Page 80 of The Marriage Auction 2: Part 1

My heart cracked at the desperation I saw in her eyes.

“I…uh…well, the cooks and waitstaff hang out in the alley to make calls, smoke, take their breaks. Over the years, they’d see me…um…digging through the trash.” Her jaw firmed, and her lips pressed together as she looked away. “They’d often leave me a doggie bag full of items that remained in the buffet at the end of the night. They were going to toss it anyway, which is why I was there waiting. One night, I found a brown bag on top of the main garbage can. The bag had a note. ‘For the girl with sad eyes.’” She sighed and scooped up more potatoes. “I survived on the kindness of the crew here for a very long time. Almost every night there’d be a bag of food there. Some days it was all I had to eat.” She shrugged.

“So you wanted to eat here for what reason?” I pushed, knowing she’d already likely shared more than her pride would allow.

“Maybe to prove I’d made it somehow. Even after Sam found me and gave me a place to live, and I’d done a bit better for myself, I still relied on their kindness more often than not. Food is expensive. And I didn’t always find what I needed.”

“Through pickpocketing,” I teased, trying to lighten the moment.

She smirked. “That, but I also did odd jobs for the motorcycle club. They’ve been really good to me too. To this day, I still clean the clubhouse once a week, and if I do their bedrooms, which are disgusting by the way, men are dogs.” She laughed, and the sound was so pretty, I vowed I’d find more ways to make her laugh regularly. “They’d each leave me whatever money they deemed the job warranted. Some were more generous than others. But I did it even if it was ten bucks. Because ten bucks was ten bucks. And I couldn’t be choosy.”

“Jesus,” I sucked back the rest of my wine in one gulp then refilled my glass. The woman had eaten garbage and cleaned up after bikers in order to survive and have a roof over her head. “You’ve had some life,” I said.

She shook her head. “No. I’ve had a shit life. Cleaning up after the club and living in the room above Sam’s garage has been the absolute best I’ve ever had. So don’t knock it,” she finished, a bit of venom in her tone.

“Until now it’s the best you’ve had. All that’s changing, Maia. I promise, you’ll never have to live that way again. You can trust me.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been promised a lot of things in life, none of which has ever come true. And there are only two people in the whole world I trust. Sam and Alana. Frankly, Mr. Davenport…” She said my last name in a husky timbre that made my cock take notice. I gritted my teeth and breathed through my nose. My heart pumped wildly. This woman did things to me. Made me feel unsettled and a little heated around the collar. “I don’t know what to think about you,” she finished.

I reached out and put my hand around her small forearm. She was too thin for her size and age. Regular food, sleep, andlack of worries would do wonders for this beautiful woman. “I’ll earn your trust.”

She jerked her arm away and glared. “Excuse me if I don’t hold my breath, and please don’t grip me like that. It scares me.”

I snatched my hand away, giving her space. “Sorry.” I felt like a total heel.

“Thank you,” she mumbled and grabbed another roll from the basket on the table, slathered it with butter, and took a huge bite. Maia had already cleared the mountain of food on her plate and was still eating. The woman must have a hollow leg, because I had no idea where she’d put so much food.

I leaned back, having not touched the overcooked steak, the baked potato, or the grilled asparagus on my plate. None of it looked appealing in the least. And after our conversation, my appetite was nonexistent.

I leaned forward and planted my elbows on the table, resting my chin on top of my clasped hands, and doing my best to appear nonthreatening. The way she snatched her arm away from my grip said she’d been hurt physically, probably by a man. I wanted my future wife to open up to me, allow me in, not fear me. It was the only way this relationship would work, going forward. “Tell me more.”

“I’ve done nothing but answer your questions since we arrived. How about you tell me about you. Why’s your daughter such a brat?” she stated with zero diplomacy.

I winced. “Emily is thirteen going on thirty. She thinks she knows everything, worships her mother, who’s a terrible influence, and hates me.”

“Why does she hate you?” she asked around a mouthful of bread.

“Because I’m her dad. I don’t let her get away with things. I make her pick up after herself. She has to tell me where she’s going and with whom. I insist that she has to introduce me toher friends and their parents before she’s allowed to hang out. I check her grades and ensure she’s doing her homework and keeping up with school assignments.”

“Normal stuff then. She seemed to have a chip on her shoulder at the airport. Why?”

“Again, because she’s a teenager. You know how it is. Think back to when you were a teenager.”

Maia’s expression seemed to contain elements of cynicism and derision as she reached for two more rolls. “When I was a teenager, I was on the streets sleeping under cardboard, if I was lucky. You, your daughter, the lifestyle you have—we are not the same.” Her voice lowered as the punch to my gut hit true.

Maia Fields had been living on the streets since she was a child.

Fury rose up my chest like a wave of fire, tingling and spitting embers along the surface of my skin. The image of her cold, shivering, and hungry while sleeping on the streets had me spitting mad. What kind of people allowed that to happen to a child? There was a special place in hell for people like that.

“Where are your parents in all this?” I asked bluntly, putting my hands into my lap as I fisted them so hard my knuckles turned white, and my palms ached at the extreme pressure.

“My mother and half-siblings are in Colorado. That’s all you need to know.” And like flipping a switch, her demeanor changed. “Can we go? I’m really tired.”

Damn this woman was a whirlwind of contradictions. One minute she’s sharing and eating happily, the next she’s snapping at me like an abused and frightened animal.

I stood up and laid four hundred-dollar bills on the table.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the money. “That’s too much. Each meal was $50.99 and already included tax. The bottle of wine you chose was listed at $88. That’s exactly $189.98. An appropriate tip would be fifteen percent, twentyif you enjoyed your meal, which you clearly did not since you didn’t eat any of it. The tip should be no less than $28.48. That means your total with fifteen percent tip is $218.46. You’re overpaying by $181.54. That’s a lot of money.” She sucked her lips between her teeth and cradled one of the white linen napkins in a ball along with a small sparky purse.

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