“And women wouldn’t get a chance to dig their talons into the eligible bachelors they’ve been salivating over.” Josephine’s tone is positively mournful.
I shudder at the gruesome imagery, telling myself it’s not that bad. But then crazy Georgette and her mink bikini pop into my head, along with her endless nude pics. Maybe Josephine isn’t exaggerating.
Josephine hands me Nate’s black AmEx, which I put into my small clutch.
“Everything’s taken care of, including my fee,” she says. “No discount; Nate can afford it. Leave the jewelry with Kim when you’re done with it, and I’ll come by and get it. And your things will be delivered to your place later today or early tomorrow, depending on the courier schedule. Is that okay?”
“Yes.” I check to make sure I have my phone and my own plastic in the clutch I’m taking with me.
“And if I’m right and you end up marrying Nate, you owe me a picture. Or better yet, an invitation.” Jun fans herself. “I’ve never been to a billionaire’s wedding.”
“Oh yeah. Sure.” When the sun orbits the moon, maybe. I laugh away her ridiculous fantasy and walk out to the limo.
Because the likelihood of my dating Nate, much less marrying him, is basically nil. Actually, that’s generous. It’s more like a negative number. A very large—or would that be small?—negative number.
All that’s going to happen is me bidding on him tonight, I think as I climb into the limo. I wonder how much I can really spend. Nate and I didn’t discuss that in detail, and now I wish we had so I’d know just how much I can throw out there. And he never responded to my text earlier. Wonder if he’s been busy getting a facial of his own. There’s nothing that says men can’t get them, and he does glow so gorgeously all the time.
The limo seems to be proceeding at a snail’s pace down the road. An arthritic snail. I check the time. Crap. The auction’s started already.
“Can you go a little faster?” I ask the driver.
“Can’t. There’s some kind of accident ahead.”
Ugh. I check the program I got from the auction. The bachelors are being auctioned alphabetically. Which means I still have time, since Nate is the last one of the night. Still, I don’t want him to worry, so I text him.
I’m on my way. Traffic’s bad, but I should be there on time to make things right.
My phone stays quiet. He’s probably busy. I check the pins in my hair, pushing them into the bun more securely. They’re real diamonds and pearls. I can’t afford to lose even one of them.
Finally a response comes through.
I think I saw HER. You’re the only one I can count on.
Oh damn. The weight of responsibility presses upon me. My phone buzzes again. It’s an email.
I can’t wait to win you tonight! I’ve been thinking of this since we last met.
And a picture of Georgette in that abominable mink bikini bottom with her mouth open and tongue hanging out in some kind of weird porno pinup pose. Eww. I don’t know how she can wear that over her crotch. The ghosts of the dead minks are going to haunt her lady holes, making them close up. Or give her vaginal itchiness and a hairy ass, since she likes fur so much.
After what seems like an interminable delay, we finally make it past the fender bender. Traffic picks up speed, and I sit back with a sigh. Do people really have to pause and stare? It’s not like accidents don’t happen every day.
“I have to get to an event that’s already started, so if you could step on it, I’d really appreciate it,” I say to the driver.
“I understand.”
And he really does understand. The limo stops in front of the Aylster Hotel in less than half an hour. A smartly dressed porter opens the door with a flourish.
I hop out, then remember I should tip the chauffeur. I open my clutch and see only two twenties. Screw it. I give him both. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “Enjoy your evening.”
I run inside. I was here once before with Nate when he had to set up some kind of banquet eight months ago. The lobby seems almost to shimmer with all crystal and marble. I dash across the hard floor, wincing at the lack of support and cushion my fashionable but utterly impractical shoes offer. I stop abruptly when I realize I have no clue which ballroom is the right one. I turn to a woman in a hotel uniform and ask.
“This way, ma’am.” She escorts me up to the second floor, where there is a huge and very expensively dressed crowd milling around. “You can show your invitation to the security team there.”
I can hear an MC’s tittering laugh as the women inside holler and hoot. I guess I’m in time. “Thank you.”
Elizabeth’s assistant is helping out with the security team. He looks surprisingly dashing in a tux, although it doesn’t do a thing to soften his hard edges. I trot toward h