Page 2 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

Stacy claps her hands in delight. "This is amazing! It's all going to such a good cause."

I'm about to agree when a snippet of conversation from behind us catches my ear. I casually turn and glimpse another date for the evening, decked out in what I can only assume is her best attempt at a Cinderella gown. She’s giggling with her friend. "I just hope I find Mr. Right tonight," she says, a twinkle in her eye.

Her friend, dressed in a costume that's a cross between Sleeping Beauty and Maleficent—I can't quite decide—leans in closer, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You sound like a gold digger."

Without missing a beat, Cinderella throws her head back and laughs, "Well, maybe I am. And maybe tonight's my night!"

Hearing Cinderella's unabashed declaration and the laughter that follows sends a fresh wave of nerves coursing through me. It's one thing to be up for auction for a good cause; it's another entirely to navigate the murky waters of post-auction expectations.

"Does this mean there are going to be certain expectations with whatever guy ends up winning the bid for me?" I ask. The words feel heavy, loaded with implications I hadn't fully considered until now.

Stacy, quick to sense my growing unease, reassures me with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Oh, please, Al, this is a classy affair. It's not that kind of date." But then, a mischievous glint appears in her eye, the kind that usually precedes her most outrageous ideas. "Well, unless you want it to be," she teases, a sly smile playing on her lips.

I can't help but laugh, shaking my head at her audacity. "Stace, you're terrible," I say, though the humor in my voice betrays my faux indignation. It's hard to stay worried with Stacy around; her ability to lighten the mood is a testament to our years of friendship.

Stacy just shrugs, unrepentant. "Hey, there are worse guys to be going out with tonight. You've seen the crowd—tons of rich, eligible bachelors out there."

Her gaze sweeps over the room as if to punctuate her point before settling back on me.

"And let's be real, you could stand to spend a night out with a nice, handsome man instead of yet another evening in the kitchen perfecting your béarnaise sauce."

Stacy knows me too well; my penchant for losing myself in the kitchen—especially when life outside it feels too chaotic—is no secret.

"You may have a point," I concede.

Peeking through the curtain, I can't help but let out a low whistle at the sea of glamorous attendees. It's like stepping into a scene from one of those movies where everyone is impossibly beautiful, sipping ridiculously expensive champagne.

They're the kind of people I've only ever observed from the safety of my kitchen, cooking them dishes that cost more than my rent.

“Honestly, what would I even say to a guy like that? ‘So, how do you like your truffles? Shaved over gold leaf, or just straight out of the diamond-encrusted tin?’” I ask Stacy with sarcasm.

“Just smile and pretend you're having the time of your life,” she advises, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "Besides, it’s not like either of us would be able to afford a helicopter ride on our salaries. This might be your only shot to see New York from above without baking a cake for a billionaire's birthday party."

With a deep breath, I straighten up, adopting what I hope is a convincingly carefree smile. Stacy's right—this isn't just about the auction or a date; it's about stepping out of my comfort zone and trying something new. And if I get to soar over the city in a helicopter while doing it, who am I to complain?

But the part of me that's more comfortable wielding a spatula than engaging in small talk with the city's elite is seriously contemplating a tactical retreat. Just when the idea of bolting becomes dangerously appealing, however, it's my turn.

Stacy, sensing my last-second hesitation, locks eyes with me.

"You look insanely hot, Al," she assures me with the confidence of a general rallying her troops. "You've totally got this." Her words are the nudge I need, a reminder that I'm not just here to brave my social anxieties but to make a difference, however small it might seem.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I channel every ounce of courage I possess and step out from behind the safety of the curtain. I plaster on my biggest, most dazzling smile—the one I reserve for successfully executing a flawless dinner service on a Saturday night.

Think of the kids, I silently repeat to myself, turning it into a mantra.

And that’s when I see him.

Chapter 2

Patrick

Every auction has its own surprises, but none quite like her—a vision in coveralls that challenged my every expectation and instantly commanded my full attention.

Here I am, nursing my second whiskey of the evening, each sip less satisfying than the last. The auction's buzzing energy seems to evaporate before it reaches me, leaving a dull hum in its wake.

To my right, a woman whose beauty would typically demand my full attention is making what could only be described as a valiant effort to engage me. Her name, something floral, escapes me as soon as she mentions it.

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