Auctioned to Him 9_Wait

by Charlotte Byrd

  “I do not deal with gold diggers, you know that,” she says sternly. This is a sore subject for her. I know I’m being unfair. She is careful to weed those girls out. She refuses to meet my gaze. I know that I’ve offended her. This conversation won’t go any further until I apologize.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. But I can find my own dates,” I say.

  “She’s completely different from anyone else I’ve ever met. And definitely not like all those stupid, hot girls who are just after your money, who you find so charming.”

  “So she’s not hot?” I ask. “Thanks.”

  “She’s not a model, no. But she’s plenty gorgeous.”

  “She sounds boring.”

  “Oh trust me, she’s anything but boring.”

  I want to ask her more about what she looks like, but I know that will make me seem shallow.

  “So what’s so special about her?”

  “It’s hard to explain. She’s got this zest for life. This attitude.”

  “So she’s a bitch?”

  “No.”

  “Zest for life? What’s that a euphemism for? Opinionated? Overbearing?”

  “Exciting.”

  I shake my head. I’m not convinced.

  “How old is she?”

  “25.”

  “What does she do?”

  “What do you care? None of the girls you date have jobs.”

  “Good point,” I laugh.

  “It just so happens that she runs her own business. She has a floral shop in Topanga Canyon.”

  Hmm, that’s interesting. I’ve never been with anyone from Topanga Canyon before, but I’ve heard the rumors about the hippie girls who live there. They are very open-minded, sexually adventurous. I want to ask Aunt Dolly about it, but I don’t know how to phrase the question delicately, so I don’t look so much like an asshole.

  “Is she one of those love the earth, flowers in her hair girls?”

  “Are you asking if she’s a hippie?”

  “I guess.”

  “I don’t know. She definitely bathes and shaves if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was getting at,” I mumble.

  “I don’t really know anything about her politics,” Aunt Dolly says, trying another angle. Now we’re way off course. I don’t care about politics. I mean, I have my own opinions, but I’ve noticed that there are open minded and sexually adventurous girls on both sides of the political spectrum, so I don’t discriminate.

  “What makes you think that we’re going to be a good match?”

  “Because she’ll keep you on your toes.”

  I’m intrigued. Not so much by the fact that Aunt Dolly thinks that this girl will keep me on my toes, but by the fact that she lives in Topanga Canyon. Plus, she runs an actual business. That will be quite a change – to go out with someone with a job!

  I take another sip of my orange juice and look over at Dolly. She stands out like a sore thumb, but it’s not just in Malibu. With that hair and jewelry and boobs, she would stand out anywhere. Aunt Dolly is my mom’s half-sister. My grandfather left my mom’s mom and moved to seek his fortune in West Texas and married Dolly’s mom. I met Aunt Dolly for the first time when I was 14 when she just showed up at our door in Chatsworth, California. My mom, who likes to wear sweats around the house, was horrified because Aunt Dolly was dressed in Chanel from head to toe. We have been close ever since. She’s outgoing, exuberant and knows how to have a good time. She loves to spend money, but she also loves to give it away. Despite the clothes, the jewelry and the shoes, she has absolutely no attitude. She doesn’t act like she’s better than anyone else and has a heart of gold.

  When she arrived in Los Angeles, Aunt Dolly’s matchmaking business was already making close to half a million dollars – and that was in the late 90’s –but it really took off once she got established here. That’s when the millionaire and billionaire clients started to come around.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve always found what you do a bit odd,” I say chucking a grape into my mouth.

  “I know.”

  “I just don’t really get why people would pay you so much money to find them a date. Can’t they do it on their own?”

  “What I do is not find people dates. It’s so much more than that. I set them up with people who are their best fit.”

  “And they don’t find these people themselves?” I ask. “Don’t people know what they like?”

  “Okay, how about this for an analogy,” she says tapping her long nails on the table. “People can pick out their own clothes, right? They know what they like.”

  “Yes.”

  “But there are people out there who are professional stylists. That way when you go out to a premier or some fancy party, you can look your best. You may know what you like, but you’re not someone who deals with clothes exclusively. You don’t know all the latest styles and fashions. So you hire this stylist to curate a collection of options for you so you’re not overwhelmed by all the choices. You’re paying the stylist for their opinion.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I concede. “But what about all those online dating sites? Aren’t you afraid that you will be replaced by a computer? An algorithm?”

  “No,” she shakes her head confidently. “I can’t be replaced by technology, because computers aren’t sentient beings. Yet. When that happens, we’ll talk.”

  Chapter 9 - Avery

  Two weeks later, I receive a call from Dolly Monroe. She calls me directly and says that she has a date for me. She doesn’t tell me much about him except that we’re going to his brother’s engagement party and that I should wear heels.

  “Of course, I’ll wear heels,” I say. “It’s an engagement party.”

  “Okay, then. I just wanted to remind you, because you wore flats to our meeting and I wasn’t sure if you make that a habit or not.”

  I chuckle to myself a little. With comments like that, she reminds me of my mother. She was also suspicious of women who didn’t wear heels. She never understood my desire to be comfortable, especially when it came to going out.

  “A woman should look like a woman, right?” I say into the phone.

  “What?” Dolly asks. “Well, yes, of course.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “From a wise woman, I’m sure,” she says and hangs up.

  Two days later, I’m in a total panic. My date with Logan is tonight, and I have absolutely nothing to wear. Why did I put this off to the very last minute? Why did I think that my closet would magically manufacture the perfect outfit for a stranger’s engagement party at the precise moment when I need it? I leave work really early – at 4 pm – and leave Cynthia in charge of the place. She wants to come upstairs and help me dress up, but I tell her that I need some time to shower and think first. I have exactly two hours until he arrives. If I’m lucky, he’ll be late.

  I jump into the shower and wash my hair. Ever since those dry shampoos came out, I’ve become somewhat of an addict. In high school and college, I used to wake up early, take a shower and do my hair and makeup. I actually used to devote at least an hour and a half to this regimen every day! But now that I have my business, I don’t really have time for any of that anymore. No, that’s not true. I still have time. I just don’t have the patience.

  Massaging conditioner into my scalp, I take a deep breath. I really should do this more often. I try to remember the last time I washed my hair. It must’ve been at least 3 days ago. Oh my God! Has it been that long? It’s not really as disgusting as it sounds. Even though my hair gets pretty greasy the day after I wash it, dry shampoo takes care of all that grease. I hate to admit it, but this isn’t even the longest I’ve ever gone without a wash. The record was last month during a particularly stressful wedding when I went for seven days without a wash.

  After getting out of the shower, I tie my hair up in a towel and sit down to apply my makeup. I give myself some time to do this, beca
use I actually find the experience quite soothing and relaxing. It’s as if I’m meditating. When my face is all done, with fake lashes and contouring, I dry my hair and then curl it to give it some more body. I seal it with some hair spray and look at myself in the mirror. Not bad, actually, except now is the difficult part. Figuring out what to wear.

  I briefly consider the possibility of pants. I can almost hear my mom turning in her grave and Dolly gasping in shock. But no, I’m not thinking about slacks or something like that. Skinny jeans or leggings. Something to show off my butt in, but still be comfortable. But I have no idea how dressy this engagement party will be, so I need to play it safe. Skinny jeans might not be appropriate, no matter how cute the pumps.

  I move on to dresses. I have three to choose from. One red, one black, one blue. All above the knee and tailored around the waist. The red one is strapless, the blue one has spaghetti straps and the black one has thicker, more traditional straps. I try them all. I only have one decent pair of black heels to wear, but luckily they will go with any of the dresses. The black one makes me feel like I’m either too formal or going to a funeral, and the blue one is a little tight around the bust, so I go with the red one. It has built in cups, which frame my breasts quite nicely, and I’ve heard somewhere – probably Dr. Oz – that both men and women respond well to red worn on dates. Okay, fine by me. I put in a pair of matte, silver hoops and a large cocktail ring on my right hand. It’s from H & M, and Cynthia says that it makes me look flirty. That works for me.

  After I’m pretty much ready, I take a selfie in front of the full-length mirror and send it to Cynthia.

  She sends back a plethora of smiley faces, champagne drinks and firework emojis. I know that the outfit is a hit.

  At 6 o’clock on the dot, there’s a knock on my door. Right on time. It’s an unusual thing for an LA guy to show up on time, there are just way too many excuses about traffic to take advantage of. I’m impressed.

  When I open the door, I see a gorgeous, tall man before me. He’s dressed in an expensive suit, but he doesn’t look a bit uncomfortable in it. The charcoal-gray pants bring out his sparkling green eyes and compliment his dark thick hair. He has a tan of a surfer and brilliant white teeth, which decorate his luscious kissable lips. When he gives me a hug, I feel the hardness of his body, his chiseled abs and pecks.

  He introduces himself as Logan Davenport. I think I say that my name’s Avery, but who the hell knows. Wow. I had no idea that Dolly Monroe knew hotties like these.

  “So this is your place?” he asks as we walk downstairs. I nod. “Dolly said that you own a flower shop.”

  “She told you that? She didn’t tell me much about you.”

  There’s a BMW parked in the far corner of the parking lot. And I confidently walk toward it. But he stops and points to his Prius.

  “You drive a Prius?” I ask.

  “Yes, do you have a problem with that?” he smiles.

  I try to conceal how shocked I am. I thought he was a billionaire or at least a millionaire. I was certain that he would be driving at least a Maserati.

  “No. It’s just that I drive a Prius too,” I say and point to the blue 2015 model in the parking lot.

  We get into his white Prius and rush down Topanga Canyon Blvd toward Malibu.

  “So do you actually live there?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Above your flower shop?”

  Seriously? This is what he’s asking me?

  “Yes. I actually live in a studio apartment,” I say sarcastically. “I have a good deal on it, and I don’t have to commute far to work.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he says.

  We’re not getting off to a good start. How can someone this hot and attractive be such a dick? We drive the rest of the way until we hit the ocean in silence. Finally, I get sick of it.

  “So, what do you do?” I ask as he turns onto Pacific Coast Highway.

  “I’m sort of in between things right now.”

  I shake my head.

  “What?” he asks.

  “So, you’re unemployed?” I ask. Now, it’s my turn to insult him.

  “No, not really,” he shrugs.

  “People with a little bit of money always say that.”

  He smiles his beautiful smile. I don’t know if I want to kiss him or punch him right now.

  No matter how much I love what I do, I can’t help but feel envious that some people can just have money and do nothing all day. I mean regular people wish we had the luxury to do that? To just bum around and surf and go out and do basically nothing while we try to find ourselves again?

  “I started a company a few years back,” Logan says. “It got very successful, and I ended up selling it to Google. So now I’m just trying to figure out what to do with my life.”

  Logan talks on and on about the details of his start up and how it allowed people to borrow money directly from their friends and family, not just a bank or a credit card. I listen, but end up getting lost a little in his long eyelashes and deep, soothing voice. It doesn’t hurt that he also smells intoxicating, like some sort of heavenly mixture of ocean waves and eucalyptus.

  We arrive at the restaurant a few minutes later. I’ve driven past this place numerous times, but I’ve never been inside. It’s right on the water, with outdoor seating facing the ocean. Almost every single thing in the restaurant is white except for the blue trim around the windows. It has an ultra-modern design, which I don’t usually love, but it somehow fits this place. The tablecloths are white and very expensive to the touch, the menus are an off-white color, and all the waiters and the waitresses are dressed in white. The party is already in full swing by the time we arrive. The hostess shows us to the deck, which is decorated with hundreds of yellow lanterns and flowers. It’s a little cold – about 60 degrees – but there are outdoor heaters all over the place to warm up the guests. I’m no longer regretting not bringing a shawl with me.

  Everyone who greets us give me a warm smile and a hug. I still don’t know about Logan, but his family is definitely very nice.

  “Hey, you made it!” Dolly comes over to us. She’s dressed in a hot pink suit that is probably tailored to accentuate her figure and is wearing a humongous diamond on her left hand.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I’m his aunt,” she says. “You didn’t tell her?”

  Logan shrugs; he looks a bit lost.

  “Dolly’s your aunt?”

  “Yep,” he nods.

  Before we get the chance to get further into this, the couple of the hour comes over. Logan introduces me to his brother Liam and his fiancé, Kora. For some reason, I was expecting some six-foot-tall model with a bubbly personality, but instead I met Kora. Kora is exuberant and effervescent and smart. She made me laugh within a minute of talking to her. Honestly, I had forgotten that girls like her still exist. Her husband-to-be also seemed nice – very different from Logan. Straightforward, not so showy. Normal, somehow. He’s of course not as good looking as Logan is, but he seems to have a good head on his shoulders.

  For a moment, I excuse myself and turn around to get a plate of food. The three of them continue to talk, and I hear Kora say,

  “I like this one Logan. She’s really different from your usual lot.”

  That puts a smile on my face.

  Chapter 10 - Logan

  I arrive at the address that Avery gave me on the phone. At first, I don’t think that I have the right place, but then I see the sign for The Flower Patch and remember that Aunt Dolly said that she lives above it. I make my way up the dirty stairs, wondering how anyone could live up here. I don’t mean to be such a snob. It has been only a few years since I lived in my one-bedroom walk up in West Hollywood, but this place is a real dump. The door is all scratched up, and the railing is half falling down. I’m not even sure if this place is legal to rent out. Just as I get all down on myself for finally caving into Aunt Dolly and letting her set me
up with one of the insane women who use her service, I knock on the door and see Avery for the first time.

  My heart jumps out of my chest. She has almond-shaped hazel eyes and long light brown hair which curls nicely around her voluptuous breasts. I have seen enough fake and real breasts to know the difference right away and hers are definitely not fake. She’s about five-foot-five and 110 pounds. Not a flamingo, but a nice womanly shape nevertheless.

  Usually, I have no problem making small talk, putting on my charm to woo a girl, but something about this one leaves me tongue-tied. I mumble something about how nice she looks, but it doesn’t seem to register. Instead, she comments on my Prius, which I frankly took because I didn’t want to move my other cars to get to the Maserati. She asks about what I do. I can’t very well tell her the truth, so instead I go on and on about my old company. This usually impresses the girls, but she doesn’t seem impressed. She looks bored and annoyed. Like I’m some rich guy who no longer has to work for a living while the rest of the world has to.

  After we arrive at the engagement party, things go from bad to worse. Aunt Dolly is there, and Avery looks mad that I didn’t tell her that she was my aunt. I probably should have, but for some reason, for the first time in my life, I’m tongue-tied. At a loss for what to say. I’m like one of those losers who stumble and mumble and say things that don’t make any sense. Over explain. Under explain. Let long moments of silence pass me by without a word. What. The. Fuck?

  “So, Dolly didn’t tell you that she was my aunt?” I ask when Kora and Liam finally leave us alone. Focus, Logan. Turn on the charm. You know how to do this. You’re a natural.

  “No,” she shakes her head. Her hair falls off her shoulder, exposing her cleavage a little more. She’s no model, but she definitely has the goods. And in that short, tight little red dress, they look like chocolates that I’m dying to unwrap.

  “Sorry about that. I thought you knew.”

  She shrugs. She’s about to look away somewhere in the distance, but I tilt my head toward her and look straight into her hazel eyes. Now, I have her.