Page 59 of Fixing to Be Mine

A woman two rows behind me gasps.

“Oh, he’s in trouble,” Kinsley whispers, realizing the vultures are out.

Colt offers a tight smile and a mock salute. Fenix, who is now the emcee’s assistant, grabs the mic and starts listing his “skills,” which include house repairs and being good with his big, strong hands.

“Show them those abs,” she says. “Go ahead. Unbutton the shirt.”

Colt glares at her, and if looks could kill, she’d be over. He begrudgingly opens his shirt, and the women in the room go feral.

“Opening bid is twenty dollars!” the emcee calls.

Ten bidding paddles, shaped like the state of Texas, shoot up.

Summer leans toward me. “Okay, you should be nervous.”

“Should I?” I ask.

“One hundred!” someone calls.

“One hundred fifty!”

“One seventy-five!”

A woman near the back raises her hand and purrs, “Two hundred fifty. Take it off!”

The tent erupts with laughter.

Colt shakes his head. “My mother is here somewhere!”

“He’s gonna have to move out of town after this,” Kinsley says, delighted.

“Three hundred. Do I hear three fifty?”

“Four hundred!”

“Five hundred!”

The number climbs, and I try to act like I’m entertained. But something shifts inside me, and it’s undeniably possessive.

I don’t want someone else to win him. I don’t want this to be a joke anymore. I want it to be me.

The numbers keep climbing.

“Five fifty!”

“Six hundred!”

“Seven hundred!”

Women fill every corner of the tent—laughing, shouting, waving their bid cards with lust in their eyes. They all want that cowboy fantasy named Colt Valentine.

He stands on a plywood platform, visibly annoyed and slightly pink in the ears, resembling a model. I’ve met men in New York who wished they had this facial structure and physique. He shifts his weight, one boot slightly in front of the other, arms crossed over his chest like he’s refusing to play along, but it drives the ladies wild.

His eyes scan the crowd, and he finds me.

“Help?” he whispers.

Beside me, Summer leans in. “Not gonna bid?”

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