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I fight to not roll my eyes.
“Seven thousand.”
My attention snaps back toward Gabriel and Alexander. It’s Rothburn’s paddle in the air this time.
And then it’s on. The three men outbid each other like it’s the final match at Wimbledon. Swift and energetic.
My head’s on a swivel as I watch the men volley. No one else enters the war.
Under the hot stage lights, I resist the urge to wipe my palms down my thighs. My mother instilled a few lessons in me at an early age—No fidgeting. Don’t let them see you sweat.
At nineteen thousand, Tyler shoots Gabriel and Alexander a thunderous look.
Why on earth would he think I’d go on a date with him, no matter how much he paid? It’s all to force my hand. To get the last word.
To their credit, once they started bidding, Gabriel and Alexander haven’t paid him a lick of attention. In fact, it seems like they’re barely paying attention to each other. But how could they not?
They’re shoulder to shoulder in exquisite, inky black tuxedos. A sight to behold. To remember. Straight off the cover of GQ, but oh so alive.
“Thirty thousand,” Alexander says.
“Forty,” Gabriel replies.
“Fifty.”
My jaw drops. There’s a chorus of quiet gasps. Even the auctioneer seems stunned.
Tyler’s paddle is stationary at his side.
“Sixty,” Gabriel counters.
“Seventy.”
“Eighty.”
“One hundred thousand.”
This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever witnessed firsthand. But somehow, I don’t feel like a slab of meat.
No, I feel like a toy on the playground.
Their favorite toy. They both want it and so they’re tugging back and forth to see who will win.
Finally, Gabriel glances over at his friend.
Alexander has every right to smirk. He just wagered a hundred thousand dollars for a date. With me.
That’s insane, and yet, that’s a weekend in Vegas for these guys.
Alexander’s regard is cool and questioning. Your move.
Gabriel looks back at me, and this time, he starts at my feet. My toes actually curl inside my Louboutins. His gaze skims up my thighs, over my hips, and to the dip of my waist. I feel the invisible caress beneath my breasts, a phantom touch over my collarbone. Until finally, he’s glancing at my face again.
I have no idea why he’s doing this. Is it all a ploy? Is he going to withdraw at the last second?
Can he see how affected I am? How much I hate all this and yet, for some strange reason, enjoy their attention?
I think he does.
