Finally, towards the very end of the table, I saw it: A signed first edition of my favorite mystery of all time: The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie. My eyes dilated, my heart started to pound. Fainting seemed like a distinct possibility.
I looked down at the list of bids below it—all anonymous, the bidders identified only by a serial number from their invitation to the charity auction—more out of a morbid curiosity than anything else. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to afford it and that the book—oh, that beautiful, beautiful book, with that vintage cover and that graceful autograph—would go to someone else, who would put it on the bookcase with all their other first editions and forget about it. I knew that intellectually, and still, looking down at the bids on that list was like a punch to the gut. Jesus jumping Christ on a cracker. If that last bid was any higher, it could start moonlighting as an orbital space station.
And that book was officially so far out of my reach it might as well have been on the other side of the planet.
Still, I reminded myself as I gazed wistfully at the book, the day when I could afford such things wasn’t far off. My business was taking off like a jet plane, and in just a few short years, I’d be taxi-ing down the runway of success and stopping by the luggage claim of fortune. As long as I believed in myself and worked hard, it wouldn’t be long before I’d be rolling in the kind of dough that made buying a book like this as easy as strolling down to Barnes and Noble to rummage around in the sale bin.
I was so close to being so happy, forever.
So why did I still feel like I was missing something?
“Kate—Kate is that you?”
I closed my eyes and ground my teeth slowly. Universe, when I wondered if I was missing something, the answer was definitely not ‘Asher Young.’
“Kate?”
I turned reluctantly, trying to steel myself—but nothing could steel a mortal woman for the sight of Asher Young in a tuxedo.
It was tailored tight as hell, and my thoughts were definitely sending me down a sinful path as I contemplated the strain of the buttons across his broad chest, the press of the luxurious fabric against his wide shoulders, the clinging of those dark slacks against those long, strong legs…
In fact, the only thing keeping me from jumping him was the fact that he had a blonde hanging off each arm, and another that looked like she was understudying for one or both of the arm candy roles.
“Baby, who’s this?” asked a woman I vowed then and there to always refer to as Left Blonde.
Asher started, as if he had only just remembered the existence of his colonizers from Planet Bimbo. “Er…my business associate. Kate Jameson. Kate, I…” He looked back at me, frowning. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” I said shortly. “You seem well.”
“Yeah, I’m…” He was staring at me now, his gaze dropping low and then raking back up. Had I spilled something on my green silk dress? “Well. I’m well.”
Left Blonde was pouting heavily now, and Right Blonde wasn’t far behind in the pouting races. “Baby, I want to dance! Let’s go dance, baby. I want to feel your arms around me, baby.”
Was she flirting or trying to start a nursery?
Asher gave her and her left-side companion equally smoldering stares. “Believe me, ladies, I’m as eager as you are to see how well we move together.” His eyes lingered on the third. “You certainly have the frame of a dancer. Mind if I examine it more closely to make sure?”
They all simpered so hard I thought they might sprain something.
“Well, you crazy kids have fun,” I said loudly, as if I were auditioning for the role of a deaf grandmother. “I’m going to go vomit until I don’t remember any of this conversation.”
I started to stalk off, feeling like a wounded animal trying not to betray its hurt to a pack of hyenas. Still I was determined to be the bigger person and take the high road—
Until I heard one of them giggle.
On second thought, being the bigger person was overrated as hell.
I whirled back, grabbing a glass of red wine from a passing waiter’s tray. It was too bad there wasn’t any kind of sport that involved grabbing alcohol from passing waiters, because at this point I could have gone pro.
“Oh, hey, Asher, I was actually meaning to talk about—oops!” My glass of wine accidentally-on-purpose leapt out of my hand to cast an arc of Merlot all over Asher and his three dates—who just happened to be wearing white. “Oh God, I’m so sorry!”
I put absolutely zero effort in pretending to actually be sorry.