Page 8 of Auctioned To Be Mine

It had taken forty minutes of navigating around Jack Montana’s ego to get him to the actual point of the evening. Forty minutes of listening to him talk about his last film, his upcoming film, his trainer, his nutritionist, and the documentary thing that had run long. This guy really loved to hear himself talk. I decided I was not the one to do this kind of thing. I wasn’t very good at soliciting charitable donations.

I smiled through all of it. Nodded when appropriate. I asked follow-up questions I didn’t care about the answers to because that was how you did this. You made people feel interesting until they felt generous. In my mind, I pictured myself stroking his ego. Like patting him on the head.

It was exhausting, draining me like I was running a marathon. The will to live was being sucked out of me. He was exactly the kind of person I had left behind in my former life. Soul suckers.

But somewhere between the entrées arriving and the second pour of wine, he chilled. He’d asked a real question. How many people did the charity serve annually? I told him and watched it register behind those famous eyes. He’d put his phone face down on the table, which felt like a minor miracle, and actually looked at me.

Progress.

“So the auction item is just dinner with me,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He was still skeptical. I could see it in his eyes, like he was chewing on the idea and finding it distasteful. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I confirmed. “A nice restaurant, your choice of venue, two hours maximum. We handle all the coordination. You show up, have a meal, smile for one photo at the end of the night, and you’re done.”

“And you randomly select the winner?”

“No, no. It’s an auction.” I paused. “It will be good people bidding, Jack. Philanthropists.”

He turned his wine glass slowly on the tablecloth. Around and around. Thinking. I was under the impression this was already a done deal. We were just ironing out the details before he said yes. Now, I realized he was ready to bolt.

“Still sounds like a pain in the ass,” he said.

“We’re happy to accommodate you,” I said. “Whatever you need. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“I’d need security.”

“Of course. Absolutely.”

He tilted his head. “You’d arrange that?”

“We’d arrange everything. All you have to do is show up.” I kept my voice pleasant, even though what I wanted to say was considerably less pleasant. What a pompous ass. That’s what I wanted to say. “Although, if it would make you feel more comfortable, you’re certainly welcome to bring your own team. Some people prefer that.” Please let him hire his own security. “I just want to make sure you feel safe sitting across from one dinner guest at a restaurant of your choosing.”

One. Probably a woman. This guy did action movies. Wasn’t he supposed to be a badass? He was afraid of one little woman. What a joke.

He looked at me. I looked back at him with the most serene expression I could manage. I smiled and resisted batting my eyelashes.

“Are you suggesting I can’t handle myself?”

That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. “I’m suggesting you have options,” I said. “It’s two hours, Jack. Dinner. Conversation. One photo. But if you need a security detail to get through an evening like that, we will absolutely make it happen. No judgment whatsoever.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Good. I’d poked the bear just enough. Men like Jack Montana couldn’t resist the implication that they weren’t up to something. It was the most reliable tool in the box and I wasn’t above using it. I was a heartbeat away from double dog daring him.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he said.

“No, of course not.”

He picked up his wine. Drank. Set it back down. He exhaled through his nose, slow and considering. “And the press angle?”

This was the part where he actually started to care. Stroke, stroke, stroke.

“We issue a press release two weeks before the auction goes live,” I said. “Your name is featured prominently. We tag your team on everything. You approve the language before anything goes out. Your publicist controls the narrative entirely on your end.” I leaned forward slightly. “Your fans will love this, Jack. This is exactly the kind of thing they want to see from you. It’s generous, it’s visible, and it costs you one evening. The return on that is enormous. The press alone is going to be a huge boost.”

“I know how press works,” he said.

“Then you know this is a good deal. People like to see goodwill. Public perception matters. I’m sure your PR person told you that.”

He scoffed like it was ridiculous. And then he went silent. He wants me to talk. I’m not going to. I know how to wait someone out. Let him sit with it. I don’t understand why there’s a difficult choice. Be a good human.

“Send the details to my publicist,” he finally said.