CHAPTER 14
CASSIE
“That dress is so hot.” Joy’s approving gaze travels over my knee-length pale green minidress. “Honestly, I should become a stylist. I’m so good at this.”
“I like how not once in that series of compliments did you mention me. The dress is nice and you’re a great stylist.”
“I assumed the Cassie part of the equation was a given. You always look hot.” She links her arm through mine as we glide toward the next table.
We’re part of the crowd by the far wall of the Manor’s grand ballroom, browsing the tables that make up the silent auction, while canned piano music blares out of the PA system. Much to my chagrin, I haven’t found the Charleston Sanctuary package yet. They fucking better not have decided to skip the event this year. I love that place, and they’re always booked solid. It’s impossible to get an appointment. One time I even demeaned myself by name-dropping my grandmother and still couldn’t get a slot.
“Ooh, how about this?” Joy suggests, picking up the sheet of crisp ivory-colored cardstock. “Six golf lessons with … drum roll, please … Lorenzo!” She dons an Italian accent when saying his name.
Lorenzo has been working as a golf coach at the club for about a hundred years. If you told me he was a ghost trapped between worlds and forced to roam the Manor for all of eternity, I’d have no trouble believing it. There are honest-to-God pictures of my mother holding me as an infant at the club, with Lorenzo lurking in the background sporting the same long ponytail and leathery skin as he has now. The man doesn’t age. He also has no concept of personal space, always leaning in way too close when he’s talking to you. As teenagers, Joy and I used to hide whenever we saw him strolling our way.
I blanch at the listing. “I’d rather eat my own hair. No joke.”
She howls before clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the outburst, which has drawn the disapproving stares of the older country-club set milling around us. Damn, and we’re not even drunk yet. These folks are going to despise us by the end of the night.
I approach the adjacent table, where my grandmother is bent over, using a black felt-tip pen to scribble an amount on a small white card. She’s bidding on a jumbo gift basket donated by the Soapery, one of the local artisan shops in town.
“Oh my God. No. Mrs. Tanner.” Joy peeks at Grandma’s bid. “You just bid two grand on a basket of soap. Soap!” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“It’s very good soap,” Grandma says primly, then slides the card into the slot of the cardboard box on the table. “Have you found anything to bid on?” The question is directed at me.
“I haven’t seen the spa package yet. That’s the only thing I want.” I set my jaw in determination. “And I’ll murder anyone who outbids me. I swear, I fantasize about their hot stone massage on a daily basis.”
“Don’t blow all your cash on it,” Joy reminds me, dark eyes twinkling impishly. “Gotta make sure you have enough left over to bid on your friend Tate in the bachelor auction.”
Grandma looks amused. “You’re bidding on Mr. Bartlett?”
“Maybe,” I say grudgingly. “He asked me to rescue him if the cougar crowd gets overzealous.”
“I like that boy.” Grandma chuckles softly.
So do I.
It’s becoming a real problem, in fact. Particularly after what happened between us the other night. Joy maintains it wasn’t a big deal. Even Peyton sort of dismissed its importance when I told her about it. But they’re both dead wrong.
When you return home after real-kissing one guy and proceed to pretend-kiss another one, that’s a problem.
And when the guy you’re pretend-kissing is the one you wish you were real-kissing, except you can’t because he’s not into you like that … this is also a problem.
Before I can dwell on my thorny predicament, my phone beeps with a text from, ironically, the person who is into me.
Aaron: How’s it going at the charity thing?
Me: My grandmother just bid 2K on soap.
Aaron: Bold move.
Me: Right?
Aaron: Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?
Me: Yup. Looking forward to it.
I tuck the phone back into my silver clutch while assuring myself I am looking forward to seeing Aaron again. And, hey, maybe in the days since the carnival he’s been honing his kissing skills. Practicing on a pillow or something. A girl can hope, right? Because the memory of his forceful tongue repeatedly plunging into my mouth like it was mining for tonsil treasure almost makes me gag. It’s a shame, because he’s such a cool guy otherwise. He’s been texting me every day since we met. Memes, random thoughts. He’s hilarious.
But …
I don’t know if Aaron is the one.
Don’t get me wrong, I certainly haven’t been saving my virginity for my one true love. I’m not sitting at home waiting for Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet. But at the very least, I’d like to be wildly attracted to the man. I want to be unable to contain myself when he’s around. I want to want him so badly that I can’t wait to rip his clothes off. I want that level of chemistry.
Still, one date isn’t enough to assess the full scope of chemistry. At least that’s what Peyton always insists. According to my best friend, a date introduces you to the potential, the spark. And if the spark is there, however small it may be, you need to give it a chance, kindle it to discover how hot the fire can burn. The spark was there with Aaron, I can’t deny that, so I suppose it’s time to see if it develops into an inferno.
“Here’s the spa package!” I exclaim, spotting it at the next table.
I practically bulldoze my grandmother over to grab a bid card and a green golf pencil from the basket. I wish I could see what other people have already bid, but the format of this auction is asinine. It’s a silent, secret auction. The bids go into the box, someone flips through them to find the highest number, and that’s the winner.
“This isn’t rocket science,” Joy says, grinning at my indecision.
“The next available appointment at this spa is next July. July, Joy! They’re booking a year in advance. This is my one shot. My one opportunity.”
“You have issues.”
While she taps her foot with impatience, I mentally calculate what I think the package is worth, then double it. Then I cross out that amount and triple it instead.
“Pray for me,” I declare. I slip the card into the box.
“I need new friends,” Joy tells Grandma.
“Laaaadies and gentleeeemen,” a male voice booms from the stage at the front of the room. “If we could have your attention over here!”
The noisy ballroom quiets, but only slightly. Most of the formal-wear-clad crowd continues whatever they were doing and ignores our hosts. The gala has two emcees this year—a former running back for the Panthers whose name I didn’t catch, and a news anchor from the local network whose name I also didn’t catch. Joy and I have just been calling them Big and Blonde, because he’s big and she’s blonde.
“The silent auction is now closed,” Big announces. “Our wonderful staff will start tallying the bids, and winners will be announced after the bachelor auction. Until then—eat, drink, and be merry!”
Blond teeters up beside him on dangerously high heels to shout into the microphone. “Let’s get our gala on!” As her shrill voice reverberates through the cavernous ballroom, I don’t miss the way Grandma winces.
“Are you all right?” I ask, touching her arm.
“A bit tired,” she admits. “And, if I’m being frank, I don’t think my eardrums will survive listening to that woman for another hour.”
“Do you want to leave?”
After a beat, she nods. “I think so, yes. Are you all right taking a car service home?”
“Yeah, that’s no problem. But are you sure? It’s only eight o’clock.”
Grandma gives that prim smile of hers, the one that always holds a trace of mischief. “I made my appearance, dear. Nobody will notice if I slip away.”
“I’ll walk you out, then.” I glance at Joy. “Meet you back at the table.”
“’Night, Mrs. Tanner,” Joy says, leaning down to kiss my grandmother’s cheek.
“Good night, dear.”
After I’ve seen Grandma off, I return to the ballroom, weaving my way through tables. The centerpieces this year are massive—fancy crystal monstrosities with tall feathers and sprigs of baby’s breath. I think they’re supposed to look like swans. Or horses. It’s really a toss-up. The riser extending out from the stage is meant to serve as the runway for the bachelor auction, and as I pass it I smother a laugh. Poor Tate. I haven’t spotted him yet tonight, so I assume he’s cowering in a corner somewhere.
Or he’s chatting with Joy, which is what I find when I reach the table Grandma sponsored.
He’s wearing a dark gray suit, the wool jacket stretching deliciously across his broad shoulders. He has a white dress shirt underneath, no tie, top two buttons undone. With his handsome face clean-shaven and his golden hair styled, he looks like one of those preppy boys he likes to call clones.
“Someone busted out the hair products,” I tease.
“Damn right.” Those blue eyes sweep over my dress. “That’s a great color on you.”
“Thanks,” Joy says. “I picked it out.”
I snort. “Yes. Joy deserves all credit. You ready for your big moment?” I ask Tate.
He nods briskly. “I’ve covered all my bases. Lined up a plan A and a plan B.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Which one am I?”
“A, definitely. I mean, no man wants to win a date with his mother.”
That makes me laugh. “Your mom’s here?”
“Her and Dad are sitting over there.” He points to a table to the right of the stage. “She promised she’d save the day if you bailed on me. Hey, you know what, come meet them.”
“What?” I shift in discomfort, the heels of my pointy nude pumps sinking into the burgundy carpet. “Ah, that’s not necessary.”
“No, come. They’d love to meet you. I was telling them about you earlier.”
He was?
I notice Joy giving me a look that says he’s talking you up to his parents?
When I respond with a panicky look that says help, she throws me into the deep end as usual. “I’ll stay here,” she chirps, snagging a flute of champagne from one of the waiters. She takes a sip, smiling impishly around the edge of her glass. “Go meet his parents, Cass.”
Traitor.
“What, is this weird?” Tate asks as he loosely holds my arm to escort me through the crowd.
“No,” I lie. “Why would it be weird?”
“Joy’s acting like meeting my parents is a big deal or something.” He offers a flippant shrug. “It’s just my folks. They’re nothing special.”
He’s wrong. The moment I meet the Bartletts, I become a bit starry-eyed. I’m not the only one either. The couple holds court in the middle of a large group, clearly the center of attention. Tate’s dad, tall, blond, and gregarious, is regaling everyone with a tale that’s making them yowl with laughter. A gray-haired man wipes tears of mirth from his eyes, declaring, “Jesus Christ, Gavin, that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
When they notice Tate approaching, the Bartletts break away from their friends, greeting us with broad smiles. Tate had described his parents as being disgustingly in love, and I pick up on it instantly. They emit a distinctive aura that surrounds them, and everyone around them, in a loving cocoon of tenderness.
And they’re always touching each other in some way. Even while Tate’s dad holds out a hand toward me, one arm remains wrapped around his wife’s shoulder. “Gavin,” he introduces himself. “Nice to meet you.”
When Tate’s mom shakes my hand, her other one remains nestled in the crook of Gavin’s arm. “Gemma,” she says. She’s a petite, curvy woman with dirty-blond hair and warm brown eyes, appearing much younger than her age. A white sheath dress fits her body like a glove.
“I’m Cassie.” I return the handshake before glancing over at Tate. “Aw, man. They even have the same initials. Gavin and Gemma. I love it.” I grin in delight. “You guys totally missed an opportunity to go all Kardashian and give Tate a G name.”
“We were definitely considering Gate,” Gavin replies earnestly, “but Tate had a better ring to it.”
I snort out a laugh. “Hear that, Gate? You dodged a bullet.”
“Tate says you’re his auction backup?” Gemma prompts, smiling at me.
“I don’t know … I thought I was. Now it sounds like it’s going to be a bidding war between you and I…” I tip my chin in mock challenge.
Gemma feigns a glare. “Oh, it’s on.”
“Ladies, please. Don’t fight over me.” Tate grimaces. “Like, seriously, don’t. I can’t have my mother involved in any competition where I’m the prize.”
Gavin booms with laughter. “Good point, kid.” He claps Tate on the shoulder before focusing his attention on me. “Cassie, how are you enjoying the summer?”
“It’s been nice. I’ve just been taking it easy.”
“Tate says you grew up in the Bay?”
“I did. My dad and stepmom still live here, with my two half sisters, but I’m in Boston now. I go to college there.”
“Did you tell her my news?” Gavin asks his son.
Tate is flabbergasted. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”
“Maybe because it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to anybody?” his father shoots back.
Tate wasn’t kidding about his dad being an overgrown child. And Tate is the spitting image of his father. The two of them are so similar in both looks and personality that I have to smile watching them interact.
“What’s the news?” I ask curiously.
Gavin’s entire face lights up, pride in his eyes. “Guess who’s being featured in the newspaper.”
Tate glances at me. “The Avalon Bee is doing a write-up on Dad,” he explains. His voice lowers to a stage whisper. “He thinks this makes him special, but they run a profile on a local businessman every month. He’s literally one of dozens.”
“Front page?” challenges Gavin.
“Well, no,” Tate relents. “But the only reason you’re being featured on the front page is because you gave Harvey a deal on that speedboat. You basically bribed the guy.”
“Me? You think I’m capable of bribing a journalist?”
“Yes,” Tate and Gemma answer in unison.
I laugh, then dutifully ooh and aah as Gavin offers more details about the article. We chat for a few more minutes, until Big and Blonde return to the stage and ask everyone to take their seats. The bachelor auction is about to commence.
“Kill me now,” Tate moans.
“You’re going to do great,” his mother assures him. “Everyone will bid on you, sweetie.”
“Mom, no. You don’t understand the assignment. We don’t want everyone to bid on me. Just Cassie.”
Gavin waggles his eyebrows at me. “Look at you, young lady. You seem to have captivated our son.”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” I’m quick to protest.
“I’m just teasing,” he says with a boisterous laugh.
I laugh awkwardly in response. “Oh. Anyway, it was nice meeting you guys. I should go join my friend, though.”
“Wonderful to meet you, Cassie,” Gemma says warmly.
“They’re so normal,” I hiss at Tate as he escorts me back to my table.
“I know. I told you.”
Ten minutes later, the bachelor auction is in full swing. From the shiny podium at the head of the stage, Big clutches a stack of cue cards and introduces the first bachelor.
“Everyone, let’s give a warm welcome to Morty!”
A tuxedo-clad man with glasses and a red bow tie takes the stage. He’s pushing sixty, with an infectious smile he flashes to the entire room. He waves to the crowd and starts strutting.
“Oh, he’s adorable,” Joy exclaims.
“Morty is sixty-two years young, an accountant with a head for numbers and a love of pickles. And not just eating pickles! Creating them! In his spare time, Morty pickles anything he can get his hands on. Beets, peppers, tomatoes, peaches, squash, rhubarb—Farrah, did you know you can pickle rhubarb? I didn’t!”
Right. Blonde’s name is Farrah.
“Sounds yummy!” she chirps into her microphone.
“So how about it, folks? Who fancies a date with Morty? Bid high and maybe he’ll pickle something for you! I’m told his entire garage features rows and rows of jars, all full of pickled delights…”
“I changed my mind,” Joy whispers. “I think he might be a serial killer.”
“The jars, right?”
“Oh yeah.”
“We’ll start the bidding at fifty dollars.”
Three hands shoot up. “Fifty!”
“A hundred.”
“A hundred and fifty!”
Before we know it, Morty the Pickler goes for six hundred dollars.
“That’s about five hundred and fifty more dollars than I thought he’d go for,” Joy whispers to me, and we nearly keel over in laughter. The champagne at this event has been free-flowing, and although I’m only on my first glass, I’m already feeling a buzz.
The next bachelor is a silver fox who causes a murmur to ripple through the crowd when he emerges from behind the black velvet curtains.
“Hot damn. Hello, Daddy,” Joy coos.
“Oh gross. Don’t say that.”
“Come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t hit that.”
I study him. He’s wearing a white linen shirt, fine-pressed gray trousers, and deck shoes. Sporting a deep summer tan. He’s tall, handsome, and when it’s revealed that he runs a hedge fund, the ladies are clamoring to bid.
Farrah the Blonde barely gets out his job title before a woman shouts, “Five hundred!”
“Six!”
“Seven!”
“Eight fifty!”
Joy looks over. “Can I borrow some of Grandma’s money?”
I elbow her. “Absolutely not. You literally just got back together with Isaiah.”
“Oh right. Fuck. I forgot.”
After Silver Fox is taken for fifteen hundred smackeroos, several more bachelors grace the stage. The owner of the Good Boy brewery. A dog trainer. Two waiters from the club restaurant, then one of the golf instructors. Luckily, not Lorenzo.
When Tate’s friend Danny is up, the winning bid for the attractive ginger is a staggering $2,300. Doesn’t bode well for Tate if that’s the going price for hot sailing instructors.
Danny’s smile seems forced as he walks off the stage to greet his date. The pair isn’t required to go out tonight, but it’s customary to say hello to the person who “wins” you. Instantly, the woman’s fingers curl around Danny’s biceps and she peers up at him eagerly. Now I see why Tate was so worried. There are a lot of hungry women in this ballroom tonight.
“Our next bachelor is Tate!” Farrah announces.
“Here we go,” I say.
Tate appears on the stage, hands loosely resting on his belt loops. His long stride eats up the runway, fair hair gleaming in the spotlight aimed at him.
“Tate is an avid sailor, splitting his workdays between the yacht club and Bartlett Marine, our number-one boat retailer in Avalon Bay.”
“Yeahhhhh!” cheers a loud voice I recognize as Gavin Bartlett’s.
“He loves being out on the water, any way he can. When he’s not on a boat, you’ll find him on a surfboard.”
Tate reaches the end of the runway and stops to strike a cheesy pose. He seeks out my face in the crowd and winks before turning back.
“This golden boy is a romantic at heart. He enjoys long walks on the beach and stargazing with that special someone.”
It’s physically impossible for my eyes to roll any harder. I wonder if he wrote this himself.
Farrah sighs dreamily as Tate returns to stand beside her at the podium. “Oh, honey bear, I’ll stargaze with you any day.”
“Farrah,” Big hisses into his mic to snap her out of it.
She blinks. “Right. We’ll start the bidding at—”
“Five hundred,” someone shouts instantly.
Joy snatches the flute out of my hand before I can drink. “Focus. It’s your time to shine.”
I swipe the flute back. “I’m waiting it out. Can’t seem too eager.” I grin over a gulp of champagne. “Plus, I want to make him sweat.”
“Evil bitch.”
“Six hundred!”
“Eight!”
“Nine fifty!”
From the stage, Tate’s eyes implore me. His outward smile does nothing to conceal his agony. I tip my glass at him and take another dainty sip.
“One thousand dollars!”
“Eleven hundred!”
“Cassie,” Joy warns.
“I’ve got a strategy,” I insist. “Let them tire themselves out. That’s what I do with my sisters when they’re on a sugar high.”
“Twelve hundred!” bids a nasally voice.
“Fifteen hundred.” This voice is throaty.
Uh-oh. I turn to scope out the competition and raise an eyebrow. All right. Interesting. The current high bidder is a gorgeous brunette who doesn’t seem as thirsty as the others. She’s clearly in her late forties, though. So now I’m torn. Tate ordered me to not let any MILFs win. But maybe this is the kind of MILF he would like? She’s a stunner and isn’t giving off any predatory vibes.
“Going once—”
But I did make him a promise.
“Going twice—”
“Cassie,” Joy hisses.
Shit.
Caught off guard, I end up blurting the first number that pops into my head because I wasn’t paying attention.
“Three thousand!”
My friend gapes at me. “Dude. It was at fifteen. You just doubled it.”
“Three thousand,” Big crows. “Highest bid of the night! Someone sure wants to go stargazing!”
Farrah takes over. “Going once … going twice…”
The hot brunette on the other side of the room remains silent.
“Sold for three thousand dollars to the redhead in the green dress!”
On the stage, Tate beams at me.
I smother a sigh. Whatever. At least it’s for a good cause.