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“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight for the annual Christmas Bachelor Auction in support of our veterans. Up next, a man who gives his all to a worthy cause.” He pauses dramatically. “Please show us your generosity as you bid on a date with Harrison.”

Fantastic. Let the humiliation begin.

I step out like I’m auditioning to be a Vegas bottle service boy. The second the spotlight hits me, my brain shuts off.

Deer.

Headlights.

Full system failure.

Along with an unnerving amount of silence.

You could hear a pin drop.

I’m greeted by a sea of wide eyes and raised phones, all locked in that capture-the-car-wreck position.

Then I notice the cameras. So many fucking cameras. Telephoto lenses everywhere.

Not one.

Not two.

Three full rows of press badges.

I did not sign up for this.

I take a few tentative steps forward, clinging to the hope that Pix’s fifty bucks is my Hail Mary pass out of here.

I give a small wave, the universal signal for polite applause and let’s all pretend this never happened.

I scan the crowd for Pix.

She’s nowhere near the front.

Not the middle either.

I tilt my head, squinting past the glare, searching the shadowed pockets in the back rows.

Finally, I spot her.

Barely.

She’s wedged between two women in the nosebleed section, tucked so far back she might as well be hiding behind a potted plant. Shoulders hunched. Chin lowered. Hair strategically shielding half her face.

While the other half is buried in her phone.

Can she even hear from that far back? I mean, she’s practically outside the building.

That’s when the flashbulbs explode like fireworks.

And the room loses its damn mind.

Cheers. Wolf whistles. Applause crashes through the room like a tidal wave.

“Five thousand!” a woman near the front shouts.

Brian’s voice wobbles as he asks, “Do I hear six?”