Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
“Going once, going twice, any other takers?” No one says a word. Sure, this is for charity, but it seems only the old man was willing to go so far. “Sold to number seven-five-seven for one hundred thousand. If you’ll follow the ring man, we’ll get everything taken care of,” the auctioneer says. I dip my head in acknowledgement, not even looking at him. It seems Vanessa Taylor and I are stuck in a staring contest, one I’m not willing to break, not until I’ve got this lust-induced haze I find myself trapped by under control.
It’s not until she leaves the stage that I look at my friend. “Tell me again why we’re here?” I ask Ezra.
“It’s for a good cause, and clearly a certain brunette has caught your attention. You’re welcome.” He claps me on the shoulder, tosses his drink back, and leaves me where I’m standing.
“Motherfucker,” I say to his retreating back. I walked right into what seems like a trap Ezra created.
TWO
Nessa
“Stop fidgeting.” I roll my eyes at my mother’s command, as if it were her who just stood in front of over a hundred people, watching as two men volleyed back and forth, spending a fortune for one night. Who spends that much money on a date? I mean, it’s for an amazing cause, helping parents while their child who is battling cancer. Plus, I also work there, so a double win. What I wasn’t expecting was the man who won. Tall, dark, and handsome doesn’t begin to describe the unknown man.
“I’m not squirming, more like trying to conceal the fact that I gorged on food before realizing it’d be settling in my stomach like a lead weight.” The Italian grinder I ate before realizing I’d be standing in for Millie is the culprit. My close friend, well, more like a sister, couldn’t make it. There are some major regrets on gorging on the delicious sandwich that consists of the softest bread, a variety of meat—turkey, ham, prosciutto, capicola, salami—plus the provolone cheese, topped with lettuce, tomato, and onion, and the spectacular condiments they toss the vegetables in before putting it on the bread. It’s freaking magnificent, except for right now that is. I was smart. The meal of the night where New York’s wealthiest and finest come to spend fifty thousand dollars on a plate barely contains any food, literally two springs of asparagus, an ounce of mashed potatoes, and maybe a few bites of whatever meat they deem appropriate. It’s why I ate before getting here, also the reason why I’m bloated. I run my hands down my body, trying to move the fabric of my dress to hide my lower abdomen that is currently a food belly.
“Smart girl. I’ll be begging your father to take me for food afterwards. Try as I might, the board refuses to allow us to use a different catering company, or God forbid, a buffet. They act like it’s a horror to do such a thing, yet they’d still spend the same amount for the write-off, let alone the money we fork out for having an open bar. They could save the money on the atrocious caterer and put that money into Cures for Children. Maybe we should fire all these schmucks.” I laugh, finally getting the ruching to lay at the right angle to hide the fact that I overate and refuse to wear shapewear of any kind.
“Mom, a hundred thousand? Who is this man, and damnit, why does Millie have to get sick on this particular night?” I tack on the last sentence, almost feeling bad, except for the fact Millie is groaning in pain, shivering, body aches, fever, the freaking works. We were together only days ago. She wasn’t feeling bad, until the early hours yesterday morning. I received a 9-1-1 text telling me that there was no way she’d be able to make the event if she was too sick. I pivoted, telling her since it was my idea in the first place, I’d be her replacement.
“I don’t know him. We can ask your father if you can get him away from all the people stealing his time tonight. I need a drink, maybe ten,” she replies.
“I’ll be there right along with you, drinking my weight in alcohol but the time tonight is over.” Speaking of, I look around for one of the waiters who usually walk around with a tray of champagne. Now, I’m second-guessing this dumb idea of mine to orchestrate what we’d be auctioning. Instead of it being the boring and usual, like vacations, spa days, jewelry, sports tickets, or some kind of art, oh no, I’d have to go against the grain and do something entirely different. My grand idea to have the wealthy bid for dates to the super elite of the elite is slowly backfiring