Page 1 of The Marriage Auction 2: Part 1

Episode 1

Lying is for Losers

NAOMI

“Men are dogs.” I whispered to myself as I looked at my most recent text message. Every last godforsaken one of them. I ground down on my molars as the muscle in my jaw worked overtime to help cool my jets. I stared down at my cell phone, reviewing Jamal’s last infuriating, but not altogether unsurprising, text.

From: Jamal Watson

Sorry, last weekend was fun, but I’m not looking for anything serious right now. You’re a beautiful woman. You deserve better. If you want to hook up again when you’re in town, hit me up.

I pressed my lips so tightly together you’d think I’d just sucked on a lemon wedge. The nerve of this man. Led me on to believe he was into me. All the way up until I gave him the honey pot, then poof! Gone. He got what he wanted from me. And now I was just the next in what was likely a long line of women he’d fucked and then ditched with a single text.

You deserve better.

Wasn’t that the damn truth? Not that I needed a player to tell me that fact. I wasn’t one of those simpering women who needed a man to tell her that she was beautiful in order tobelieve it. I knew I had a pretty face and a killer body because I worked hard to keep fit, and the good Lord above graced me with stellar genetics. I was also rich. The kind of wealth 99% of the population would never reach. I’d not only been born into generational wealth, but I’d made money on my own. One couldn’t say I was self-made, as my family absolutely fed me from a silver spoon and provided me with a trust fund I tapped right into once I graduated from Princeton. Still, I was successful in my own right.

There weren’t a lot of women in the precious gems business. My company purchased the finest quality gems from all over the world. My team then evaluated, tested, cut, shaped, and provided certificates of authenticity with all the appropriate metrics for all of our jewels. Our best clients were retailers such as Harry Winston, Cartier, Tiffany’s, Van Cleef & Arpels, Piaget and more. Though my passion lay in designing one-of-a-kind pieces. Those took me months to make and went for obscene amounts at private auction.

None of the men I dated online had any idea who I was or what I was worth. This was intentional because I had hoped to find real, true love. Unlike my parents whose marriage had been arranged. The top one percenters of the world loved to pair like with like. Money with money. Very few in my circles had a love match. My father believed me wedding a man from the upper crust of society, handpicked to continue the upward trajectory of our generational earnings, was absolutely necessary.

I disagreed. Thus the entire reason I was in Las Vegas in the first place.

To choose a husband.

I tossed my cell phone onto the bar and made eye contact with the bartender just as a man smoothly approached to take the only seat available, the one next to me.

“Were you saving this seat for someone?” His voice was low and deep, reminiscent of my mother’s favorite actor, Mr. Morgan Freeman—the man, the legend.

I glanced up, readying a polite half smile when the scents of leather and spice hit my nose. My gaze settled on the striking, chiseled face of a startlingly handsome Black man. I opened my mouth and then clamped it shut, forgetting what he’d asked after taking in the grandeur of his good looks. He was at least six foot three with the build of a football player. Exactly the type of man I needed. One who would not only look exceptional on my arm, but strong enough to protect me from people who might want to hurt me. In my line of business, having a lover who could be both was ideal.

The man smiled wide, his bright, perfectly white teeth on full display as he gestured to the seat. “May I?”

“Oh, uh absolutely. I’m sorry. You…looked familiar for a second.” Fat lie. He looked like no man I knew because I would remember someone that handsome. He turned the barstool to the side and wedged his massive frame between me and the seat.

I inhaled deeply, letting his magnificent scent fill my lungs and settle my rapidly beating heart. I put my hand to my chest and cleared my throat. I was positively dying of thirst at the sight of such a gorgeous creature.

The bartender approached. “What can I get you two?” he asked me and my accidental companion.

“Oh, no!” I shook my head. “He’s not…” I moved to correct the bartender.

“I’ll have an IPA.” The man spoke in a sultry timbre that wove deep into my chest like a purr. “Whatever you recommend. And the lady?” His full lips twitched as he leaned a tad closer, quirking his head to the side in what I took to be a challenge.

“I’ll have a vodka martini, shaken, two olives,” I rattled off my favorite cocktail.

The bartender nodded and left to make our drinks. I turned to the side, putting my legs on full display as I crossed them not-so-subtly. My legs were my favorite feature. They were long, toned, and shined to perfection.

The man’s dark gaze dipped to my limbs as if on autopilot, and I watched, satisfied, as he slowly, almost sensually, licked his bottom lip and sucked that bit of flesh back into his mouth. He put a fist up to cover the move and promptly looked away, but I’d caught him in the act of checking me out. I’d crafted the moment. I’d have been salty all night if he’d been too gentlemanly. I liked a man who was chivalrous but also had passion and intrigue in his bag of tricks.

“You didn’t have to pretend we’re together,” I announced.

“Not gonna lie, I saw you from across the room while you were checking your phone. You seemed upset, and my momma always taught me that a kind word or a good deed goes a long way. I figured maybe you could use something to make you smile. A free drink never hurt anyone.” He grinned.

“Too true. Thank you. I’m Naomi Shaw.” I put my hand out in greeting.

“Memphis Taylor.” He took my hand, and like a grizzly bear holding the hand of a child, his swallowed up mine. “That’s a mighty paw you’ve got there,” I teased.

He chuckled, warm and deep, the sound causing butterflies to flutter their silky wings inside my stomach.

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