Page 24 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

T he phone’s on speaker beside me while I lean over my drafting table, but my brother’s voice feels like it’s right in my ear.

“What the fuck were you thinking, getting Jaxon involved with the horses?” Jonathan’s tone is sharp enough to cut skin.

My stomach’s already tight, my jaw locked. “What the hell was I supposed to do? They?—”

“You should’ve stayed out of it. Christ, Cassidy, you make everything worse.”

I hate that I can feel the burn behind my eyes already. I hate trying to talk to him while I’m crying. My voice comes out strained, like I’m choking on glass. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have told him to keep an eye on things.”

There’s a pause on his end, heavy and cold. “Don’t fucking push me, Cassidy. I’ll be coming back soon, and you won’t be so fucking brave then. Will you? You piece of shit.”

I flinch like he slapped me.

“And stay away from Jaxon. The last thing I need is to come home and find out my little sister’s been throwing herself at him like some desperate schoolgirl.

Again .” His voice sharpens to a sneer. “You think he’ll fuck you like it means something?

He’s fucked half the pussy in Manhattan. You think you’d be special?”

His chuckle is nothing less than a cold shiver down my spine.

“You’d just be another faceless whore he slid his cock into so keep your goddamn legs closed.”

My throat closes because that stings more than anything he’s ever said to me.

He hangs up. Just like that. No chance for me to say anything back. No chance to defend myself or tell him I hate him or that I’m going to let his best friend fuck me until I can’t walk anymore.

The silence in the studio roars.

I stare down at my drafting table. I’ve already made a mess—pencils scattered, eraser crumbs everywhere—but isn’t that what artists are supposed to do? Make a mess?

But maybe I can do something to clean this mess up. I have so much money left from Jaxon and the second half isn’t even in my account yet. Won’t be until the contract is over.

I could have enough now to set up a different future for us. Mom and me. Find better medicine, better treatments to help her. Find a way to cut the bindings Jonathan has placed around me.

I grab a fresh sheet of paper from the oversized pad and pick up my graphite pencils, but the lines come out too soft. Too… polite. It doesn’t match what’s boiling in my chest.

I drop the pencil and reach for a thick stick of charcoal instead.

It’s heavy, unforgiving. The black smudges bite into the paper with every stroke—harsh, ugly lines, just like Jonathan’s words.

My hand moves fast, almost frantic, sketching shadows and walls, blending with my fingers until my skin’s stained gray.

The picture takes shape before I’ve even thought it through. A little girl, crouched in the corner of a dark room, knees tucked to her chest, her hands clamped over her ears.

When I stop, my breathing’s hard, my tears dry and tight on my cheeks.

I set the charcoal down and pick up my graphite again. Slowly, carefully, I draw one last detail—a single tear sliding down the little girl’s face.

My mind won’t stop replaying Jonathan’s voice, over and over, spitting words meant to stick like burrs under my skin. Stay away from Jaxon. Desperate schoolgirl. Whore.

Except the reality doesn’t match the picture he’s painting.

Jaxon’s been nothing but careful with me—almost too careful.

He’s made sure my firsts were on my terms, that I wasn’t just…

swept along. My first time being properly fingered, my first time grinding in someone’s lap until I came—he could’ve taken more, but he didn’t.

And yet… I’ve seen the photos. The women on his arm at every event. A different face each time. Glossy hair, expensive dresses, perfect smiles. Like they’re accessories to the suit and the watch.

Jonathan’s wrong about a lot, but he’s not wrong about this—Jaxon isn’t mine, and I can’t forget it.

I can’t forget what I’m hiding from him. I have to keep my distance. I have to walk away at the end of this month with my heart intact, and he needs to let me.

Except… it’s hard to keep your distance when someone keeps pulling you closer.

I push away from the drafting table and wander down the hall, more to get out of my own head than anything else.

I peek in Jaxon’s office and he’s on a call. I hear words that tell me shit is hitting the binary code fan.

Outage.

Failover.

He’s got a black sharpie marker and he’s busy writing things that could as well be ancient Greek for all I know. It looks stressful but he looks like he’s in his element, so I don’t bother him.

The fridge is a sad graveyard of takeout boxes.

I don’t know how he lives like this, especially when his mom is such a great cook. Not “fancy restaurant” great—just food that’s made with love. Steam that curls around you when you lean in to smell it and makes all your problems go away.

Yup. That’s what I need. Something hot. Delicious. Something made with love.

One memory slips in. “I’ll tell you the secret ingredient.”

Sandy whispered while I rolled another meatball in my hand. I could barely see over the counter, so I was standing on a step stool next to her.

It makes me smile and I know exactly what will cheer me up.

I also know Jaxon will enjoy something not in a takeout container for a change.

I check the fridge and pantry, half-expecting to be disappointed, but you’d think this bitch is in this kitchen whipping up three meals a day with how much food is in here.

All the labels tell me someone stocks this for him. Probably cooks with it too so I suppose it’s okay.

Inspiration hits and I start grabbing ingredients.

I roll up my sleeves, turn on the recessed speakers, and scroll until I land on something upbeat.

Before long, a tiramisu trifle is in the fridge setting for dessert later.

The kitchen smells like browning meat and simmering sauce.

I set a big pot of pasta water on to boil, toss a salad together, and slice bread for garlic toast.

From down the hall, Jaxon’s voice carries—low, clipped, and all business. “No, I don’t care what the vendor says. If the load balancer’s not up in the next five minutes, you tell them I’ll be on the next flight and it won’t be a friendly visit.”

He strides in a moment later, phone still pressed to his ear, sleeves pushed to his forearms. He’s the picture of controlled fury, rattling off instructions about data centers and backup servers, barely even looking my way—until the smell hits him.

Mid-sentence, he stops walking. His eyes lock on the stove. His brow furrows. And then, without a word, he ends the call with a sharp, “Handle it.”

The phone hits the counter. “What is that?”

“Dinner,” I say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re leaving?” I try to hide the disappointment.

“No. I already fixed the problem I just like making him sweat. My script will run in…” He looks at his watch. “Four minutes and thirty seconds and the data center will be back online.” He comes closer, gaze fixed on the simmering pot. “ You cooked?”

“Yes, Jaxon. I’m capable of boiling water.”

“This smells like my mom’s sauce. Which I know to be impossible because?—”

He picks up the spoon, dips it into the sauce, and takes a taste. The second it hits his tongue, something in his expression changes. His eyes narrow, slow and calculating, like he’s just caught me committing some kind of culinary crime.

“ She gave you the secret ingredient.”

I pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “What ingredient?”

He points the spoon at me like it’s evidence. “Don’t play dumb, Cricket. My mother swore she’d take that to her grave.”

I shrug. “Maybe I figured it out on my own.”

“Bullshit.” He sets the spoon down, stalking toward me. “Tell me.”

“Not a chance.”

Before I can retreat, he’s closing the distance, herding me backward until my lower back hits the counter. He braces one palm beside my hip, leaning in just enough that I have to tip my chin up to keep his gaze.

“Garlic?” he guesses.

I smirk. “Obviously. Try harder.”

“Wine?”

“Warmer.”

“Red pepper flakes.”

I shake my head. “You’re terrible at this.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s a spark there now—playful, dangerous. He presses in until my hips are flush with the counter, his chest brushing mine. Then he leans in, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my neck.

“Last chance,” he murmurs before kissing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear.

I suck in a breath, but keep my voice steady. “Still not telling you.”

He moves to the other side, lips grazing my jaw this time. “What if I wear you down?”

“You’d have to try harder than that,” I whisper, though my hands have already found the edge of his shirt. Trailing under to touch his skin.

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, our mouths so close they could touch if one of us so much as blinked wrong. His voice drops. “Can I kiss you again?”

The question catches me off guard—not just the words, but the way he says them. Careful. Like he’s asking for something fragile.

I nod, and he starts to close the distance—then pauses, lips hovering. “Can we make that an open authorization? Saves me having to ask every time?—”

“Just kiss me, Jaxon.”

His grin turns wicked. “Yes, ma’am.”

The kiss is instant heat, deep and hungry. His hands find my ribs, mine slide under his shirt, and then we’re not just kissing—we’re devouring. Tongues, moans, the press of his body into mine like he’s been starving for this.

Something hisses behind me, sharp and angry, and I jerk back.

“Shit—!”

I push him away, spinning to the stove where the pot is boiling over. I grab the box of pasta and dump the noodles in, steam rushing up into my face.

Behind me, Jaxon’s voice is pure amusement. “So the secret ingredient is… neglect? Just let everything boil over until it develops ‘flavor’?”

“Says the man who flambés eggs.” I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “And for the record, you’re never getting the secret ingredient out of me.”

He starts pulling plates and silverware from the cabinets, still smirking. “You know, I can figure out the world’s most difficult schematics in seconds… but this? This is apparently beyond me.”

“Maybe she just loves me more than you,” I say, tossing the pasta once for emphasis.

He comes up behind me, arms sliding around my waist, his lips brushing my neck. “That wouldn’t be hard.”

I bite down that jolt that runs through my stomach. He’s not mine.

Dinner ends up being exactly what I needed—the perfect antidote to the mood Jonathan left me in earlier. Between the simmering sauce, the warmth of the bread, and Jaxon’s easy grin across the table, I almost forget about my brother entirely.

Almost.

“Tell the truth,” I say, narrowing my eyes over my fork, taking my last bite. “You tightened all the jars in the fridge on purpose. Didn’t you?”

He doesn’t even try to look innocent. “Or maybe I just don’t know my own strength.” His mouth tilts into a smug grin. “And you should talk—assaulting people with refrigerator doors.”

I can’t help laughing at the memory from a few days ago. The cereal that went flying. The milk dripping off the tip of his nose while he stood there like a statue.

“Oh, it’s funny, huh?”

Before I can answer, a warm splatter of tomato sauce hits my shirt.

I gasp. “Did you just?—”

“Not so funny now, huh?” Jaxon says, grinning like the devil licking sauce off his fingers.

I grab a piece of lettuce with just enough dressing to be dangerous and toss it at him. “You deserved it.”

“Well, I think you deserve this.”

The butter knife is already in his hand, loaded with a generous glob. Before I can dodge, he flicks it. The butter hits me dead in the face with a wet slap.

I freeze. He freezes. Then he bursts out laughing so hard he doubles over, gripping his stomach.

I wipe the butter off slowly, stand, and round the table. He’s still laughing when I slide my fingers into a handful of sauced spaghetti noodles and stop right in front of him.

“You want to know something, Mr. Kane?”

His grin falters just slightly. “Do tell me.”

“I went back to my room,” I say sweetly, using my free hand to undo a button on his shirt, “and laughed my ass off at that stupid blue Fruit Loop that stuck to your cheek.”

I stretch his shirt open at the collar, and shove the noodles down his chest. Flattening my hands over his shirt, I smear my hands, pressing the cold pasta into his skin through the fabric.

“Oh, come on!” He leans back in his chair with a strangled sound, eyes wide, sauce dripping down his shirt.

I return to my seat, victorious.

“Oh, you think you’re walking away from this?” He grabs the salad bowl, takes a handful, and flings it at me. Lettuce, dressing, and tomato chunks hit my arm and shoulder. “Consider that a counter-offer.”

I lob a slice of bread back at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Stop being a child.”

He scoops up a meatball and nails me in the neck. “Haha! Bullseye.”

“That’s it.”

We’re both laughing now, working around the table, pulling plates and serving dishes to our sides like we’re defending territory. I get my hands on the serving platter of meatballs, the sauce gleaming under the lights.

“Take cover!” He calls out like he’s commanding troops to retreat.

He dives for the kitchen, shielding himself behind the open fridge door as I fire one at him. “Are you seriously lobbing beef grenades at me?”

Another meatball sails and splats inside against a shelf. He stares at it… then looks at me with a dangerous glint and a sneaky smile.

“Jaxon. Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, Cricket.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “My sweet Cricket.”

He reaches in and pulls out the tiramisu trifle, setting the beautiful glass bowl on the table. Layers of cream and espresso-soaked cake stare me down like they know what’s coming.

“I worked hard on that,” I warn.

He digs in with one massive hand, scooping up a pile.

“And I work hard at making sure I win every fight I’m in.”