Page 48 of Saved By My Buyers

“Then we cross that road together. Dahlia haunts my dreams, and all I can see some nights are her caramel eyes,” I grunt. “While I knew her I was only her protector, there was never anything else.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “You were her hero. I’ll always stand by that. Feelings can change. Would she hate us if we’re together? Or that we’re doing this auction?”

“If we ever see her, or find her again, then we’ll ask her about how she feels about all of this,” I say, burying my face in her hair. I’m trying so hard to put Dahlia firmly in the past so I can move on, but little reminders keep coming up.

“I can’t continue to live this half life while we live in what ifs and worst case scenarios.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on your knees before,” Bronwyn murmurs.

I don’t apologize unless I’ve genuinely done something wrong. Dahlia? I’d crawl for her.

“The day we see her, I bet we crawl together,” I say, lifting my head to drown in her green eyes.

“I hope we get the chance too,” she says with a sad smile, brushing her lips along my temple. “Are you following me home like a stalker?”

Chuckling, I nod. Bronwyn is a brat. “Yes, baby girl. I’ll be on your ass the whole way home. The snow is kicking up, so take it nice and slow, okay?”

Nodding, she reaches behind herself to grab her backpack and opens my door to scoot out. Bronwyn gets into her vehicle, but I don’t move until she pulls out before following her. There’s a part of me that feels like a failure because I haven’t been able to find Dahlia.

I have some of the best technology possible in the world, but everything relies on a digital footprint. If she is buying things with cash, working under the table without giving her legal name, or in an area with few video cameras, then it’s easier to maintain a low profile. Dahlia could also be living on the streets.

Following Bronwyn, my mind follows the train of ‘what ifs’, and I shut it down when I arrive at home. If I continue in this direction, I’ll turn into a broody fucking bastard. Bronwyn doesn’t deserve that whiplash.

Blowing out a breath, I pack it all away for now. Bronwyn is right, the day our paths cross again, I’ll drop to my knees for Dahlia, and explain why I’m with her girl. I’ll beg her to join us, because a part of our souls are connected to her.

I hope you play hard to get, Dolly. Bee and I would be down to chase you.

Bronwyn

“I can’t believe there are so many requirements,” I breathe.

The participants go through a very thorough process to ensure their medical records are clean, and there aren’t any STDs. The results are held by Edward, the man who is putting on the auction for the club, and they also have an interview to ensure the participants are right for this.

“It’s a lot safer than going to a club and hooking up with someone,” Jack reminds me. “We hang out for one sex filled weekend, and then go our separate ways. No strings attached. There’s also no pressure. If no one interests you, we’ll leave at the end, with one hell of a date night in the books.”

“For the beginning bid starting at five hundred thousand dollars, there better be fireworks too,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“I don’t care about the money,” Jack says. “The starting bid of five hundred thousand dollars remains with the participant. Who knows the reasons someone decides to do an event like this on either side.”

“That’s true,” I admit. Life is hard, if a fun weekend gives the person we bid on an opportunity to do what they want with their life, then I’m in. I know first hand how hard starting over is. If I didn’t have Jack, I’d have it even harder.

“Let’s do it.”

Filling out the paperwork means teasing, laughter, and a glass of wine to share as we go through it. I have work tomorrow early in the morning, and I’m not typically a heavy drinker unless it’s emotional drinking.

“To a fun adventure,” I murmur as we submit our paperwork.

“Yes,” Jack says, pulling me into his lap. “How are you feeling? We got so busy filling out paperwork, I forgot about dinner. I can pull something together, or we can do the equivalent of your girl dinner.”

“Girl dinner” started a year ago when I’d get so busy writing a paper that I’d throw together cheese, crackers, my favorite jam, and some chocolate instead of making anything serious.

Jack was equal parts intrigued and horrified to find me banging out a paper to heavy metal songs and my version of dinner.

Grinning, I shrug. “I have some wine buzzing through my system, so girl dinner actually sounds fantastic,” I say.

Smirking, he hauls me into his arms to walk into the kitchen. Everything in this apartment is clean lines and stainless steel. It’s impersonal and functional, but neither of us spend enough time here to change it.

The second we got home, I changed into a pair of yoga pants, a long-sleeved shirt without a bra, and fuzzy socks. Jack sets me on the counter before he starts pulling food from the fridge to make us something to eat, his eyes moving back toward me every so often.

---