Page 48 of Sexting the Coach
“Do I have ten? Ten for a date with Mr. Wolfe here?”
I have another glass in my hand—this one with water—and I hold it tight enough that I’m afraid I might crack the crystal. Weston is up on the stage, wearing a backwards hat with his suit and somehow managing not to look like a jackass. Beside him is one of his old jerseys in a glass frame, and Gigi stands in front of the microphone, smiling out at the crowd.
“Twelve!” an elderly woman in the front of the room shouts, lifting her hand, and I grit my teeth, sucking in a quick breath that does nothing to calm my nerves. For the hundredth time tonight, I have to remind myself that Weston isn’t my real boyfriend. That I should have no problem watching him go on a date with someone else.
Especially because the money for this—the twelve thousand dollars currently offered for a date with him—goes to charity. I glance at the banner and curse under my breath. A charity forkids with cancer. I’d be a massive bitch to be mad about him participating in this.
And, yet.
Another older woman on the other side of the room raises her hand, and for a second, the two grandmas trade back and forth, going up increments. I’ve almost managed to calm myself down about it when a different hand goes up in the front of the crowd—one free of wrinkles and smooth, with a delicate silver chain around the wrist.
“Twenty,” she says, simply, and when I glance over in her direction, the breath nearly leaves my lungs. Long, straight brown hair. Beautiful blue eyes. A blue dress that hugs her ample chest and legs crossed daintily at the ankle.
“We have twenty!” Gigi calls, a grin stretching over her perfect red lips. Then, she meets my eyes in the audience, seeming to raise her eyebrows at me. “Do we have twenty-one?”
I look from Gigi, then to Weston, who is staring at the old woman on the far side of the room, like he’s waiting for her to bid again.
“Twenty-one?” Gigi calls again, and I shift side to side in my chair, glancing at the gorgeous brunette in the second row. I can see the whole thing—the two of them going on a date, staring into each other’s eyes over the table. He might explain to her that he and I aren’t actually that serious.
And—ohGod, isn’t Leda Temple a brunette? Is that his type?
“Going once?—”
“Fifty!”
A hush goes through the room, and I don’t know who’s called it out until I look down and realize I’m standing, my hand in the air. The brunette turns and looks at me, and several photographers snap photographs.
Weston is looking at me, but I can’t make out his expression from this far.
“Fifty!” Gigi calls, beaming at me and not giving anyone else time to match that bid. “To the beautiful girl in the back of the room!” Then, quieter, but not so quiet the microphone doesn’t pick up on it, she looks at Weston and says, “Looks like you’re one lucky guy, Wolfe.”
Chapter 20
Weston
“Aprank, huh?”
“What?” Elsie asks, stepping back from me and turning to examine her handiwork in the mirror. “Does this not feel like a prank to you?”
I look past her and to my own reflection staring back at me. I’m wearing a red Hawaiian shirt with little pandas on it. Next to me, Elsie looks like something I could eat. Her dress—which I’ve been told is actually a cover up, which only made me fixate on what she could possibly be wearing underneath—is a flowy white thing, tied around the back of her neck. Her hair is up on her head, revealing a patch of skin on her back I want to kiss.
And I’m supposed to go on this date with her for charity. Continue pretending about our relationship, and not get to touch her tonight when the date is over.
It does, in fact, feel like a prank.
“Our Uber is here!” she says, tugging me out of the room before I can answer her question.
“Great,” I mutter, “let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit.”
We climb into the back of the Uber, and it’s tight enough that her knee is against mine. I would have just taken my own car, orcalled the driver I sometimes use, but since Elsie won the date, she gets to pick all the details—including outfits, venue, and activity. Unfortunately for me.
“I just can’t believe you don’t like the beach,” Elsie says, pulling out her phone and snapping a photo of the two of us. I’m glaring at her, and don’t have time to fix my face, so we’re captured on the phone like that. Her, a ball of sunshine, me looking dark and brooding in the background.
“What is there to like?” I ask, resisting the urge to cross my arms. I’ve already faced allegations from her tonight of looking like a pouting little kid, so I shouldn’t give her any more evidence to support that claim.
“Well, first of all,” she says, tucking her phone back into her little purse. “You’re living in San Francisco. California! I don’t understand why you would just let that go to waste.”
