Page 9 of One Night Flame

Mrs. Henderson snorted. “She’s twenty-five.”

Twenty-five.

Not a teenager. Not fresh out of college and collecting crystal cats. Just… young. Younger than I’d expected, sure, but also adult. Adult enough to know what she wanted. Maybe.

I didn’t know anything about her. Didn’t have a name, a face, or even a hint of what I was walking into. But suddenly I wanted to.

Twenty-five could mean bright eyes and big dreams and a sense of humor that hadn’t been ground down yet by too many tax seasons or HOA meetings. Twenty-five might still like late nights, spontaneous adventures, and bad ideas that turned out great.

Or she could be the exact opposite. Quiet. Serious. Looking for something… real.

That last thought flickered through me like a breeze under the collar. Uncomfortable in a way I didn’t want to look at too closely.

I was good at the shiny stuff. The first impression. The flex and grin and flirt. But something about being “bought” for someone else… it wasn’t the usual kind of auction-night chaos. It felt like the beginning of something else. Something I hadn’t signed up for.

Mrs. Henderson gave my arm one last squeeze, entirely confident. “You’ll meet her soon enough.”

And then she turned and vanished back into the crowd, leaving me standing under the lights with a question I hadn’t known I wanted answered.

FOUR

LUCY

I had hoped—prayed, really—that once the auction ended, Grandma might just forget the whole thing.

She didn’t.

The chairs were emptying now, the last bachelor having left the stage to raucous applause and someone’s paddle being waved like a victory flag. Women were laughing, grabbing their purses, rehashing bids. The after-buzz of the auction swirled around us, all heat and leftover perfume.

I was still glued to my seat, trying to pretend none of this had actually happened.

Next to me, Grandma sat with the unshakable serenity of a woman who’d just pulled off a masterstroke. She sipped her sparkling cider, lips curved in the kind of smug little smile that made my stomach drop.

Then she stood and turned to me. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go meet your date.”

I nearly dropped my cup. “Excuse me?”

She nodded toward the stage, where Cord Gaffney—Cord freaking Gaffney—was stepping down from the mic, his grin still camera-ready as he shook a few hands. His T-shirt clung to hisshoulders like it had been sewn on in secret by witches. He was tall, golden, and way too good at that smile. The kind of man whose every inch spelled trouble.

“I bought him for you.” Grandma announced this like she was confirming a bakery pickup. “It’s rude not to say thank you.”

My brain short-circuited. “You—he—what?”

She patted my arm like I was being overly dramatic. “Let’s go, before he gets mobbed.”

Oh, my God. She actually did it. She bought me a man.

I was a literal auction line item on her matchmaking checklist.

This was happening. This was real.

And Cord Gaffney was standing there waiting, like some kind of firefighter-shaped prize I had no earthly idea what to do with.

I followed Grandma across the room like I was walking to my own execution. Every step felt too loud, like my heels had suddenly transformed into clown shoes. I scanned the exits, wondering if it was too late to fake a phone call, a fainting spell, or a mild allergic reaction to cider.

Maybe if I pretend I’m someone else. If I change my name. If I fake an emergency involving a cat.

I could feel Cord watching us approach, which was somehow worse than if he hadn’t noticed at all. He stood just off the edge of the stage now, relaxed, laughing at something a volunteer said, the mic finally out of his hand but that smile still fully loaded.

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