Page 6 of Bought by His Brother's Best Friend

Shane stood alone under the spotlight, his smile becoming fixed as seconds ticked by without a response. Something protective surged through me as I watched him trying to maintain his composure while an entire room full of people deemed him not worth the opening bid.

“Remember, all proceeds go to the Children’s Sports Foundation,” the emcee tried again, lowering the bar. “Let’s start the bidding at five hundred dollars.”

More silence. Shane’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly—something most people wouldn’t notice.

This was wrong. Shane Bennett was worth far more than the starting bid. He was intelligent, dedicated, principled—the kind of man who built his career on hard work rather than riding his brother’s coattails. That no one was bidding reflected the shallow priorities of the room, not Shane’s worth.

“Come now, ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee continued desperately. “Shane Bennett is a successful sports agent with his own firm. Surely we can start the bidding at five hundred?”

I watched Shane scan the audience. His composed expression betrayed by the anxiety in his eyes. Our gazes connected, and I saw recognition flash across his face.

“Perhaps we should—” the emcee began, preparing to end this painful scene.

“Five thousand dollars,” I said, rising from my seat. The words left my mouth before I’d formed the thought, driven by an instinct to rescue Shane from humiliation.

The emcee’s relief was palpable. “We have five thousand dollars. Thank you, sir!”

Shane stared at me, surprise and what looked like gratitude softening his features. I maintained eye contact, offering a small, reassuring smile.

“Do I hear fifty-five hundred?” the emcee asked hopefully.

The room remained silent. No one was going to challenge my bid, which meant Shane would know this was charity—a pity bid from his brother’s friend. The thought bothered me more than it should have.

“Five thousand going once...”

“Ten thousand,” I called out, raising my own bid without breaking eye contact with Shane.

Confusion rippled through the audience. The emcee blinked in surprise. “Sir, you’re bidding against yourself.”

“I’m aware,” I replied evenly. Then, making a split-second decision: “Twenty thousand dollars.”

Gasps and whispers erupted around me. At my side, Mrs. Covington let out a delighted laugh and patted my arm.

“My goodness, Mr. Roth,” she murmured. “If I’d known you were so generous, I’d have introduced you to my grandson instead of just my investment portfolio.”

I smiled but kept my eyes on Shane, whose cheeks had flushed an appealing shade of pink. The bid was extravagant, yes, but I could afford it easily. And something about the stunned look on Shane’s face made it worth every penny.

“We have twenty thousand dollars for an evening with Shane Bennett!” The emcee could barely contain his excitement. “Going once... going twice... Sold!”

Applause filled the room as Shane left the stage. I sat back, my heart beating faster than it should have for a simple charity bid.

“Well played,” Mrs. Covington said, her eyes twinkling with knowing amusement. “Though subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

I laughed. “Sometimes directness is more effective.”

“Oh, I agree.” She sipped her champagne. “When you’ve reached my age, you learn not to waste time. Life’s too short for games.” She nodded toward the event coordinator, who was approaching our table with a tablet. “I believe your generosity requires processing.”

Marjorie Davis, the foundation’s director, beamed at me as if I’d personally saved her evening—which, in a way, I had.

“Mr. Roth, your contribution tonight is extraordinary,” she gushed as I signed the receipt for my bid. “That’s a record for our bachelor auction.”

“The foundation deserves it,” I said. “And so does Shane.”

Her expression softened with understanding. “He certainly does. Such a lovely young man—always in the background making sure his brother shines. You can find him by the east bar when you’re ready for a proper introduction.”

After she left, I excused myself from the table, ignoring Mrs. Covington’s knowing smile as I made my way through the crowded ballroom. The orchestra had started playing again, and couples were moving to the dance floor, giving the event a celebratory atmosphere.

I spotted Shane before he saw me—standing by the bar, running his finger nervously around the rim of a tumbler containing what looked like bourbon. The golden light from the art déco sconces highlighted the strong line of his jaw and the slight furrow between his brows as he stared into his drink.

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