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LaShonda: you okay?
A lump wedges in my throat. There’s no sweeter gift in the world than a loyal friend who knows you well enough to see through your silence.
Katherine: I’ll call you as soon as I can.
No sooner have I hit send than I get yet another message. This one is from Kingston.
I smile.
“They’re not all bad, then?” Alex asks as he stands. I lift my gaze to find him staring at my phone. He has to duck because he’s so tall.
“Not all of them. I haven’t read the ones from my mother yet.”
“What will she say?” he asks, lowering himself into the chair next to Gabe.
His question pricks at my worries. How can I be both angry at my mother and worried about upsetting her? It doesn’t make sense, and yet, there it is.
I glance out at the city I’ve always called home. The helicopter lifts off the helipad, as delicate as a hummingbird.
“She’ll admonish me for making a spectacle of myself. Tell me how disappointed she is. How I represent the company and the family. Blah, blah, blah.” As far as I’m concerned, I can lay this wild evening at her feet. She’s the one who signed me up for the auction. But she’d never see it that way.
Because Lucinda Winthrop is never at fault.
“I’m shocked,” Gabe says, his tone dry.
I cut him a glance and find his blue eyes full of mischief.
God, he’s handsome. And so cocky. A half-smirk hovers at the corner of his sinful mouth, and some of my annoyance and anxiety slide away.
Why did he do it?
Why did Alex?
I can’t wrap my mind around what just happened. Any of it. And why did I have to open my mouth and toss out the offer?
Two dates.
Two million dollars.
Surely no woman is worth that. No date could be?—
Alex leans forward, forearms braced on his knees. His broad shoulders draw my attention. “You’re overthinking, aren’t you?”
He says it just softly enough that I have to strain to hear him. I look at Gabe to see if he heard or listening, but his gaze is out the window and far away.
I lick my lips and return my attention to the eagle-eyed Alex. How does he know what’s going on in my mind? Probably because overthinking is standard operating procedure for me, and I’m betting he has plenty of experience with people like me.
He’s still waiting for my answer.
A man with patience. When was the last time I met one of those?
My phone vibrates with an incoming call, and I glance at the screen. My mother’s name appears across the top.
“I can’t imagine why I overthink things,” I murmur, flashing him a quick glimpse of my phone before I send the call to voicemail.
I’m way too raw tonight to hear the disapproval in her tone. She’s never understood my underlying anxiety, and if she knew about the panic attacks, I’d bet every penny I own that she’d downplay it.
“That’ll do it,” he says and sits back in his seat.
