding has gone up to $2,500 and halted, and I’m good with that. It’s one of the best bids of the night—and it’s for me, some average Joe that Theresa made sound pretty damn impressive.

The lights move over the crowd, and I follow the green spotlight, which floats across Theresa’s face. She’s watching me with her mouth slightly open in a smile, caught in a daze until she notices that I’m looking at her. When she shakes herself out of it, I pump my hips at her jokingly and start unbuttoning my jeans. Her eyebrows rise, and even with all the lights around us I can see the fresh rush of blush rise through her chest. I grin, then turn around, wiggle my ass in her direction, and look over my shoulder to catch her laugh. She’s so goddamn beautiful. The song moves into another round of the chorus, and I flip around to face her, then belt out the lyrics along with Def Leppard. I get another bid, but I’m not really paying attention to where it’s coming from or even how much it is. I keep my eyes locked on Theresa, on her parted lips, her wide eyes, her frizzy hair, and my thumb slides across the zipper on my jeans. Her mouth looks like it’s about to move.

“Four thousand!”