Page 12 of Auctioned to the Billionaire

“You’re holding that menu like it’s a lifeline,” he says, his lips twitching with amusement.

I glance down, realizing my knuckles are white from gripping the edges of the menu. With a sheepish laugh, I set it down. “Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous.”

“You don’t have to be,” he says softly. “It’s just me.”

That’s the problem,I think, though I don’t say it out loud.

Instead, I smile, trying to push past my nerves. “So, Hugh Walters, tell me something about yourself that I don’t already know.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise, but he leans back in his seat, considering my question. “Alright. Something you don’t already know…” He pauses, a small smile playing on his lips. “I once got kicked out of a high school dance for fighting.”

I blink. “You? Mr. Calm and Collected?”

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that makes my stomach flutter. “I wasn’t always calm and collected. But in my defense, the other guy started it.”

“Why were you fighting?” I ask, intrigued.

“He said something he shouldn’t have about one of my foster sisters,” he says simply, his expression darkening slightly.

My heart softens at the mention of his foster family. I’ve heard bits and pieces about his time in the foster care system, but he’s always been careful not to share too much.

“That’s sweet, in a way,” I say. “Defending her like that.”

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “Family looks out for each other. That’s just how it is.”

The waiter returns with our drinks and takes our orders. Hugh gets the steak, and I order the salmon. Once he’s gone, I take a sip of my wine, the warmth of it settling my nerves.

“Your turn,” Hugh says, his gaze steady on mine.

“My turn for what?”

“To tell me something I don’t already know about you.”

I hesitate, trying to think of something worth sharing. Finally, I settle on something that feels safe enough. “Okay, here’s one. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a ballerina.”

He tilts his head, his dark blue eyes lighting up with amusement. “A ballerina? Not an assistant?”

“Yeah,” I say, laughing. “I even had the tutu and everything. But let’s just say grace was never my strong suit.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his voice warm.

“It’s true,” I insist. “I was terrible. My mom even had videos of my first recital—complete with me tripping over my own feet and taking out two other kids in the process.”

He laughs, the sound filling the space between us. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

“Don’t you dare,” I say, pointing a finger at him, though I’m smiling.

As the night goes on, the conversation flows more easily, the initial awkwardness fading. Hugh tells me stories about his time in the Marines, and I share memories of my childhood—both the good and the not-so-good.

With every word, I feel myself softening toward him, my crush morphing into something deeper, something I can’t quite put a name to.

When the food arrives, we eat slowly, savoring both the meal and the company. Hugh watches me as I talk, his expression attentive, as if every word I say matters.

By the time we finish dessert—a shared slice of chocolate cake—I’m not ready for the night to end.

“Do you want to take a walk?” Hugh asks as we step outside into the crisp night air.

I glance at the snow-covered streets, the soft glow of the streetlights making the town look almost magical. “I’d like that.”

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