During the heat of summer, constantly crowded streets, the sound of traffic, and the hustle and bustle of Manhattan always agitated me. But come the weekends, when the city became a ghost town, that agitation flipped toward appreciation.
I truly loved when the city’s overzealous working professionals fled to the plethora of regional beach communities to de-stress from the daily grind, leaving my metropolis easier to navigate. That especially held true on Labor Day Weekend.
Of course, those contradicting circumstances made for a love-hate relationship with the city I lived in. Back and forth my affections flipped, but there was nothing worse than having to get all dressed up for a night on the town when the air felt like a sauna.
A wolf’s whistle slicing through the city noise just as I slammed the cab’s door behind me forced an eye roll. The way three men leered, with grins splitting their faces, meant they had enjoyed the view of my bare legs unfolding from the back seat. Without shame, their gazes then devoured the rest of my curves, which the black-lace dress did little to hide. Curves that I had learned to appreciate as I grew older.
“Damn… I think I’m in love,” one called out, earning shoulder slaps from his buddies. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I paid them no attention while fishing out a masquerade red-lace mask from my purse and fastening it around my eyes. Ignoring them only fueled their crassness when I stalked past them into the swanky lounge, silencing their groans and gripes with a heavy clank of the tinted glass door.
Waiting for my vision to adjust to the dimly lit air-conditioned space, I smiled at the hostess donning a rhinestone-studded mask that clashed with her sequined halter top. “Hello. Welcome to the Bid for Love Auction,” she droned on. “Name, please?”
“Amy Delton.”
“The romance author?”
“That’s me.” If she had been impressed, I wouldn’t know it by the resting bitch face her mask failed to conceal.
I was used to being recognized by my name. Anyone who loved romance novels had most likely heard of A. Delton. My career afforded me a very comfortable lifestyle. Although, because my mother squandered the money my father had left her when he’d died, I’d chosen to be frugal in the way I lived my life. One never knew what could happen, and I wouldn’t depend on a man to provide for me someday. If attending a function furthered my success, I was game. That was pretty much why I was willing to be a guinea pig tonight.
When my agent learned of this event, she’d signed me up without question. To me, being ogled and bid on by strangers sounded like torture. But every once in a while a woman needed to do something she dreaded. The important part was that all proceeds would go to a nonprofit dating service called Revival, which helped women and men pick themselves up and reconnect after toxic relationships.
There was one other reason I’d agreed to come… Runnel TV.
They were the hottest streaming service in the modern age—and cosponsors of the event. Runnel had made their mark by shattering the glass ceiling in the entertainment industry. Their popular programs were produced, directed, and written by women. Because of that, my agent, Janis, had been sporting a feminist version of a hard-on for them. So much so she’d submitted my work the moment I typed The End on the last book in my Brazen Truths series a year ago.
A few months later, she’d called me into her office to announce that they were interested in all seven books! My attendance tonight could portray me as a team player and help when it came time to discuss the logistics. The dangling possibility my work could have a home on their network meant “Suck it up, Amy.” So, there I was.
Personally, I felt: Who needed someone to love? Definitely not me. There was only one thing I could always count on in the romance department, and it was battery operated and came with no strings attached. I was fully aware how much that attitude conflicted with my profession. Maybe having no success in finding my person was what had given me the ability to write the swoony stories that had made me a bestselling, award-winning author to begin with.
The hostess stared over my shoulder and suddenly flipped on her happy switch. “Oh, hello Mr. and Mrs. Runnel. You can go ahead in.”
I twisted to stare at the couple behind me, and nervous heart palpitations kicked in. But while I debated on whether to introduce myself, Mrs. Runnel gave me a once-over as her husband said, “Ladies.” With a dip of his head, he led her through another tinted door, taking my opportunity to reveal who I was with them.
Mr. Runnel may have been the financial powerhouse who’d aged well in the industry, both professionally and physically, but it was the blonde supermodel on his arm, half his age, who controlled Runnel TV. Truth be told, I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the snooty vibe coming off her.
“Sorry about that,” the hostess said, her bored tone back once again.
“No worries.”
Ms. Personality marked me off on her clipboard, adding, “Please keep your mask on throughout the night, and while mingling, please provide first names only. We really want to keep identities private until date night.” She then handed me a laminated heart name tag. “Bidding will begin in one hour, and guests won’t know who is up for auction until you are called to the stage.
“Once your suitor outbids all others, paperwork will need to be signed, giving permission for your date to be covered by our film crews for the documentary Dating without Boundaries.” She blinked a few times. “Questions?”
Where’s the alcohol? I forced a smile and said, “Nope… all set, thanks.”
Two steps inside the door and a gentleman at least four inches shorter immediately blocked my path. “Can I pretend to buy you a drink?” He leaned in and grinned. “You know… since it’s an open bar.”
It always amazed me how confident men were compared to women. Here was a dude who had no issue approaching me when I could easily kiss the top of his head. Reminding myself of the reason I was there—the Runnel deal—I said, “That’s sweet, but I just arrived. Maybe we can catch up later?”
Before he could nail me down to a specific time, I quickly walked away, having no doubt his eyes were glued to my ass. Another much taller, much cuter guy tried next. “Hey, beautiful stranger,” he offered as his greeting, and although sparse, it was just as cheesy as the last guy’s.
After reciting the same brush off that I had thirty seconds earlier, I finally headed for a much-needed cocktail. This was going to be a long night.
Runnel deal.
Runnel deal.
Runnel deal.
People mingled around me while enjoying their ardent spirits and dining on fancy appetizers served by a white-gloved waitstaff. Snatching a flute of champagne off a passing waitress’s tray, I found a quiet corner and scanned the room before eavesdropping on a cluster of females as they excitedly voiced their hopes for the evening.
A blonde standing with her back to me pointed to a hottie with dark, thick, wavy hair and a cocky nonchalance to his stance. “God, I hope he’s up for sale,” she admitted.
“Damn, I’d pay an ovary for him,” said her friend, prompting another round of giggles.
The stiff black mask he wore covered all but a seductive set of lips and a chiseled chin peppered in scruff. The body that perfectly filled out black slacks and a black button-down shirt appearing as though it had been painted on would usually call to my libido. Usually. But I recognized the ass behind the mask and groaned into my effervescent elixir.