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Fifty thousand dollars.

I barely make that in a year! My fingers snag around the water cup just before it slips from my hand. Fifty thousand dollars!

The room sways for an entirely different reason, and I lean into the bar to keep from sinking to the floor.

Nothing sobers you up like bidding away fifty large.

Slamming my eyes shut, I force three deep breaths before opening them again.

Get it together, Jenna. This is just another puzzle to solve.

I gulp down two more glasses of water while walking through the options.

The paddle is technically assigned to a Jacqueline Phillips, a made-up alias Ramona encouraged me to create so no one could link us.

She has no clue what name I’m registered under, so even if she looks up tonight’s big bidder, there’s no connection to me.

Great! The bank account attached to said paddle, however, is one hundred percent mine, and the meager funds in it aren’t even close to touching the dues.

Hell, abstaining from lattes until I die wouldn’t cover the cost. This year, all participants are required to attach a bank account with their registration.

ID, not so much, but money, that’s vital.

Last year, a woman bailed on her bid with zero repercussions, setting off a tizzy of pissed- off losers.

The poor bachelor got his shirt ripped in a physical tug of war over the man.

This year, all bank accounts had to be pre-verified.

If you bail on a bid, two thousand dollars will be pulled from your account immediately for the inconvenience.

The water sours in my stomach. I have the two grand, but it’s for next month’s rent.

So, option one, pay the two grand, flirt and shamelessly grovel with my schmuck of a landlord, Chuck, to beg for an extension.

Or option two, tell Ramona I got drunk on the job, accidentally bid fifty thousand dollars on some bachelor I didn’t even look at and need her to front me two grand to get out of it.

In which case, she’ll fire me and I won’t be able to pay rent in the following month, anyway.

I really want another glass of wine right now.

A cheer goes up from the crowd as the current bachelor shakes his ass, earning more paddles.

It's hard not to admire a man who knows how to use his assets. I stare down at my C cups, on full display thanks to the deep V of my cousin’s dress and a trusted, if not a little ratty, push-up bra.

With a sigh, I choke down the rising bile and puff out my already perky chest. If these guys can shake it for a little charity money, so can I.

Even if that charity is self-serving in order to keep a roof over my head.

Chuck kinda makes me want to vomit. What’s left of his prematurely receding hair is always shellacked to his scaly scalp.

How it can be both flaky and oily is utterly perplexing.

He’s always leering at my boobs a little too long and smells like cat pee.

But I hear him talking to his tabby, Mrs. Wigglesworth, some nights through a shared vent.

He sounds lonely. If he didn’t skeeve me out so much, I might spend more time talking to the poor guy.

If I speak to him tonight, in this dress, the odds of getting a rent extension are higher.

Gross but realistic. So much for watching the new Ellie Edwards chick flick tonight and binging on the pre-paid mini-bar.

At least the ache behind my eyes tells me tears will not be scarce if Chuck says no.

Not after the news I got this morning and tonight’s fuck up.

If my boobs don’t sway him, fingers crossed a legit meltdown will.

Plopping the empty cup on the bar, I head straight for the doors and the payout counter outside.

That bid needs to be withdrawn before Ramona has the chance to review tonight’s list. The competing offer must not have been that far under mine, so at least the charity will still get a large sum.

Plus, the two grand for my drunken idiocy.

God, I hope whoever the guy I bid on chose a worthy charity.

Paddle clutched at my side where it can’t do any more damage, I skirt the room to bring as little attention to myself as possible, praying the next bachelor might take his shirt off and distract everyone.

I duck into a dark alcove just outside the doors to mutter my excuse over and over again, trying to find the right words.

“I’m so sorry. I was using my paddle as a fan and accidentally bid…

Nope. There must have been some confusion with your auctioneer.

It seems he thought I was bidding… Ugh, no.

Look, I’m just a broke ass intern who didn’t even want to be here!

I got a little drunk and accidentally won your largest auction to date!

Oh, and my boss pretty much runs the event, Ramona—you probably know her.

I was just filling an empty seat, and she’s totally going to fire me.

So I withdraw my bid, here’s all my rent money, first born and a drop of blood to get me out of this quietly.

By the way, your auctioneer is a moron and can’t tell the difference between a hyperventilating broke woman and a horny aristocrat slinging money around! ” Yeah, definitely not that one.

Stepping out from the alcove, I plow directly into a black suit jacket filled with muscles.

I squeak involuntarily before gushing out a stream of apologies.

His hands are distractingly warm as they catch my shoulders, steadying me.

I glance upward just enough to notice a sharp jaw and soft lips that are pulled into a frown.

Crap, I hope he didn’t hear any of that rambling!

Without meeting his eyes, I jerk back from his grip with another muttered apology and dart for the payment table.

I have to get this over with before I mess up anything else.

I swear he calls for me to wait, but I bolt.

God, Karma, Lady Luck—whoever is out there laughing right now—please give me one win tonight and let that man have heard nothing.

Two women hover at the payment table, already handing over checks, impatient to kick off their dates.

There’s a third attendant smiling at me eagerly, and I cringe at the thought of having to explain I’m not paying in front of the other society women.

It’s stupid, but admitting I bid outside my budget— way outside my nonexistent budget—is hard enough to do in front of the working-class folks like myself.

Having some rich women stare even farther down their noses at me right now is downright petrifying.

Confident, sober, hardworking Jenna wouldn’t give a shit about these women.

Unfortunately, I left her sitting somewhere back at my table with the gossip queen.

There’s a tap of men’s dress shoes coming up fast, and as the tip of a finger grazes my bare arm, I dart into the nearby restrooms.

As soon as the door shuts, my bladder reminds me of how much water I just guzzled.

Shimmying the skintight dress up, I make for the nearest stall, dropping my head in my hands as I relieve myself.

Deep breaths, Jenna. Just play dumb. Apologize, say you got caught up in the moment and don’t have the funds.

You hope the other bidder will enjoy her bachelor and yes, please use my bank info to draw the penalty.

You’re happy to donate to a good cause. Then GTFO back to the hotel room to sober the fuck up!

I’ll text Ramona that dinner didn’t sit well and lock myself away for a few hours until I work up the courage to talk to—no—to beg Chuck for a rent extension.

I take my time, thoroughly washing my hands, reapplying lipstick and tucking a few loose tendrils of chestnut hair back into submission.

Plastering on the calmest expression I can muster, it’s passing at best, I head back to the payment table.

Mercifully, it’s empty except for one lone worker.

The same round-faced young gal with auburn hair who smiled welcomingly before.

She smiles again and I try to turn my own expression into one that’s more contrite. Demure even.

“Hi,” I start, coughing a little to clear the lump in my throat. “I’m here about my bid. Paddle number forty-eight.”

The woman’s smile ratchets up a notch. “Ah, yes! You’re the talk of the night so far, Miss Phillips. The largest bid we’ve ever received. We’re ever so grateful. This will really set the bar for our LGBTQ+ auction next week! Plus, the charity is going to flip!”

The water sloshing in my stomach turns to lead. “About that…”

She prattles on like I didn’t interrupt, shuffling through a stack of envelopes. “Ah! Here is your packet. Instructions for your date and contact information are inside. Your bachelor has planned an entire day for you. And here is a note that?—”

The woman cuts off, staring at the panicked look on my face as I press a raised palm into the items she’s trying to hand over, halting the transaction.

I stare at the manila packet with a white folded piece of scrap paper on top. “About my bid and the payment. Well, I… You see…”

Her auburn head tilts, face scrunching like she’s never seen a broke woman struggling to pay a debt. I notice the Chanel-branded buttons on her dress. Maybe she hasn’t.

“You see, I need to withdraw my bid.” I finally stammer. The words rush out, all mushed together.

She blinks, pushing the envelope harder into my palm, obviously not understanding.

I clear my throat and try again, slower. “My bid, I need to?—”

This time, she cuts me off, lips pursing. “But it’s already paid for.”

I blanch, jaw dropping open with an audible pop. “Excuse me? My bid is paid for? There must be a mistake.”

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Then double checks the laptop screen sitting next to the pile of remaining envelopes.

“No. No mistake. It’s all here. Paid in full.

The transfer is already en route, and the funds have been confirmed.

From an account ending in 4839.” She repeats.

Not my bank account. “Your assistant took care of the bill, said you wanted it transferred from a private account different from the one you registered with for anonymity. And then he left this note for you.” She taps the folded piece of paper resting on the packet, then thrusts it forward again.

This time, I let my numb fingers close over the envelope and pull it from her, hands shaking. As if defusing a bomb, I pry open the letter. Scrawled in messy script are six words.

Meet me at the hotel bar.

I glance around the eerily empty hallway. The only sound is the auction still clambering on behind the closed doors to the ballroom. Who is this mysterious “he,” and why the hell did he just drop fifty grand so I could go on a date with some other guy?

Clutching the note to my fluttering stomach, I ask the next question my brain latches on to.

“Where’s the hotel bar?”