Page 4 of The Silver Fox Bidder

I turn toward the exit, but just as I start pushing my way through the crowd, a commotion from the stage makes me pause.

One of the contestants, a young woman in a glittery dress, collapses.

The entire Hawks Roost EMT department happens to be in the audience. They jump to their feet, effectively blocking my way out as they rush to her aid.

Looks like I’m stuck here a while longer.

Murmurs ripple through the room as the woman is loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled out the door.

“What happened?”“She had a panic attack.”“I hope she’s okay.”

The event organizer taps the microphone, bringing the chatter to a halt. “Attention, everyone! Ms. Abernathy is fine, just heading to the hospital for observation. That said, we do still have an open slot in the auction.” She pauses for dramatic effect before smiling. “Luckily, we have a willing replacement. Lucy Caldwell, owner of The Wildflower Apothecary, will be taking her place!”

My entire body goes still.

Lucy steps back onto the stage, lips parted in laughter as the crowd erupts into cheers.

“The charity she’s representing is The Brassiere Initiative, which provides low-income women and girls with new bras,” the organizer continues. “It’s important work, folks, so be generous!”

The auctioneer wastes no time. “Let’s start the bidding at fifty dollars!”

Lucy has always seemed out of reach. Too bold. Too alive. Too damnyoung.But right now, she’s standing under the stage lights, waiting for someone to put down money for a date with her.

And I’ll be damned if that someone is anyone but me.

My hands curl into fists at my sides, my paint-stained fingertips flexing instinctively. No one in town knows what I do up in my cabin—that I’m the same artist whose work sells for thousands in far-off galleries. I prefer it that way.

But looking at Lucy now, a thought hits me square in the chest.

She belongs on canvas.

Not just a portrait. No, something deeper. Something raw. I can already see it—layers of paint and earth, wildflowers pressed into the brushstrokes, the essence of her captured in a way no photograph could ever touch.

The idea sinks its teeth into me, and hell if I know how to shake it loose.

A couple of eager voices call out bids, but they barely register. My boots move of their own accord, cutting through the crowd until I get a clear view of the stage.

Lucy’s gaze locks onto mine just as I raise my hand.

“Five hundred,” I rumble.

A ripple moves through the crowd. A few heads turn, but I don’t waver.

Lucy’s lips part slightly, her eyes widening. There’s surprise there, but also something else. Something unreadable. Something that sends a shot of adrenaline straight through me.

Another bid comes in. Doesn’t matter.

I lift my hand again. “One thousand.”

The murmurs grow louder. Another bid.

I step forward, jaw set. “Five thousand dollars.”

The room goes dead silent.

On stage, Lucy is staring at me, her chest rising and falling with each measured breath. I can’t tell if she’s about to laugh, protest, or come down here and slap me.

Doesn’t matter.

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