Page 40 of Love Me Tomorrow

I finish off glass number one, set it down on a nearby, empty, high-top table, and grab my phone from my clutch. There are approximately a gazillion text messages winking back at me, all from acquaintances and family members asking me what I think ofCelebrity Tea Presents’“wet blanket” remark.

“I think he’s a total tool,” I mutter under my breath, before downloading the auction app and waiting for it to load.

After a quick “miss you and wish you were here” text to Amelie and another sip of wine, I take in the party that’s in full swing.

Couples are making their way onto the dance floor, including Frannie and Antoine and even my own parents. The two couples look so damn different, it almost seems blasphemous to compare them. Whereas the mayor and her husband are clearly whispering to each other, heads bent close, their arms locked tight around the other’s frame, Dad and Mom dance at an arms’ width apart. Over Mom’s head, Dad scans the room like he’s searching out his next business acquisition. Around Dad’s shoulder, Mom mouths something to a friend of hers, as if she’s counting down the seconds until she can go back to doing her own thing. It wasn’t always this way with them, but in the last few months, there’s been an obvious chasm rifting between them. And, if I’m being honest, that chasm has divided our entire family. Three of us here in Louisiana, one in Europe.

Familiar bitterness squeezes my lungs, only to be matched by the dampening of my palms as I clutch the wineglass tighter.

Don’t go there—not tonight.

Easier said than done.

Turning my back on the dance floor, I drink more chardonnay and sigh a breath of relief when my phone pings, letting me know the app finally downloaded.

One swipe of my finger against the screen shows that Frannie went all out for this year’s bidding process. There are multiple photos listed for every item, some with wordy descriptions, others without.

Resting the base of my glass against my collarbone, I study my options. The painting would be a safe bet, even though it isn’t to my taste at all. I swipe left. The earrings? No, I don’t think so. They’re beautiful but also a little too safe, and who needs more of that when you’re already being labeled as boring by all of America? Hard pass.

“Come on, Machu Picchu. I’m ready.”

I’ve never been to Peru. Scratch that, I’ve never been farther south than Mexico. Tilting my phone like it’s a foreign object, I stare at the picture of a couples’ massage that’s being offered with the all-inclusive package. Both parties are grinning from ear to ear like they’re keeping a massive secret. I bet it was staged. Every family vacation that I can remember as a child ended with Mom and Dad staying in different rooms.

I scroll down to find the current bid, then blanch at the bold red number staring back at me.

“Twenty-thousanddollars?” For that much money, that all-inclusive trip better come with a helicopter ride all the way up to the top of Machu Picchu, my own personal masseuse, and an oxygen tank for when the realization hits that I’ve spent a college tuition’s worth of money on a romantic trip meant for two.

Absolutely not.

I swipe again, then once more—

Wait, was that . . .

I backtrack, my thumb freezing when Inked on Bourbon’s logo flashes across my screen. Heart pounding, I toss back the rest of the wine and get rid of the glass. Then quickly skim the offer. Unlike the Machu Picchu listing, Owen’s is classically simple. There are no pictures, save for the business logo, and only a short description listing off a custom tattoo, to be designed by Owen himself, along with a sketchbook. That’s it.

Except that it can’t bethat’s itbecause if he’s donating something, he must be somewhere in this ballroom right now.

That’s how the mayor’s auction works. How it’salwaysworked.

My gaze snaps up, phone still clutched tight in my grip. I search the faces in the ballroom, looking for familiar inky-colored eyes and dark, messy hair.

Owen has never been invited to one of these parties—I would know—but Frannie does things her own way. It’s why the city adores her, and why New Orleans’ richest have come out tonight to write their checks while hoping to sneak in a quick chat with the woman who’s leaving her stamp on the Crescent City each and every day.

A crazy idea smacks me right across the face.

Did Frannie invite Owen on purpose? Clearly, she’s been followingPut A Ring On Itall season, enough to know what Dominic DaSilva’s abs look like, at least. Did she catch the first episode when I sent Owen home? Did she—God, the thought alone makes me want to crawl into a hole—decide to take matters into her own hands and ask him to donate something for the auction, all so she could lure him to the party and watch me lose my cool?

It’s an insane theory.

Totally improbable.

Against my better judgment, I find myself moving along, searching for Owen’s donation. My gaze sweeps over the table.

Another all-inclusive trip, this one to Croatia.

A trio of Roman daggers that look like they’ve only just been excavated from Italian soil.

An impressively sized bayonet dating back to the Revolutionary War.

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