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Holy crap, the hunk of man meat center stage is turning heads.

Admittedly, he’s an Adonis of a creature.

The ideal specimen for tonight’s events, spreading legs and opening purses of New York’s wealthiest ladies.

Women are actually squirming in their seats, thighs clenching tighter as the bidding war weans out those with smaller bank accounts.

I don’t even rank with the “smaller” bank account bidders littering the room.

These women pay more for annual waxing than I pay for rent.

The name Jenna Grant and big money are not and never have been synonymous.

The borrowed red designer dress I’ve wiggled my way into with the aid of trusty Spanx helps me look the part, but tonight I’m just a seat filler.

Here for work and not play. Though as bachelor number twelve, Anders Phillip, according to the brochure, raises his shirt to flash a perfect six-pack, I can admit to enjoying a little pleasure mixing with tonight’s business.

“Last year, I heard Justine Chase maxed out a credit card and nearly drained her savings for a date with Anders. Said it was totally worth it!” The woman sitting next to me whispers to the table. “A B-list celebrity. Though his movies are pretty good. And apparently, his tongue work is top-notch.”

I hide a smirk around the rim of a wine glass.

The entire table is glued to her not-so-quiet gossip.

The rumors are not new. The whole office was talking about the epic sex many of our patrons have bragged about.

The men aren’t obligated to put out, technically the auction only earns you a date with one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.

But let’s be honest, when a rich chick shells out beaucoup bucks in the name of your favorite charity, the least you can do is give her an orgasm.

Or as Justine supposedly bragged in the powder room earlier, according to my neighbor, five in one night.

At this juicy nugget, several paddles from our table fly up, raising his bid.

I can’t judge the guys for putting out. Most of the women here keep it tight, despite their wildly varying ages and shapes.

That’s what a personal trainer and unlimited supply of Botox can get you.

Normally, men would have to work a hell of a lot harder to land one of these foxes in bed.

The annual auction is an excuse for sex with some random hot chick, no strings attached, and all in the name of charity.

Tax breaks and a good lay? Let’s just say getting the men to volunteer has never been an issue.

We even turned a few away this year. Guys whose rap sheets were more than questionable—both legally and in the public eye.

The bachelors may be the bait, but the women’s safety has always been priority number one.

Across from me, a petite blonde with a body built for yoga frowns as she gets outbid for the second time. “Damn, Mrs. Donner’s forehead is smoother than my ass the day I was born. The woman could be my mother.” Her paddle goes up again, raising the bid for Anders to twenty-five grand.

The woman next to me leans in, brown eyes alight with rumors and four cocktails. “I heard her husband funds this night’s escapades so he can keep his twenty-something playthings on the side. Even cast some of her past boy toys on his new CW show to keep them around for her.”

I peek over at Mrs. Donner’s table. The older woman looks confident in her conquest. The picture of ease as her paddle slowly raises, the olive in her martini steady as the bid increases another grand.

My heart breaks a little at the idea of this still beautiful woman staying with a man who no longer loves her.

Or at least not in a way I would want to be loved.

Maybe an open relationship works for them.

No judgment. Okay, maybe a little judgment despite myself, but if some agreed-upon sexual forays have kept their marriage of forty years afloat, maybe it works for them.

Sadly, according to our table gossip queen, who is still unleashing enough gossip to make a tabloid writer go into heat, it’s more likely the lack of a prenup keeping them together.

I tune out the gossiping titters, picking at a spot of balsamic dressing on the tablecloth.

It’s not like I’m going to be placing a bid anytime.

I freaking debated if I could afford to splurge for a latte this morning.

Dropping ten plus grand for a piece of ass—even a hot piece of ass devoted charity—is not in my cards.

Like ever. Paying my father’s medical bills is the only charity I can currently afford.

My job tonight is to wear a sexy dress, fill an empty seat, and occasionally raise a paddle to help kick off a bid if people are slow to shell out.

So far, my skills have hardly been required.

These women need zero encouragement. So, I’ve taken a well-deserved interest in my wine glass.

“Twenty-eight thousand going once, going twice, SOLD to bidder twelve!” The auctioneer yells to a round of applause and jealous glares.

Anders slips the audience a wink before striding off stage in his clingy three-piece suit.

It’s impossible not to notice the impressive bulge straining against his pants.

Looks like Mrs. Donner will have a night to remember, and Anders might be a shoo-in for a CW show.

“Good for you, Mrs. Donner.” I murmur into my near-empty glass, snorting when a bidder at the table to our left throws down her paddle and marches toward the exit. The sore losers are proving much more entertaining than the winners.

A waiter dutifully appears with another full glass, sliding it in front of me while whisking away the old one. My boss and queen bee, Ramona, coached the staff to keep the attendees well lubricated, loosening ambitions and bank accounts. The room tilts a bit when I look up to say thank you.

Shit.

Apparently, I fall into that well-lubricated crowd.

Shit. Shit! SHIT!

How many glasses have I drunk tonight? Not enough to forget the bullshit news I received this morning from my ex-best friend and definitely more than I should.

That much is dizzyingly clear. As I try to recount the exact number, realization hits that the heat in my cheeks is creeping toward uncomfortable.

So, way too many glasses, that’s the answer.

I scan the room for my boss. Mercifully, the dark high bun of Ramona’s meticulous braids can be seen off stage through a break in the curtains as she preps the next guys, her teal shirt a beacon in the sea of black tuxes.

This event is her baby. She has run PR and marketing for the past four years.

Tonight is special, though, an audition of sorts.

I still don’t know all the details, only a cryptic email about landing a big client and a promise that if I was a good little assistant tonight, there’s a big pay bump in my near future.

The carrot of paying down my student loans and Dad’s bills is enough to squeeze me into these organ-smushing-Spanx and pop the girls out to make a few other women jealous.

The girls are easily my two best assets.

Most of the women in the room paid for tits like mine and as Ramona advised, jealousy raises bids almost as much as desire.

Twice I have raised my paddle tonight, and both times earned me a death stare and two local charities an additional five grand.

The room sways again. Damn, I need to sober up.

Fast. For the first time tonight, the wait staff has vanished.

Well, crap on a swizzle stick. Pushing the fresh glass of wine away, I stand, checking my balance in the also borrowed heels before heading to the bar tucked in the corner.

I eye the enormous water tank next to it, filled with cucumbers and some other fruit.

The auctioneer’s voice booms off the walls as he reads a new bachelor’s accolades over a round of catcalling.

I shut it all out. Sobering up is way more important than hearing about his desire for long walks on a beach or eating out some bored trophy wife.

Not that they say that last part outright.

Though they may get more cash if they did.

Ears ringing, each step feels a little less steady.

I shouldn’t have skipped lunch today and then just poked at the dinner.

Guess my anxious stomach applied only to food and not booze.

Filling a cup with water, I gulp down the cool liquid, pausing to fan my face. I have to get the pink out of my cheeks and the wobble out of my step before Ramona sees me.

Shouts of excitement course through the air. The bid escalating. I fan myself again, stopping only to down another glass.

“Sold to number forty-eight for fifty thousand dollars!” The room erupts as the auctioneer aims his gavel in my general direction.

Wow, that’s the highest bid tonight. Ramona is going to freak out from the press opportunities alone. I sweep the tables, looking for the lucky lady, but instead of finding an excited bidder, I notice the heads are swiveling towards the bar.

No… towards me.

The paddle I’ve been using as a fan stills mid-swing. I blink once, then again, for good measure. The number comes into focus and I nearly drop the damn thing like a hot poker. A shiny gold four and eight wink back as the next bachelor takes the stage.

With the gumption of a stoned slug, the panic settles in. I’m the winning bid. I’m the highest bidder of the night. And… And…

“I’m so fucked,” slips out, and not in the fun way.