Page 32 of Auctioned To Be Mine

A little while later, I pulled up to the address the charity had sent and sat in my car for a solid minute, staring at the building in front of me.

It couldn’t be the right place.

The apartment complex was a weathered three-story structure that looked like it had been built in the seventies and hadn’t been updated since. The stucco was cracked in places, and several of the window screens were torn or missing entirely. A rusted chain-link fence surrounded a small courtyard where a few tired-looking palm trees struggled to survive. This was not the kind of place where someone who could drop two hundred grand on a charity auction lived.

My parents were friends with Chantilly’s parents, and they would have mentioned if the family had fallen on hard times.

I checked the email on my phone again, scrolling through to make sure I hadn’t misread the address. Nope, I was definitely at the right place. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe this was Chantilly’s idea of being quirky, pretending to live somewhere normal to seem more relatable. Even I could admit rich people did weird shit like that sometimes.

“Fuck it,” I muttered to myself.

At least if some random stranger answered the door, I’d be off the hook. I could text the charity, tell them I showed up, and it was all a mix-up, and then I could go home and burn this hideous polo shirt.

I got out of the car and locked it twice for good measure. This wasn’t exactly a bad neighborhood, but it wasn’t Beverly Hills either. My new SUV stood out like a sore thumb among the beat-up sedans and ancient trucks up and down the street.

It felt like walking to my own execution.

I raised my hand and knocked three times. The door swung open.

And there stood Victoria Cavendish.

I stood there on her doorstep, my brain short-circuiting as I tried to process what I was seeing. She was wearing a purple dress that had my eyes focusing on her cleavage. Her blonde hair was styled in soft waves that fell past her shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I live here.”

I blinked. “What the hell is going on?”

I looked over my shoulder expecting to see Drew. This had to be a practical joke. He’d set me up. Right?

I couldn’t decide if Victoria was a better or worse option than Chantilly.

12

VICTORIA

Isaw the shock register on his face and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. “I know, I know. I’m not who you were expecting.”

He looked over his shoulder like he was searching for hidden cameras, then back at me. “Am I in danger? Is this a kidnapping?”

“Oh, get over yourself,” I said, grabbing my purse from the table by the door. “No one’s paying a ransom for you.”

“Then why am I here? Where’s Chantilly?”

“Sailing to Ibiza with some guy.” I stepped out onto the landing and pulled the door shut behind me, double-checking the lock. “She met him a few days ago and apparently it’s true love.”

Callum’s eyes narrowed. “So you set me up again.”

“I didn’t set you up.” I started down the stairs, my heels clicking on the concrete steps. “She called me and said she couldn’t make it. Then she said if I didn’t go in her place, she’d pull her donation.”

He followed me down. “And you agreed to this?”

“What choice did I have?” I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to face him.

We reached his car and I waited while he unlocked it. The SUV chirped twice.

“Look,” I said, crossing my arms. “If you don’t want to go to dinner, that’s actually great with me. We just need to tell Chantilly we went so she doesn’t take her donation back. We can take a selfie and call it a night if you want.”