Page 35 of Auctioned To Be Mine

“That sounds amazing.”

“It is. Or it will be.” He took another sip of wine.

The server brought our salads and we ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. I was surprised. This was supposed to be awkward and uncomfortable. I was supposed to hate every minute of being here with him.

But I didn’t hate it. Not even close.

I watched his face as the server set down his plate of spaghetti—a mountain of pasta drowning in the most gorgeous marinara sauce I’d ever seen. The chef emerged from the kitchen with a massive bib draped over his arm. It wasn’t just any bib. It was the size of a cape, bright red with white checkered trim. It was basically a tablecloth.

“No,” Callum said, his eyes widening.

I bit down on my lip, trying desperately not to laugh as the chef pulled Callum to his feet, whipped the fabric around Callum’s shoulders with the flourish of a matador, and secured it around Callum’s neck in a way that suggested he’d done this many times before. Then the chef guided Callum back into his seat.

Callum sat there, completely still, his expression a mixture of shock and resignation. The bib covered his entire torso. He looked like he was about to get a haircut at a barbershop for giants.

The chef patted him on the shoulder with approval. “Enjoy,” he said, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

The server set down my chicken parmigiana, her lips twitching like she was fighting her own battle against laughter, then quickly retreated.

The moment they were both out of earshot, I lost it. The giggles burst out of me before I could stop them, and once they started, I couldn’t make them stop. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to contain myself, but it was useless. My shoulders shook with laughter.

“Where the hell did you bring me?” Callum asked, but there was a smile on his lips. He looked down at the massive bib covering him and shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”

“I told you to pick something else,” I managed between giggles. “But hey, now you’re in for a treat.”

“On the bright side, it improved the look of my outfit.” He picked up his fork and twirled some pasta around it.

The moment he took his first bite, I watched his expression change. His eyes closed briefly and he made a sound that was almost obscene.

“Oh my God,” he said after he swallowed.

“Right?” I speared a piece of my chicken. “Fresh handmade pasta makes all the difference.”

He took another bite, then another. “This is incredible. Like, genuinely incredible.”

“It’s a hidden treasure in LA,” I said. “Most people drive right past it looking for the trendy spots, but this place has been here for thirty years. Same family, same recipes.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me.” He looked up from his plate, meeting my eyes. He looked genuinely impressed. “Seriously. This is way better than wherever Chantilly had picked out.”

We ate our meals. I was glad I hadn’t ordered pasta. I did not want to be slurping noodles in front of him. There was just no dignified way to eat them. But he seemed to find it. I watched him navigate the spaghetti with surprising grace. The bib was doing its job, catching the occasional splash of sauce that would have otherwise landed on that horrible shirt, but Callum kept his face mostly clean.

“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Tell me why you really work for the charity.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, most people who work for nonprofits either have a personal connection to the cause or they’re trying to make themselves feel better about something.” He took a sip of wine. “Which one are you? Do you have family that needed the service? Were you a sickly child?”

I set down my fork, considering how much to tell him. “No. Very healthy. My family never needed charity.” I took a sip of wine. “But if we ever did, I would feel so relieved to know there was an option. Something to take off some of the pressure.”

“I guess I never thought about what families go through,” he said. “Definitely a worthy cause. I’m glad I got to be a part of it.”

I smiled and cut another piece of chicken. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe underneath the designer clothes and the family name and the ridiculous fire alarm stunts, there was actually a decent person.

“Now can I ask you something?” I looked at him.

“Shoot.”

“Why did you really show up tonight dressed like that?” I gestured at him, referring to the outfit underneath the bib. “Because I know that’s not how you normally dress.”