Page 58 of Fixing to Be Mine

I laugh. “You’ll be fine.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “You’d better bid on me.”

My heart skips. “Or what?”

“You gonna let someone else take me home?”

The question is teasing, but it lands deep.

“No,” I say quietly, “I’m not.”

I glance toward the stage, where a few men are lining up, all in button-ups, muscles, and fresh jeans.

“Guess I should get goin’,” he says, leading me inside.

The auction tent is packed. People are gathered in rows of folding chairs, drinks in hand, buzzing with anticipation, like this is the main event—and apparently, it is. I had no idea fundraising for an animal shelter could come with so much eyeliner and competitive energy.

Colt’s dragged off by Fenix, and the expression on his face as she shoves him behind the curtain is priceless.

Summer waves me over to a seat near the front, and I slide in beside her. Kinsley’s already on my other side, fanning herself dramatically with a flyer that saysBachelors & Bulldogsacross the top in curly font.

“This is my favorite part of the summer,” Kinsley says, practically vibrating. “You never know who’s going to bid on who—or who’s going to throw a drink over it.”

Kinsley leans over and hands me a flask. “Want a drink?”

“Sure,” I tell her, downing a huge gulp of cinnamon booze. My nose scrunches. “Yuck.”

I pass it to Summer.

“No thanks, I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, wow! Congrats. I had no idea,” I tell her.

For some reason, I hug her, and Summer leans in and hugs me back.

“Are you enjoying your time here?”

“Loving it,” I say, glancing around the room. “Is this auction competitive?”

“Oh, yeah. One year, a woman drove here from Houston to bid on Harrison.”

“Did she win?”

“Oh, she won,” Summer says. “But he ghosted her the next day.”

“Rough,” I mutter.

Kinsley sips from her lemonade. “Cowboys are only loyal to their dogs.”

“Except Colt,” Summer adds, nudging me. “Colt’s one of the good ones.”

I try to smile like I’m unaffected, like I didn’t feel something low in my stomach turn over at the sound of his name.

The emcee—a woman in a rhinestone-trimmed blazer and jeans—welcomes everyone to the show. She introduces the first few bachelors. They’re all local ranch hands and volunteers from nearby towns. The bids are playful, mostly in the forty-to-sixty-dollar range. One guy gets one hundred dollars and a standing ovation. The crowd’s having fun.

But when Colt’s name is called, the mood in the room shifts.

There’s an audible buzz, mixed with low, unhinged excitement. The lights fade, and he steps out onto the stage, wearing dark jeans, boots, and a black button-down. His hat ispushed up enough to show the sharp line of his jaw. He has the nerve to look both annoyed and amused at the same time.

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