Panic and denial warp through me. “That can’t be right!” He never said anything about participating in the auction, and he can’t just stick himself in there at the last minute, can he? I mean, aren’t the programs already printed out?
“Excuse me, but it’s exactly right. I know because my wife’s helping Elizabeth put the event together, and she said Court is on as substitute meat—uh, a substitute bachelor.”
I jump to my feet. “I have to go stop it.”
“Got a ticket for the event?”
No, I don’t. Court never got to give me one because… Well, I left.
“Well, then, you might be out of luck. Everything Elizabeth does to raise money is exclusive because she likes to target rich people’s pockets. And I wouldn’t try to crash it if I were you. Her security is…let’s just say, terrifying.”
Terrifying security or not, I’m not letting some other woman win Court in an auction!
“Look, Pascal, I like you. I like it that you gave notice when you suspected things weren’t kosher. I respect that a lot. Most people wouldn’t have that much integrity. Anyway, as it happens, I have a ticket. They always send me one, and I have no desire to attend because it’s boring.” He pulls out an envelope from his breast pocket.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for it with huge relief.
He pulls his hand back. “Not yet. You’re not going to quit. You’re going to work like a dog here because that’s what I hired you for. Got that?”
Holy mother of God. He’s going to ignore my notice. “Yes,” I say, because working like a dog at OWM is exactly what I want to do. Well, with some time off to spend with Court. “Whatever you say.”
“Then you’ll report to work on Monday as usual.” He hands me the ticket. “Now go wild at the auction. They’re raising money for kids.”
Chapter Fifty
Court
Gingerly, I cradle my head. It hurts so bad that I’m tempted to chop it off at the neck to stop the pounding.
How much scotch did I drink last night?
My eyes still closed, I roll over to try for a less painful position. My hand brushes a body next to me.
Skittles?
Joy swells as my alcohol-addled brain immediately lights up with her retur
n. I’d be jumping off the bed and dancing if I thought my head wouldn’t just explode.
I squint—barely, the light stabbing right through the corneas—and see a large male body less than a foot away. My hungover fog vanishes like a TV being cut off.
“What the fuck!” I scream, my voice hoarse from overindulgence. I wince as my own words stab into my brain like shrapnel. “Who the—?”
“Shut the hell up,” he moans, then turns to face me. Nate.
I run a hand over my mouth. “What you doing here?”
“Uhng. Guess I passed out last night.”
Shit. How bad was it last night if he passed out too? I roll the other way, grab my phone and check the time. Five thirty-six. And Saturday. The day he’s going to be auctioned off like…a gold digger’s wet dream.
“You need to go home and get ready. Make yourself pretty for the ladies.” Then I groan when his movements make the mattress undulate vertically. Fuck. My stomach is roiling.
“I’m already pretty. And you need to get ready too.”
Me? “For what? Lying in bed, dying?”
“You’re the substitute bachelor, remember?”