Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“I’ll call you when I’m ready, Marco. We need to talk, but this isn’t the place.”
“I see how it is.” He slams his business card on the table before laughing, the sound full of venom. “I guess I’ll wait for your call, Fiora.”
Marco stalks off like a bull in a china shop. He barely avoids the event’s photographers and a few attendants as he disappears outside. As soon as he’s gone, Fiora exhales loudly and turns to me.
“Did you enjoy your dickwagging contest?”
“It ended a bit prematurely,” I answer with a grin. Her eyes only narrow at my joke. I lean over her to pick up Marco’s business card, look at it for another second, then throw it away to be forgotten. “I was doing you a favor, you know. You looked like you didn’t want him around.”
“I don’t want you around either,” she hisses before moving to go. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Is that how you’re going to treat your fiancé?” I ask.
She pauses mid-step and turns back to me. Her gaze is calculating, bouncing from my hands and back up again, but she doesn’t say anything. I lean against the table with an elbow and a smirk. “Or have you forgotten who you belong to, since you refuse to wear your goddamn ring?”
Fiora fishes into the window of fabric on her chest. From the right side of her bra, she pulls out the engagement ring on a thin chain. Her eyes don’t leave mine as she tucks it back and hides it away like it’s some dirty secret.
“Tonight, I’m not Fiora Godwin, so don’t bother calling me that name.”
I don’t follow her at first. She stalks over to the auction goods, where she keeps her back to me as she studies them. What the hell does she mean she’s not Fiora Godwin? Who else would she be? Curiosity keeps me rooted to that table, watching her linger around all the prizes. She is particularly interested in and even signs her name on two of them: a huge gift basket of spa items that is full of pink fuzzy shit and a signed picture of Barry Manilow. I don’t take her for the type to enjoy ballads. But then again, I didn’t take her as the type to come to a charity auction either. There’s a reason she insists on being here and pretends to be something she’s not.
“The auction will close in five minutes! Everyone, place your last bids to win your prizes!” one of the hosts announces.
This causes a tidal wave of people running toward the back of the room. Most auctions I’ve attended are the silent type with constant bids, but this one seems more low-key and basic, with people signing up via a list. The crowd murmurs excitedly as they place their last bids, but people glance at the list for the gift bag and picture and pointedly walk away. Has Fiora placed a bid on those? And how much did she put down?
Once the five minutes are up, the ballroom’s lights dim, and the doorwoman takes the stage. She’s changed into a sequined dress reminiscent of a disco ball, a pair of huge aviators on her face. She pulls them off and throws them toward the crowd with a loud cheer like she’s pumping up a concert and not a group full of rich donors.
“Welcome everyone and thank you for your generous donations to the Kids Crisis Center! I would go on and say how much this all means to us, but I’m sure you’re all here for one thing.”
My one thing stands by a table at the front and politely laughs at the lame joke.
“Well, let’s get to it! First prize—a beautiful 1950s candelabra—goes to…”
I keep staring at Fiora, sure she’ll turn to me, but she doesn’t. She claps when the winners of their bids take the stage with a cheer, show off their loot, and leave the stage.
“And the third prize—an amazing bath set—goes to…”
Fine. I’ve been more than accommodating to her bullshit so far, but I’ve had about enough. She’s not going to come into my damn hotel and ignore me like I’m that prick Marco.
I start to head toward her when the host laughs.
“Braken Frost!”
I pause mid step and turn toward her with a confused look. The fuck? I sure as hell didn’t bid on anything here, let alone a bath set. The entire thing looks like a unicorn vomited into a wicker basket and wrapped it in a pretty pastel-pink bow. The only thing I can see clearly is a large, fuzzy pink robe and matching slippers.
“Everyone, please give a hand for Mr. Frost! He graciously let us use his hotel for this event and has bought this item for $5,000!”
I sure the fuck did not. I’m about to shout that someone is playing a practical joke when the slightest movement catches my eye. Fiora is laughing behind a champagne flute, and when she notices me staring, she wiggles her fingers in a small wave.