Page 7 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

I f there is one person in this world who can get under my skin, twist me up, and light my entire nervous system on fire with nothing but a smirk…

It’s Jaxon Kane.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

Of course he hacked the security cameras. Of course he’s watching me like some smug, overbearing bat perched in a billion-dollar cave.

This is exactly what he would do.

Still—knowing I’m under surveillance from every angle?

It does something to me.

I sit a little straighter.

Take smaller, more graceful bites.

I laugh a little too loudly at something Brad says—something he probably found on Reddit six months ago—but he beams like he’s charming the hell out of me.

I hope Jaxon hates it.

The appetizers come and go, replaced by salads. Brad tells me about his firm’s expansion plans and his daily meditation practice. He’s not a bad guy. But he’s not what I’m looking for, either.

Too polished. Too performative.

And I can’t shake the feeling that if I peeled off his designer button-down, I’d find a motivational quote tattooed across his ribcage in cursive.

I’m halfway through my salad when a woman in an all-black uniform approaches our table.

“Miss Hayes?”

I glance up. “Yes?”

“There’s… a phone call for you.”

She’s holding a cordless phone. Like we’re in a hotel lobby in 1998.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I take the receiver slowly, bring it to my ear. “Hello?”

I don’t even get the word fully out.

“Cricket.”

Jaxon’s voice is low and firm, and it slides across my skin like warm silk dipped in warning.

He’s pissed.

I’m thrilled.

“Turn your phone back on.”

“Mr. Kane,” I reply with matching venom. “Kindly get bent.”

“Cassidy, I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.”

I move to press the button to end the call, but he speaks again—sharper this time.

“End the date, Cassidy?—”

Click.

Whatever else he was about to say is lost to the dial tone.

I give the phone back to the hostess and glance at Brad, who’s currently trying to eat his salad like it owes him money.

He chews with his mouth open—loud, wet, aggressive.

“Everything okay?” he asks, a shredded carrot clinging to the corner of his lip.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just… work.”

We move on. Kind of.

I sip my wine. He tells another story. Something about venture capital and kombucha.

My phone sits face-down next to me, practically vibrating with repressed chaos. I don’t dare turn it back on. I’m not giving Jaxon the satisfaction.

Brad reaches across the table suddenly and takes my hand.

“I’m really glad you agreed to meet me tonight, Cassidy.”

“Thanks, Brad. I’m having a great time.”

I’m not.

I was.

Until I turned off my phone.

But no. I refuse to go there. Jaxon Kane is a closed door. Boarded up. Chained shut. Padlocked and buried.

“I was thinking, after dinner maybe you could come back to?—”

The restaurant explodes into chaos.

Cops pour in from the front and side doors, shouting commands and flashing badges. Diners gasp. Chairs scrape and I’m frozen.

Two officers rush toward our table.

“Don’t move!” one barks.

The other grabs Brad, wrenching his arm behind his back and slamming him— slamming him —face-first into the table.

“What the hell?!” I yelp, jerking away, pressing myself back into the leather bench.

“Bradley Mercer,” the officer shouts. “You’re under arrest!”

They cuff him like he’s a violent fugitive and haul him toward the exit, ignoring his protests. Half the restaurant is filming. The other half is staring at me like I’m Bonnie to his Wall Street Clyde.

My face burns.

My chest is tight.

And right beneath the panic, another emotion builds.

Rage.

Rage at Jaxon. Fucking. Kane.

This has him written all over it in bold font and flaming italics.

I snatch my phone off the floor—victim of the flailing arrest scene—and grab my purse, storming out before someone hands me another ancient telephone or slaps me with a search warrant.

My phone boots back up as I hit the doors.

Pings and dings explode across the screen.

The last one from Jaxon.

JAXON: I’ll be outside.

That asshole.

Sure enough, as I shove the door open, there he is.

Leaning against a matte black McLaren like it’s part of his wardrobe. All black—jeans, shirt, boots. Messy hair. Muscles folded beneath his crossed arms like he's the goddamn final boss in a dating sim.

And he’s smiling .

The kind of smug, self-satisfied smirk that makes my blood boil. Like this is all a joke. Like watching my date get hauled off in handcuffs was some kind of prime-time entertainment.

I march right up to him and jab a finger into his chest.

“You arrogant, egotistical, morally-bankrupt asshole. How dare you?”

He doesn't even flinch. Just stands there, looking down at me like I'm a mildly amusing weather event.

"Careful, Cricket. You're poking the bear."

"Are you insane? " I hiss. "You got my date arrested!"

"Technically," he says, shifting his weight lazily, "your date did that himself.”

"You tipped them off!"

He lifts a shoulder. “Not my fault the guy had a warrant out for his arrest.”

I gape. “You’re?—”

“Though,” he adds with a thoughtful squint, “telling them he had a kilo of coke shoved up his ass was probably a little overboard.”

My mouth drops open.

“I can’t believe this.”

“I know,” he says. “He is going to be quite pissed when he gets to booking and they go on a treasure hunt .”

I spin on my heel, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, ready to walk straight into traffic before I spend another second near this man. But of course—because he’s the devil in a designer tee—he falls into step beside me.

“Where are you going?” he asks, sounding thoroughly unbothered.

“ Away. ”

“Cool. I’ll drive.”

I veer harder left. “I’m not getting in your car.”

“Cassidy—”

“No.”

“Cricket—”

“Don’t Cricket me.”

He walks ahead of me now, cutting me off, standing between me and the street.

“I’m not letting you walk home.”

“I’m not walking. I’m getting a ride-share.”

He snorts. “Yeah? You want to explain to your brother why you were standing on the curb in stilettos at midnight waiting for an Uber after your coke-mule finance bro got dragged out in cuffs?”

I freeze.

He smiles like he’s saying Gotcha .

“I hate you,” I mutter.

His smile falters—just slightly. The cocky glint in his eyes dulls for the briefest moment, like someone hit the dimmer switch.

“I know,” he says quietly this time.

Not smug. Not teasing. Just…knowing. Like he’s remembering the last time I said those words too. The party. The two girls he was with and the wreck he left in his wake.

I blink hard and look away.

The air shifts between us—charged and suddenly too still.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just steps back and holds the door open again.

I don’t meet his eyes as I climb in.

But I feel the memory settle between us.

Unspoken and heavy.

The silence stretches for just a moment—long enough to settle like a weight between us—before Jaxon throws the car into gear like the devil himself is on our tail.

I shriek, slapping a hand against the door and the other straight out, grabbing for something—anything—to keep myself grounded. That “something” ends up being his forearm.

The McLaren roars, the engine snarling like a beast as we weave through traffic with speed that is 100% illegal and 1000% unnecessary.

Meanwhile, Jaxon’s driving like we’re on a lazy Sunday cruise to the farmer’s market.

One hand on the wheel, completely relaxed. The other still under my death grip.

“You maniac!” I hiss, fingers digging into muscle that—unfortunately—doesn’t budge in the slightest. “Do you have a death wish or are you just trying to scare the shit out of me?”

“I’m just driving,” he says, smirking like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.

When I finally manage to peel my hand off his arm, I see the faint red marks I left behind.

“Sorry,” I mutter, brushing my hair behind my ear.

His eyes dip to my legs first, slow and unhurried, before rising to meet mine. “I didn’t mind.”

A few minutes later, he swings into a parking lot with a dramatic turn that makes the tires squeal. I catch a glimpse of a small food truck gathering—three trucks angled like a triangle, with picnic tables and string lights strung between them.

“What are we doing here?”

He shrugs as he pulls into the center of attention, matte-black supercar gleaming beneath fluorescent parking lights. “I ruined your dinner.”

My eyes roll so hard I practically see the back of my skull.

It wasn’t ruined, not really. Brad was about three seconds away from asking me back to his apartment where he probably had a neon ‘hustle’ sign and a fridge full of protein shakes. Jaxon might’ve saved me from having to invent a fake emergency.

Not that I’ll admit that.

He parks, engine purring as heads turn in all directions. People stare like Batman just showed up to fight crime.

I reach for my door, but it won’t open.

I swear to God I’m pulling on the handle but before I can glare hard enough to melt the window, Jaxon rounds the car with casual confidence, rubbing the back of his neck like he doesn’t know every woman in a ten-mile radius is watching him.

One hand is shoved into the front pocket of his jeans, making the thick muscle of his arm flex beneath the sleeve of his black tee.

When he opens my door, he holds out a hand.

I hesitate.

Then I take it.

His palm is warm. His fingers wrap around mine like he’s done it a hundred times before.

I ignore the way it makes my skin hum.

But he doesn’t step back. He just stands there—so close I’m practically pressed between him and the car. His body heat wraps around me. His scent—clean, warm, woodsy—settles in my lungs. He’s so tall I have to look up to meet his eyes, which are nearly black under the low lights. Intense. Endless.

It’s not just his size or strength that makes him feel overwhelming.

It’s him.

Jaxon has always been gravity.

And right now, I’m fighting like hell not to fall into it.

“I had a craving for tacos,” he says, voice low.

I narrow my eyes.

Tacos are my weakness.

That wasn’t a statement. That was a question without asking one. A test. A reminder.

Like he’s saying he knows me.

“Well…” I say coolly, lifting my chin. “I suppose I could choke down a taco or two.”

His grin hits full wattage. It’s the kind of smile that could make the devil give up his throne and retire. And the moment I see it, I instantly regret opening my damn mouth.

My cheeks burn but it does the trick, and he finally takes a step back, releasing me from the pull of his orbit.

“Shall we?” he says, tipping his head toward the trucks.

I sigh like this is a massive inconvenience.

But I follow.

Because apparently, humiliation comes with a side of carnitas tonight.